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The Pendulum A story about memory and powerElif was born into a world where some things were simply done without explanation.Her mother wore a headscarf. Not to send a message. Not to make a statement. It was what the women in her family had always done, like kneading bread a certain way or wrapping herbs in cloth. For some, it was tradition. For others, quiet faith. For most, it was habit. Unremarkable. In the neighbourhood Elif grew up in, people prayed differently, or not at all, but still shared sugar, sorrow, and summer shade. No one paid attention to what was on your head.But in buildings far from where Elif lived, that same scarf was seen as something else. A threat. A hindrance. A sign that someone belonged to the wrong version of the future. Laws were passed. Doors quietly closed. And one morning, at the gate of a university, Elif watched her mother turned away because of that scarf. No shouting. No protest. Just a long pause, a deep breath, and a quiet walk home. That silence stayed with Elif longer than any explanation could have.Years passed. The wind shifted.A new era arrived. This time, promising to restore what had been taken. The bans were lifted. Those once excluded were invited back in. Headscarved women re-entered classrooms, courtrooms, ministries. Elif watched it unfold with cautious hope. For a while, it felt like something had been repaired.But freedom, she would learn, is not always freedom when it arrives dressed as reward.The scarf that once marked you as suspicious now marked you as safe. Not everywhere. Not officially. But enough to notice. What had once been personal had become political. And the expectation was no longer to remove it—but to wear it, and to represent the right kind of belonging.Education began to change, too. Textbooks were rewritten. History softened. Philosophy disappeared. In their place came lessons on obedience, pride, and faith. Questions slowed. Answers hardened. Thought became structure.And something else began to grow: a divide.Private schools began popping up everywhere, sleek buildings with glossy banners and English mottos. Some were expensive but ordinary. Others, reserved for the elite, offered education at a level comparable to top international schools. Their students had access to foreign languages, technology labs, debate teams, and global university pipelines. For those, most of whom never returned homeland, it was a version of education built for movement, confidence, and choice.But many of these new ‘private’ schools looked better than they truly were. They promised innovation but rarely encouraged real thinking. What mattered most wasn’t whether students asked good questions, it was whether they learned to follow the expected answers.Public schools, meanwhile, shrank from the inside. Resources thinned. Classrooms swelled. The best teachers quietly left. And in the gaps that remained, religious instruction expanded, not as one path among many, but often as the only one left. The libraries were still there, but the books had changed. Complexity was trimmed. Doubt discouraged. Science blurred with belief. Literature became lesson.Education was hollowed out, so the ability to question would fade. And Elif saw, even if few dared say it aloud: It’s easier to control minds trained to follow, not to think.Meanwhile, the economy weakened. Families worked two jobs to afford tutoring. Graduates held diplomas but no direction. And still, those in power offered sermons, slogans, and promises of virtue.Protests were punished. People who dared to question, academics, artists, and even those politicians elected by the people, were imprisoned. Many weren’t charged with anything clear. They simply no longer fit the narrative or were posing a threat.Elif never shouted. Never stood on a stage. But she listened. And she remembered. And in a time when forgetting was rewarded, that felt like its own quiet form of defiance.One evening, walking home from the subway, she passed a weathered alley wall. Someone had spray-painted a single word across the concrete: F r E e D o MThe letters were uneven. Already fading. The kind of word written quickly, maybe while looking over a shoulder.No one else noticed it. But Elif did.Because she remembered when that word meant visibility. Then silence. Then permission. And now - now it meant something quieter, but harder: the right to know, and the right to choose.The pendulum was still swinging.But maybe, she thought, memory itself could be an anchor. Not to stop its motion, but to slow it - and steady the ground beneath those still willing to think.

The Pendulum

The Backyard Daycare A story that feels like a mythYou have a house with a big, beautiful backyard. It is full of trees, life, and memories. Your family has cared for it for generations, planting and tending to it with love. One day, I notice that you are not using this big space the way I think you should. I decide your backyard would be perfect for a daycare because my community needs one. Without asking your permission, I take over a large part of your land. I bring in builders, remove the trees, and put up a bright new building that I say will benefit everyone.When you ask what gives me the right, I tell you that everything I am doing is perfectly legal. I show you the permits and community support I have gathered. I explain that I am not taking anything away, only improving it and giving it purpose.When the daycare opens, I proudly tell everyone that enrollment is open to all and that it is fair and inclusive. But in reality, only the families who meet my standards, those who can afford the fees and fit the image I have for my school, can get in. When you ask if your own children can attend, I say yes, but only if they apply like everyone else and meet my requirements. I tell you this is what equality looks like.When you ask if I will share any of the profits I make from running the daycare on your land, I tell you no. Instead, I promise that during every public event and ceremony, I will acknowledge that my daycare is built on your backyard. I say how truly sorry I am for taking your land and how grateful I am for your generosity. I repeat this every time I speak publicly, making sure everyone knows how respectful and self-aware I am. I tell people that this acknowledgement is an important part of my values. Sometimes, I invite you to these events and ask you to share a few stories about your life here before. People applaud my openness and praise me for being understanding and kind.As time goes on, I expand the daycare. I add more classrooms and new buildings, spreading farther across your backyard. I rent and sell parts of the land to bring in more money for better building and teaching resources, but none of it goes to you. When you ask about the trees, the garden, and the changes to the land, I tell you that it is all part of progress, that this is how we move forward, all to make my daycare better.To make it look like we are partners, I use your family’s name in my brochures and tell people the daycare was inspired by your story. I say that your presence gives my project meaning, even though I never include you in the decisions about how the land is used.When you suggest that your traditions, stories, or ways of knowing could be included in the daycare program, I smile and tell you that our school follows a modern, globally minded approach that prepares children for success in today’s world. I say that your teachings are meaningful, but they do not quite fit with the methods and goals of our program. I assure you that I am doing what is best for the children and for the future.Inside the building, I hang paintings and plaques that celebrate how wonderful my ancestors were, the visionaries who, I say, brought growth and opportunity to this place. Their names are written on the walls and engraved in stone. I include a small plaque that acknowledges you again, thanking you for allowing this work to happen. Visitors admire how beautifully I have built on my ancestors’ legacy and how respectfully I have recognized you.To celebrate my work, I hold ceremonies several times a year. Each one begins with my familiar words: “I would like to begin by acknowledging that this daycare stands on your land.” I pause to let the audience take in my sincerity before continuing with a speech about innovation, progress, and the bright future this daycare represents. I mention your family and your land again, then move on to talk about my leadership, my success, and my generosity. The audience claps and tells me how inspiring it is that I turned your backyard into something so meaningful.Does this sound familiar?

The Backyard Daycare

Higher Education Uncovered

Higher Education Uncovered is a creative educational website that explores the hidden foundations of universities. It guides visitors through themes such as land and dispossession, institutional memory and forgetting, reconciliation and repair, climate crisis, AI, and imagined futures. The site invites reflection rather than providing solutions, using poetic and atmospheric writing to uncover the deeper stories behind modern higher education.