During a recent visit to my child's first public class after starting elementary school, I noticed a classmate with a disability sitting right in front of my child. The classmate was shaking their head from side to side during the lesson. I tried not to pay too much attention, but I found myself glancing over frequently. When I got home, I casually asked my child, "Does that friend shake their head on other days too?"
My child replied, "They usually shake it more. Today, they only did it a little because their mom was here." After a brief silence, sensing my concern, my child added, "Mom, it’s not something to get upset about. That’s just how they are." Then, they returned to their play.
The school my child attends practices inclusive education, where students with disabilities learn alongside their non-disabled peers in the same classroom. All children participate in regular classes, share meals, play together, and go on experiential learning trips. Support teachers are present during class time.
For my child, this is just a normal part of life. After school, they often come home and chat about their day, occasionally mentioning their classmate A. They might say things like, "We all went to the special class and looked at baby pictures of A, then danced and played together," or "A likes multiplication tables." These are ordinary conversations.
A recent article discussing similar classroom dynamics highlighted that inclusive education is a part of daily life for children. In one elementary school in Osaka, Japan, a visually impaired student studies with classmates, and when moving around the classroom, friends naturally offer their arms for guidance. When asked about this, the students responded, "Because they are our classmate." It was not seen as an act of kindness or charity, but simply as part of their routine.
What may seem like a special form of inclusive education to adults is simply normal for children. I am not trying to discuss the educational benefits of inclusive education for children with disabilities or their non-disabled peers. To my child, A is just a classmate. The head shaking and A’s proficiency in math are aspects they learned later. The experience of living together began before they recognized their differences.
This 'attitude of children' may also be necessary outside the classroom. At the Seoul Haechi Media Wall, artist Seok Chang-woo's work 'Breath of Ink' brightly illuminates the night. After losing both arms in an accident, Seok has created art using a brush attached to a prosthetic arm. He is showcasing this work as part of the media art special exhibition 'OUTfront: Kiaf × MEDIA ART SEOUL' in collaboration with Kiaf Seoul.
Notably, his work is not labeled as 'disability art.' In this special exhibition featuring various artists, including Park Je-seong, Han Seung-gu, and Jeon Hye-joo, Seok's piece simply contributes to the vibrant night of Seoul. His artistic world is not confined to the label of disability art.
Similar discussions have begun abroad. A report released in 2020 by the European cultural and arts network IETM is titled 'Disabled Artists in the Mainstream.' It suggests that instead of keeping disabled artists in a separate realm, the existing cultural and artistic ecosystem, including theaters, festivals, and art institutions, should be restructured to allow them to operate as equal artists.
The concept of 'integration' may not start from something grand. It may simply begin with meeting one another, whether in the same classroom or at the same exhibition. Recognizing differences can perhaps come afterward.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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