During a 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, shaking his head from side to side during the lesson. I tried not to pay attention, but I couldn't help but look. When I got home, I casually asked my child, "Does that friend shake his head on other days too?"
My child replied, "He usually shakes it more. Today, he only did it a little because his 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 he is." Then, he returned to playing.
The school my child attends practices inclusive education, where students with and without disabilities learn and interact together in the same classroom. All the children attend 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 part of daily life. After work, he often shares stories about his day at school, occasionally mentioning his friend. He talks about how the class went to the special education room to see 'A's baby pictures and danced together, or how 'A' enjoys multiplication tables. These are ordinary conversations.
A recent article discussing similar classroom dynamics highlighted that inclusive education is a part of children's 'everyday' experiences. In one elementary school in Osaka, Japan, a visually impaired student studies alongside classmates, who naturally offer their arms when moving around the classroom. When asked about this, the students simply replied, "Because he’s our classmate." It was not an act of kindness or charity, but a normal part of their routine.
What may seem like a special form of inclusive education to adults is simply normal for children. This is not about discussing the educational benefits of inclusive education for children with disabilities or those without. To my child, 'A' is just a classmate. The head shaking and the ability to do math are just aspects of 'A' that he learned later. The experience of being together came before understanding 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 does not carry the label of 'disability art.' In this special exhibition featuring various artists, including Park Je-seong, Han Seung-gu, and Jeon Hye-joo, Seok's work 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 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. Perhaps recognizing differences can come afterward.
* This article has been translated by AI.
Copyright ⓒ Aju Press All rights reserved.