During a recent visit to my child's first public class after starting elementary school, I noticed a classmate with a disability, referred to as A, shaking his head back and forth during the lesson. I tried to ignore it, but my attention kept drifting back to him. When I got home, I casually asked my child, "Does he shake his head like that on other days?"
My child replied, "He usually shakes it more. Today, his mom is here, so he shook it a little less." After a brief silence, sensing my concern, my child added, "Mom, it’s not something to be upset about. That’s just how he is." Then, he returned to his 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, and go on experiential learning trips together. Support teachers are present during class time.
For my child, this is just a normal part of life. After school, he often shares stories about his day, occasionally mentioning A. He talks about how the class visited the special education room to see "baby pictures of A and danced and played together" or that "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, peers naturally offer their arms for guidance. When asked about this, the children simply responded, "Because he’s our classmate." It was not an act of kindness or charity; it was just their everyday reality.
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 he learned later. The experience of living together began before understanding their differences.
This "child's attitude" may also be necessary outside the classroom. At the Media Wall in Seoul's Haechi Madang, artist Seok Chang-woo's work, "Breath of Ink," brightly illuminates the area at 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 like Park Je-seong, Han Seung-gu, and Jeon Hye-joo, Seok's piece simply adds to the vibrant tapestry of Seoul's night. His artistic world is not confined to the label of disability art.
Similar discussions have been underway abroad for some time. A report released in 2020 by the European cultural and arts network IETM was 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 be as grand as it sounds. 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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