Of parents who fear their children and the breakdown of Kenyan moral fabric

In Kenyan homes today, a disturbing reality is increasingly being spoken about openly: some parents are no longer merely worried about their children’s grades—they are afraid of their children.

Some parents do fear their children. They do not say it openly because of shame, but in private conversations and in community gatherings the truth comes out. They fear being shouted at, threatened, or physically harmed in their own homes. They fear that reporting the child will bring more violence, or that their neighbours will accuse them of poor parenting. This fear is a sign of a broken moral system — and it should alarm every Kenyan.

In church gatherings, community barazas, and even police stations, parents testify to being verbally abused, threatened, and in some cases physically beaten by their own sons and daughters. This is not the kind of story that makes easy headlines, yet it is a tragedy that demands urgent national attention.

What makes these incidents so shocking is not only the violence itself, but what it reveals about the state of our moral foundations. In Kenya, the family has traditionally been the first school of values. Respect for elders was enforced not just by parents but by the wider community. A child who disrespected a parent risked social shame, correction from the village elder, and even the intervention of the chief’s baraza. Harambee was not just a fundraising tradition; it was a demonstration of communal responsibility and mutual accountability. Even our churches and mosques—our moral cathedrals—taught children to honour their parents as a sacred duty.

Yet today, some of these moral pillars are crumbling. A parent who once called the village elder to settle a dispute now finds themselves alone, helpless, and afraid. In communities where respect was once enforced by social shame, some learners now mock and defy the very people who raised them. When a child turns violent against a parent, society is forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: character formation has broken down somewhere along the line. While parenting carries primary responsibility, schools cannot pretend to be innocent bystanders. They are central arenas where authority, respect and self-control are either reinforced—or eroded.

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Schools, more than any other institution, shape the character of young people. For many learners who are labelled “difficult,” school is the only stable environment they encounter daily. Many come from homes where chaos is the norm—poverty, neglect, substance abuse, broken relationships, or violent conflict. For such learners, the structure of school becomes a form of rescue. Regular timetables, clear rules, and predictable routines provide a sense of order that may be absent at home. Structure does not merely regulate behaviour; it teaches self-discipline, responsibility, and respect for authority. Where chaos once ruled, consistency begins to heal.

But structure alone is not enough. The human factor—teachers and school leaders—determines whether the school becomes a place of transformation or a factory of frustration. Teachers are moral mirrors. Long before learners internalise moral instruction, they observe adult behaviour. A teacher who remains calm in the face of provocation teaches emotional control. One who applies discipline fairly models justice. Another who listens patiently communicates empathy and dignity. For difficult learners, a single teacher who believes in them can undo years of rejection. Character, after all, is often caught before it is taught.

This is why the rising cases of student violence should worry us deeply. When learners assault teachers, or when they are willing to humiliate authority figures in public, it signals a failure not only in parenting but also in the school’s moral environment. It is a sign that discipline has become a game of punishment rather than a process of transformation.

Discipline is one of the most misunderstood tools in education. Harsh punishment may suppress behaviour temporarily, but it rarely reforms character. A learner who is caned repeatedly may stop misbehaving out of fear, but fear is not virtue. Restorative discipline, on the other hand, seeks to correct without crushing. It requires the learner to reflect on their actions, take responsibility, and make amends. When schools guide learners to understand the harm they have caused and to repair relationships, discipline becomes formative. Difficult learners learn accountability rather than resentment, and responsibility rather than rebellion.

Yet restorative discipline is not a soft option. It requires courage from teachers and school leaders to enforce boundaries consistently. It also requires parents to cooperate and follow through at home. Without a partnership between home and school, discipline becomes inconsistent and therefore ineffective. A learner who is punished at school but rewarded for the same behaviour at home learns that rules are negotiable. This creates a dangerous mindset: that authority can be challenged, negotiated, or even mocked.

Peer interaction within school settings further shapes character. Schools function as miniature societies where learners negotiate friendships, disagreements, leadership, and teamwork. Through group assignments, sports, clubs, and debates, learners acquire social skills that no textbook can teach. Many difficult learners learn acceptable behaviour more effectively from peers than from authority figures. Positive peer influence, when nurtured, becomes a powerful corrective force.

