The Pride flag at Bishops has sparked a predictable debate about inclusion. The more interesting question is why schools increasingly feel the need to express their values through official symbols at all.
The decision by Bishops Diocesan College to fly the Pride flag has sparked exactly the kind of debate one might expect in contemporary South Africa. Supporters see it as a simple and compassionate gesture of inclusion. Critics worry that schools are increasingly adopting official positions on contested social questions. Both sides, I think, are asking the wrong first question.
The interesting question is not whether gay learners deserve dignity and respect. Of course they do. It is why schools increasingly feel the need to communicate their values through flags.
Traditionally, the flags flying over a school chiefly identified the institution, the country or the authorities responsible for it. Today they increasingly tell you what the institution believes. That shift strikes me as interesting, and perhaps a little revealing. In such cases, a flag is no longer merely a marker of identity or authority. It has also become a statement of institutional values. The recent controversy surrounding the Pride flag at Bishops Diocesan College in Cape Town is, in that sense, about considerably more than a piece of coloured fabric. It raises broader questions about the proper role of schools in a liberal democracy, how institutions should communicate their values, and whether symbolic affirmation has become a substitute for something more substantial.
It is tempting to reduce the debate to a familiar culture-war script. On one side are those portrayed as reactionary or insensitive to the concerns of gay learners. On the other are those accused of importing fashionable progressive politics into education. That framing is convenient, but it is also misleading. Having read the various interventions from the school, alumni, commentators and advocacy groups, it seems to me that the strongest arguments on both sides deserve better than caricature.
Supporters of the Pride flag do not generally argue that schools should become political activists. Their case is more restrained than that. They argue that the flag is a quiet symbol of welcome, particularly for learners who may feel isolated because of their sexual orientation. They point to research indicating that LGBTQ+ learners experience higher rates of bullying and social exclusion than many of their peers. In that context, they suggest, a visible gesture of inclusion tells vulnerable young people that they belong within the school community.
That is neither an absurd nor a trivial argument. Indeed, it is probably the strongest case in favour of flying the flag, and it should be taken seriously. The question, however, is whether it necessarily follows that a school ought to communicate this message through an official symbol. Put differently, is the Pride flag the most appropriate expression of the underlying principle, or does it unintentionally shift the institution into a role that schools should approach rather more cautiously? I find myself increasingly drawn to the latter view.
I would start with the nature of the institution itself. Schools exist for a particular purpose. They educate, they cultivate judgement, discipline, and intellectual curiosity. They introduce young people to a body of knowledge while simultaneously preparing them to live alongside people with whom they will often disagree. Their values are communicated every day through the conduct of teachers, the consistency of discipline, the seriousness with which bullying is addressed and the relationships that develop within the school community. A learner who is mocked because of his sexuality will almost certainly remember how his teachers responded long after he has forgotten what happened to be flying outside the administration block.
Having taught in South African high schools for a number of years, I have seen this repeatedly. The pupils who feel safe are not usually those surrounded by the most slogans or symbols. They are the ones who know that teachers will intervene when bullying occurs, that rules will be applied consistently, and that they will be treated fairly regardless of who they are. Institutional culture is built through thousands of ordinary interactions, not through what happens to be hanging from a flagpole.
Perhaps this is where I differ from many people. Symbols plainly matter. I have simply come to think that the conduct of institutions tells us far more than the symbols they display.
South Africa’s Constitution prohibits discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. Whatever disagreements people may have about the politics of Pride as a movement, there is no serious dispute about the legal principle involved. Every learner possesses the same rights and the same dignity under the law. A reputable school should not merely proclaim that principle through symbolic gestures; it should make it unmistakable through its conduct.
We should also be careful not to create the impression that belonging depends upon institutional affirmation of one’s identity. Every learner is entitled to equal dignity, but not every aspect of a person’s identity requires official recognition, celebration or symbolic endorsement. Part of growing into adulthood is learning that one can be respected without being continually affirmed, and included without requiring institutional validation.
More broadly, the constitutional order to which South Africa aspires is recognisably classical liberal in character. It rests upon ideas such as equality before the law, individual rights and the equal dignity of every citizen, regardless of race, religion, sex or sexual orientation. The task of institutions is therefore not to identify particular groups for periodic symbolic affirmation, but to apply universal principles consistently to everyone. Equality before the law and equal treatment by institutions are not consolation prizes. They are the foundation upon which liberal democratic societies rest.
If the school already accepts the equal dignity of every learner, and if its policies, disciplinary procedures and pastoral care reflect that conviction, what additional purpose does the symbol serve? More importantly, why should the institution feel compelled to communicate through symbols at all?
One aspect of the debate I find myself returning to is why sexuality has come to occupy such a prominent place in modern identity. Increasingly, we seem to understand ourselves primarily through categories — sexuality, race, gender, religion — rather than through our shared citizenship or common humanity. Perhaps that is why symbolic recognition has become so important. If identity is understood primarily in group terms, institutions inevitably come under pressure to affirm groups. A classical liberal society begins somewhere rather different. It begins not with the group, but with the individual.
