In a recent opinion article in Inside higher education, Austin Sarat wrote that universities were not prepared for the possibility of a Trump victory. Today, with his victory having become a reality, we find ourselves facing the consequences. Many of our students and colleagues are discouraged, devastated and worried about the future.

I am preparing for how to support my students in the aftermath of this election. Looking back on 2016, I remember teaching a class in Tucson until about 9 p.m. on election night. As the evening progressed, an air of panic began to pervade the class. After class, in the parking lot, a student came up to me and asked for a hug while sobbing. I was too stunned to feel anything at that moment. Later, while at the gym, I saw people interrupt their workouts and crowd around the television as the results were announced, their expressions filled with dismay. I had to keep my cool, knowing that I had to teach human physiology the next morning at 7 a.m.

Going to work that morning felt surreal. I started the conference as usual, but the weight of the room was unmistakable. I could sense my students’ unexpressed emotions as they struggled to concentrate. In less than 15 minutes, the tension became palpable. I interrupted the class by admitting, “I think I need a break.” » One student replied: “Yes, I can’t concentrate either. » Another student came to check my vitals – a clear sign that neither of us was well.

Reflecting on lessons learned from 2016, I surveyed my students and advisors in the weeks leading up to election night about how they would feel if their preferred candidate lost. I didn’t think about who they were supporting, nor did I care to find out. But in case their candidate loses, I would ask them: “How do you expect me to support you?” Their responses were tinged with emotions of betrayal, abandonment, confusion and loneliness, but they mostly expressed fear and uncertainty. They were not looking for answers or solutions, but simply a space to process their feelings and be acknowledged in their struggles. One student admitted, “There’s no perfect way to help us…” Another student told me, “Don’t act like it’s business as usual,” like I did in 2016.

In times like these, when many of our students and colleagues are devastated, what do we do? How can we move forward, or perhaps, how can we fall beautifully together? There is no clear answer, and perhaps that is the problem – perhaps our next step will be to acknowledge the overwhelming uncertainty, fear and grief. As educators, how can we help each other and our students manage these emotions? How do we create space to process pain and feel it fully, without rushing to solutions, without rushing to false optimism, or without blaming?

My conversations with my students have helped me understand that these moments require our presence, our honesty, and our willingness to sit with discomfort. These moments ask us to walk alongside our students as they grapple with the enormity of what has happened and to remind them and ourselves that we are not alone in it. face. It is in this perhaps desolate land that we can bear witness to our shared human experience – terrifying, messy but also beautiful. So, I ask, what does it mean to cultivate a space where we can recognize our vulnerabilities? What might a pedagogy that embraces collapse look like?

Khalil Gibran wrote“Your pain is the breaking of the shell which encloses your / understanding. / Just as the stone of the fruit must break so that its heart / can hold up to the sun, so you must know pain. » I often turn to this poem and think about the imagery of the breaking of the shell, the understanding and the pain imbued in it all. Gibran’s words remind us that the process of breaking — of being vulnerable, of feeling deeply — is what allows us to expand our understanding.

I have already written about hope in the context of education, and today I wonder about the absurdity of hope. The Arabic words for hope and pain come from the same root: “أمل” (“amal”) for hope and “ألم” (“alam”) for pain. In the Arabic language, many words derive from the same three-letter root but take on different meanings depending on the context and the specific patterns used to form them. This root-based system allows for a rich, interconnected vocabulary in which words sharing the same root often have related meanings or connotations. Understanding these roots and their derivatives is essential to understanding the nuances and relationships between Arabic words.

The linguistic connection between hope and pain can be a powerful educational tool, helping us foster empathy and understanding. By recognizing that hope and pain are closely linked, we can create learning environments in which students feel seen and supported in their struggles and aspirations, deepening their emotional and intellectual growth. These words are two sides of the same coin, highlighting the dual nature of our human experience, especially in the context of education.

The word for hope, “amal,” conveys a sense of anticipation, aspiration and vision. In educational settings, hope is the driving force that inspires students to strive for success. Hope is what allows students to move forward, even in the face of uncertainty, and what allows them to imagine a different future for themselves and their community.

Conversely, the word “alam” for pain, especially in education, embodies the struggles and difficulties students face: academic challenges, personal setbacks, emotional distress. Pain is an inevitable companion to learning, but it is also a catalyst for growth and resilience. This gives depth to our understanding and promotes empathy, making the educational journey deeper and more meaningful.

For educators and students alike, recognizing both hope and pain is crucial because it allows us to honor the whole human experience. Pain gives us the opportunity to learn, reflect, and grow, while hope motivates us to envision and work toward a better future. It’s time to sit with the pain, bear witness to our students’ fears and anxieties, validate their experiences, and not rush to cover their pain with platitudes of hope. It is in this liminal situation that we, as educators, must model vulnerability and honesty. We cannot force hope; instead, we need to make space for the complexity of emotions that arise in difficult times. This is part of what it means to engage in trauma-informed practice: recognizing the depth of pain and helping our students make sense of it, rather than simply moving past it.

And yet, in the midst of pain, there is also an invitation to imagine, to glimpse the possibility of something different, better. It is in the cracks of what appears to be a broken system that opportunities can arise. How can we teach our students to see these opportunities, recognize their action, find purpose, and take action even when the path forward is uncertain?

The role of an educator in times of collective pain is not necessarily to provide answers but to guide students in the questioning process. Through questioning, students can begin to make sense of their experiences and find their own path forward. Are we teaching them to resist? To kiss the discomfort of uncertainty? Take a break and introspect? Maybe all of these answers are necessary. Resistance is a natural and often vital reaction to injustice. But we also need reflection, a pause that allows us to understand the roots of our challenges.

With these thoughts in mind, how do we move forward? Here I offer some suggestions that may or may not interest you. I invite you to do what honors your heart and that of your students.

1. Be transparent and authentic. Recognize that it is not business as usual. Let students know that you understand that things are difficult. It can be as simple as saying something like, “I know that for some or most of you, the election didn’t go the way you wanted it to” and being fully aware of the range of feelings that they can feel. experiment.
2. Encourage reflection and dialogue. After acknowledging the situation, suggest that your students talk about how they are feeling and find comfort in community. If you feel comfortable, tell them how you might react if you were them. Once ready, suggest they engage with peers who may not share their views.
3. Plan flexible program options. Be prepared to adjust your plans based on the emotional climate of your class. Sometimes it is beneficial to put aside program goals and respond to current events or student needs.
4. Model self-care. Show students how you manage stress and maintain your balance during difficult times. This modeling can provide them with practical strategies to deal with them.
5. Provide and standardize the use of resources. Share emotional support resources, such as counseling services or mindfulness practices. Make sure students know where and how they can ask for help if they feel overwhelmed.

Ultimately, our role as educators is not just about providing knowledge, it is also about making space for both the pain and hope that shape our shared human experience. When we guide students through difficult times, we must allow them to express themselves, to feel, and to be seen in their pain. And beyond that, we can also help them think about the possibilities that might arise from this pain. Just as pain shatters the shell that encloses our understanding, difficult times can be opportunities to sow seeds of hope, seeds that might eventually grow into something meaningful, beautiful, and transformative. It is through this delicate balance – bearing witness to pain while nurturing hope – that we can truly help our students navigate an uncertain world.