When the Staff Room Becomes a Circle

 

When a dental college student died by suicide recently, one of the voice recordings he left behind problematised the staff room. His stark comment was that it is a space where teachers “attack” in a group—a task in which each tries to outdo the other.

Though we can't generalise, this is a statement that has understandably unsettled all right-thinking members of the academic community, irrespective of whether they see themselves reflected in that description. It carries disturbing implications about the nature of the staff room and compels us to ask how many of us may have, knowingly or unknowingly, contributed to such an experience.

The unease lies not only in the explicit forms of misconduct that may occur in such spaces, but also in the larger web of interactions the student alludes to. One begins to wonder about the comments casually made, the nods, the silences, the half-smiles—small gestures that may have cumulatively shaped such a perception.

The phrase “attacking as a group” lingers. It evokes another, even more unsettling image: that of a “hunt in packs.” The metaphor is primitive, but it sharpens the disquiet. It forces us to rethink the staff room—not merely as a physical space, but as a space defined by ownership, access, belonging, and authority.

Whose room is the staff room? Is it exclusively the teachers’ space, much like the principal’s office belongs to the principal? If so, where are the students’ spaces? Are classrooms theirs? And yet, classrooms come alive through the presence of both teacher and learner. The same space transforms depending on who inhabits it and how the interaction unfolds.

In reality, the campus is co-owned—by those who teach and those who learn. It is the chemistry of this interaction that gives life to institutional spaces. Yet, moments like these force us to pause and reconsider how these spaces are defined and, more importantly, how they are experienced.

The issue is not what academic spaces are intended to be, but how they are perceived. When a space that should exemplify professionalism begins to evoke predatory metaphors, something is clearly amiss.

What transforms a staff room into a space where a student feels trapped? It is rarely a dramatic confrontation. More often, it is a slow accumulation: a glance, a remark, a silence, a tone of agreement, a recollection of a past lapse, a shared laugh. Each layer may seem insignificant in isolation, but together they can alter the very character of the space.

When a student becomes the point of convergence, the experience can turn sharply overwhelming. What may seem like routine interaction in the staff room can, from within, feel like a coordinated advance—figures closing in, voices layering, the air tightening with each passing second. The memories of earlier visits will be alive and the not-so-pleasant takeaways too. The moment begins to develop into the uneasy rhythm of a hunt: not by design, but in the way it is lived. Each word, each silence, each shared glance reduces the space available to the student. S/he stands there searching for a break in the pattern—for someone who will step out of the circle, slow it down, recognise his fear. When that does not happen, the sense of being trapped intensifies. The room metamorphoses from a place of guidance to one of enclosure. Here judgment feels inescapable. In that tightening space, where no voice seems willing to listen and no path appears open, despair can begin to take hold with a frightening clarity.

Part of this is structural. The staff room is, by design, a space where teachers are at ease. It allows them to relax, converse, and momentarily step outside formal roles. For a student, however, entering this space may not be always comfortable. They often enter alone, stepping into an environment where they do not seem to belong in the same way.

This asymmetry matters. What feels casual to the teacher may feel intimidating to the student. Even actions that are not intended to harm—strictness, silence, authority—can take on a performative edge in such a setting. The student, in that moment, is not just responding to an individual teacher, but to a collective presence. While a student’s perception may sometimes be subjective, it remains real in its emotional impact. It is therefore imperative for the teaching community to ensure that no learner feels surrounded or cornered in such spaces.

The hunting metaphor, though primitive, is telling. A student caught in such a situation often looks for a moment of support—a voice that moderates, a gesture that reassures, a presence that restores balance. When that does not emerge, the sense of isolation can be deeply distressing.

Every such incident must serve as an opportunity for reflection. It calls upon educators to examine not only what they do, but how their actions are experienced.

Difficult conversations with students require care and intentionality. Education must not become a space of fear. It should be a space where mistakes are survivable and correction is humane. A truly educational staff room need not be an exclusionary or intimidating space. It can become a shared ground—an in-between space—where teacher and learner engage with unequal roles, but with equal dignity of purpose.

The question we must continually ask is simple: does the student feel supported—or surrounded? The answer may define the kind of educators we are.