Consider a few deliberately mundane examples. Suppose a school flew an anti-bullying flag, an anti-rape flag or an anti-crime flag. The comparison is not exact: Pride is also a symbol of identity and community. Even so, the examples expose an underlying difficulty. We assume that any decent school already opposes bullying, rape and crime, and that it need not fly flags to establish the point. If the school’s values are already reflected in its policies and everyday conduct, it is not immediately clear what the symbol adds.
If that reasoning is accepted, I find it difficult to see where the line should be drawn. Should a school also fly flags recognising autism, disability, religious minorities, refugees, mental health awareness, victims of gender-based violence, or any number of other worthy causes? Each of these groups could make a compelling case that its members have experienced misunderstanding or prejudice. Each could plausibly argue that visible affirmation has value. That is precisely the difficulty. Once symbolic recognition becomes the way institutions communicate their values, deciding which identities and causes deserve official recognition becomes an exercise with no obvious limiting principle.
These causes may nevertheless deserve serious attention. My concern is that once schools begin using official symbols to express moral commitments, they inevitably assume responsibility for deciding which commitments warrant public recognition. Educational institutions should approach that role with caution, not least because today’s moral consensus has a habit of becoming tomorrow’s historical curiosity. The moral priorities of every generation feel permanent while we are living through them. But causes that once dominated public life often recede, to be replaced by new ones that seem equally urgent. Schools, of all institutions, should be cautious about tying their public identity to the moral fashions of any particular moment.
None of this is an argument for institutional indifference. Schools have profound moral responsibilities. They should educate learners about prejudice, discrimination and South Africa’s constitutional order. They should intervene decisively when bullying occurs. They should foster kindness, respect and empathy. They should make it unmistakably clear that harassment of any learner is unacceptable. But those responsibilities differ from institutional advocacy. A school is not an advocacy organisation.
There is another aspect of the debate that deserves closer attention. Supporters of the Pride flag often argue that young people are especially sensitive to the way adults respond to their identities. I suspect this is largely correct. Adolescence is an extraordinarily fragile period in which acceptance matters deeply. Schools therefore have an undeniable obligation to provide support for learners who are struggling. Yet education involves another responsibility that receives rather less attention: preparing children for adulthood.
The adult world is not consistently welcoming. It is often indifferent, occasionally unfair, insensitive, or even cruel. One of the purposes of education must therefore be to cultivate resilience alongside compassion. The two need not be in tension. Learners should know that they possess equal dignity and deserve protection from bullying. They should also leave school equipped to cope with disagreement, rejection and hardship without concluding that every unpleasant experience requires institutional intervention or symbolic reassurance.
Of course, the distinction between hardship and harassment is an important one. Schools should have zero tolerance for bullying, and meaningful consequences should follow when it occurs. But preparing young people for life surely involves something more than insulating them from every source of emotional discomfort.
Perhaps what concerns me most about this controversy is that it reflects a broader cultural tendency. Increasingly, institutions appear to believe that they must publicly display their moral commitments. During the Black Lives Matter protests countless organisations posted black squares on social media. Businesses routinely alter their logos during Pride Month. Universities issue statements on an ever-expanding range of political and social questions. Schools increasingly seem to be following the same path.
There is always a temptation to confuse visible commitment with substantive commitment. Flying a flag is relatively easy. Building a school culture characterised by fairness, intellectual honesty, kindness and mutual respect is considerably more difficult. Yet it is the latter that ultimately shapes the daily experience of learners.
Schools should, of course, confront genuine cultural problems where they exist. If a school has developed a culture in which certain learners are routinely mocked, marginalised or made to feel unwelcome, then that culture should be confronted directly. If there are unhealthy ideas about masculinity, or persistent patterns of bullying, those deserve serious attention. But changing a school’s culture requires considerably more than raising a flag. It requires leadership, consistent discipline, thoughtful pastoral care and teachers who model the values the institution claims to uphold.
One of the more interesting features of the Bishops debate is that both sides appeal to inclusion while imagining rather different ways of achieving it. Supporters see symbolic affirmation as reinforcing the school’s values, while critics worry that official symbols inevitably draw schools away from a more universal conception of equal citizenship. At their strongest, both sides begin from the same premise—that every learner deserves equal dignity. Their disagreement lies in whether official symbols are the best way for schools to express that commitment.
I would rather a learner knew he belonged because the school’s values applied to him as much as to anyone else. He should see that in the way his teachers treat him, in his classmates’ understanding that bullying is unacceptable, and in the institution’s daily conduct. That is a more durable foundation than any flag could ever provide.
Schools should be cautious about tying their public identity to the moral priorities of the moment. Their deepest values ought to outlast the controversies of the day. Fifty years from now, public debate will almost certainly be dominated by different issues. The principles guiding a school should still be recognisable: respect, fairness, equal dignity, intellectual honesty and compassion. If a school genuinely lives by those principles, its flagpole need not become a noticeboard for the moral causes of the day. It may be enough for the flags to identify the institution, while its conduct says far more about its values.
[Image: https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-of-colorful-flag-7703763/]
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR
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