By George K. Werner (former education minister)
For much of Liberia’s history, pulling students out of the classroom to welcome or celebrate national leaders has been treated as normal—almost patriotic. It is a practice so familiar that, until recently, few paused to question its cost. Yet learning time is not symbolic; it is finite. And when schooling is repeatedly interrupted for political ritual, the loss is real, cumulative, and borne by children who can least afford it.
I first witnessed this as a child in the late 1970s, when William R. Tolbert Jr.—who served as Liberia’s president from 1971 until his overthrow on April 12, 1980—visited the Kru Coast Territory. I was then a pupil at J. T. Nimely Kindergarten School. Students, elders, civil servants, and private workers all gathered to welcome the President and his entourage.
The Head of the Kru Coast school system was Augustine Tetrione Jappah, Sr., and his wife, Felicia Solo Williams Jappah, served as Principal of my school. My own father, D. K. Wernah, Sr., was the designated lead chef for the visit.
No one asked whether children should be taken out of class. That question did not exist. Under the Tolbert administration, presidential visits were civic rituals. Schools were not merely places of instruction; they were instruments of nationhood. Children were expected to see the state, not simply learn about it.
Then came April 12, 1980.
When Samuel K. Doe visited the Kru Coast Territory after the coup that brought him to power, he came to Grand Cess. I was then a student at St. Patrick Junior High School. I remember the scorching sun, the long wait, and the uneasy mood.
Grand Cess had enjoyed a special relationship with the Tolbert era. Many of its sons and daughters served prominently in both civilian and military roles. The People’s Redemption Council—though composed in large measure of individuals from the broader Kru Coast Territory—was not warmly received in Grand Cess. Discontent was visible and widely understood.
Doe knew this political geography. One response was administrative: he appointed Col. Kate Juwle, a daughter of Grand Cess, as Superintendent. Later, in the early 1980s, when Grand Kru County was formally created, the county capital moved to Barclayville. Authority, loyalty, and territory were being renegotiated. Still, the ritual endured. Students came out. Schools paused. Education bent to politics.
By the late 1980s, at St. Francis High School in Pleebo, Maryland County, the same pattern repeated itself. When Doe’s nationally celebrated birthday—dubbed “Birthday ’89”—was held in Harper, Maryland County, students lined the streets and others were taken to Harper City Hall. That evening, around the dinner table, the Marist Brothers debated what we had witnessed: anger at the disruption of education, mixed with admiration for Vice President Harry F. Moniba, whom they regarded as thoughtful and articulate.
It was also during the Birthday ’89 celebrations that Julia Belloh Wollor, herself a student from Grand Cess at St. Francis, emerged as a prominent student leader—an early reminder that even within poorly timed political rituals, young people often find ways to organize, lead, and make meaning of the moment.
Even then, the contradiction was clear.
Years later, when I became Minister of Education (2015–2018), the pattern had not changed. Everywhere I went, students were pulled from classrooms. For presidents and other senior officials, it was even more pronounced. Attempts to change this culture met with stiff resistance during my time at the Ministry.
County officials worried about offending superiors. School administrators feared being labeled uncooperative. Parents—shaped by decades of precedent—asked why their children should remain in class when “the whole county is out.”
What appeared to be a simple administrative issue exposed something deeper: a political culture in which visibility before power had long taken precedence over continuity in learning.
This matters because school time is not infinite. Liberia’s Ministry of Education academic calendars already operate under pressure—from weather disruptions, examinations, national holidays, infrastructure gaps, and teacher shortages.
Each additional non-instructional interruption, especially those unrelated to learning objectives, compounds learning loss—particularly for children in public schools who lack textbooks, tutoring, or structured learning support at home.
That is why the public uproar over students being bused to Capitol Hill on January 30, 2026, for a confirmation hearing matters. The concern should not be partisan. It should be pedagogical. Many parents, teachers, and citizens must ask a basic question: why were children removed from classrooms for a legislative ceremony that could proceed without them?
I hope this moment is understood beyond the normal political lens. This is not about personalities, parties, or appointments. It is about whether we finally agree that classrooms should not be mobilized for political theater, no matter who is being honored or celebrated.
I know this experience is not mine alone. Many Liberians carry the same memories—of lessons interrupted, uniforms pressed for display, and classrooms emptied to perform loyalty. An issue becomes an issue not merely because it happens, but because enough people decide it should no longer be normal.
History shows us how such moments gain force. When Oprah Winfrey appeared before the United States Congress in the 1990s and spoke publicly about her experience of rape, she did not introduce a new problem. She lent weight to an old one. Her testimony shifted the burden—from silence to accountability, from normalization to reckoning.
Liberia may be approaching a similar moment on education.
Students can—and should—welcome and celebrate their national leaders. Civic pride is not the problem; timing and method are. When such moments are thoughtfully planned, they can become powerful learning opportunities rather than disruptions.
A presidential visit, a confirmation hearing, or a national celebration can be built into a lesson plan: lessons on civics and constitutional roles, on history and leadership, on why institutions matter and how citizens engage them. Scheduled properly, prepared for in advance, and aligned with the school calendar, these encounters can deepen learning instead of displacing it.
The issue before us, then, is not whether children should see their leaders, but whether we are intentional about how and when we ask them to do so. A serious education system does not improvise with learning time. It plans. If Liberia chooses that path—respecting both leadership and the classroom—we will not be abandoning tradition. We will be refining it, in service of a more thoughtful and mature republic.