However, peer influence can also be destructive. When discipline is weak, negative peer culture takes root. In such environments, misbehaviour becomes a badge of honour. Learners who are emotionally unstable or academically frustrated may join gangs or become bullies to gain status. The school becomes a breeding ground for violence, not a sanctuary. This is why school culture matters. A school that tolerates cheating, gossip, bullying or corruption teaches learners that values are negotiable. Difficult learners are especially sensitive to hypocrisy.

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Responsibility is another overlooked character-building tool. When schools entrust difficult learners with roles—whether as class monitors, club officials, library assistants or team leaders—they communicate trust. That trust can be transformative. Learners who are used to constant reprimand often rise to responsibility when given the chance. In being trusted, they learn to be trustworthy. This is a lesson that Kenya’s youth desperately need. Many young people are growing up with the belief that they are disposable, unworthy, or incapable. Schools must challenge this by deliberately creating opportunities for learners to serve and lead.

Academic struggle is closely linked to indiscipline. Many learners act out not because they are defiant, but because they are frustrated. When schools invest in remedial teaching, differentiated instruction, and learning support, behavioural problems often diminish. Academic success restores dignity, and dignity fosters good character. Misbehaviour, in many cases, is a symptom of unaddressed academic pain. When a learner cannot read well, cannot understand a concept, or feels constantly humiliated by poor performance, they may choose to misbehave as a way to protect their self-esteem.

This is where the education system must confront itself. The push for high performance, while important, must not ignore learners who struggle. A school that rewards only the top performers and neglects the rest is indirectly training learners to value success at any cost. The result is academic pressure without support, which can lead to cheating, depression, aggression, and rebellion.

Beyond classrooms, school culture plays a defining role. Assemblies, religious instruction, life skills programmes, and civic education reinforce values such as integrity, perseverance, respect, and citizenship. But values must be lived to be believed. A school that preaches honesty but tolerates cheating, or promotes respect while practising favoritism, undermines its own moral authority. In Kenya, where many learners come from communities that are already morally fatigued, schools cannot afford to be inconsistent.

Safe spaces within schools are equally critical. Guidance and counselling departments, mentorship programmes, and child protection mechanisms offer learners a place to heal. Emotional healing often precedes behavioural reform. A learner who feels seen, heard, and protected is more likely to exercise self-control and moral judgement. But guidance and counselling cannot be a token department with a single overworked teacher. It must be a whole-school approach supported by adequate resources, training, and partnerships with health and social services.

Equally important is the power of expectation. When schools lower standards for difficult learners, they silently communicate low belief. Conversely, when schools maintain high expectations while providing support, learners internalise resilience and purpose. High expectations do not break learners; they stretch them. Kenya’s education system must be careful not to confuse compassion with lowering standards. Compassion means supporting learners to meet high expectations, not excusing poor behaviour or low performance.

If we are to confront the issue of learners beating their parents, we must acknowledge that the problem extends beyond the home. It is a national crisis that touches on parenting, school discipline, community values, and the moral climate of our society. Schools are not just institutions for learning; they are factories of character. If schools fail to model respect, responsibility, and self-control, they will produce young people who lack the moral fibre to thrive in society.

We also need urgent policy action. County education boards, school management committees, teachers’ unions, and the Ministry of Education must work together to strengthen character education. Schools must be supported to implement restorative discipline, invest in counselling, and train teachers in classroom management and emotional intelligence. Communities must be engaged through parents’ forums and church groups to rebuild the moral bridge between home and school. If we do not act now, the cost will be higher than we can imagine.

Many adults of strong character trace their transformation not to comfort, but to firm, principled schools and educators who refused to give up on them. Schools may not erase the scars learners carry, but they can redirect lives. In shaping the character of difficult learners, schools do more than educate individuals—they safeguard the moral future of society.

If education is to remain meaningful, it must look beyond examination scores and confront the deeper work of character formation. For it is in the difficult learner that the true power of schooling is revealed—because if we can build character in those who struggle the most, we can build it in the entire nation.

By Hillary Muhalya