Among Kinders

I could tell stories, so they invited me to tell them to a class of kinders run by a voluntary group.

Sixteen children sat waiting eagerly, some on the floor and others perched on small red chairs, ready to hear stories from an old man.

“Good morning,” I said, and they replied, “Good morning, uncle.”

“Please tell me your names,” I said, and I heard sixteen names in a chorus—not in any order—followed by giggles.

“Do you want to hear a story?”

Some nodded, some said, “Yes,” and others simply giggled.

“Have you heard the story about the lion and the rat?”

“No,” came the reply.

So, I told them the story about the lion and the rat.
When I completed the story, they wanted more.

I told them another story and another one after that, but they wanted more.

“No more stories,” I said. “I want to hear from you now.” The room grew quiet, sixteen pairs of eyes staring at me in puzzlement. Then, in hushed whispers, they turned to each other, asking, ‘What did he mean?’

“I want to hear from you now,” I repeated.

“What?” they asked. “What?”

“I’ll ask you a question, and you will answer, one by one.”

They liked that. “What? What?” they asked.

I raised my hand to quieten them. They became quiet but still curious about what I was planning to do.

“Listen carefully to my question.” They nodded showing readiness to listen to and answer my questions.

“A rat is a bird,” I said. “Do you agree?”

They couldn’t believe what they heard. “What, what?” they shouted.

“A rat is a bird,” I repeated, pausing at the end of each word. “Do you agree?”

Laughter erupted from everywhere, followed by shouts of, “No! No! No!”

“Alright,” I said. “Can all those who say a rat is not a bird move to this side of the room?” I pointed to the left side of the room. “Those who think a rat is a bird, move to the other side of the room.”

They all rushed to the left side I had pointed at, some dragging their red chairs with them. Only one boy, sitting on a red chair, remained where he was. He seemed not interested in the question. I had noticed him earlier. He sat away from the rest of the pupils but was attentive to what was happening in the classroom.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Yowchan,” the class answered.

Yowchan had difficulty standing up to answer the question. His one leg appeared smaller than the other, and he could only stand by supporting himself on the back of the chair .

“All right, Yowchan, let us hear from the others why a rat is not a bird. After that, you can tell us why a rat is a bird.”

Yowchan said nothing but sat down on his red chair.

Turning to all the others in the room, I asked them, one at a time, to stand up, tell their names, and explain why a rat is not a bird.

Everyone began shouting and raising their hands, wanting to be the first to answer.

“Sit down, sit down and be quiet,” I said. “I shall ask you one by one.”

One by one, they stood up, and their answers were as expected.

“A rat cannot fly.”
“A rat has no wings.”
“A rat has no feathers.”
“A rat has a tail.”

When everyone in the group on the left had their say, I summed up the reasons they had given and asked them if they wanted to add any more reasons. They were satisfied with their answers and continued giggling and repeating that a rat was not a bird.

Turning to the lone boy on the right side of the class, I asked him, “Yowchan, do you think a rat is a bird?”

“Yes, yes,” he answered, suddenly full of energy. Then, holding the back of his chair, he slowly climbed on the seat of the chair, waving his hands. “I am a rat! I am a rat! I am a bird! I am a bird!”

I rushed towards him, fearing he might fall, but before I could reach him, he was sitting again on the chair, still waving his hands. “I am a rat! I am a rat! I am a bird! I am a bird!” he chanted.

He then pushed the chair away and began chanting the same thing.

I couldn’t stop him.

In the meantime, there was pandemonium on the left side of the class. Everyone was standing up or sitting on the floor or chairs, waving their hands as Yowchan was doing. “I am a rat! I am a rat! I am a bird! I am a bird!” they chanted.

Some had joined Yowchan on his side of the room, copying him, chanting along, their laughter bouncing off the walls. There were no two sides anymore.

I could do nothing.

The noise brought in the headteacher. She, too, could do nothing, because the kids were dancing around her, rising and falling, chanting, “I am a rat! I am a rat! I am a bird! I am a bird!”

As the headteacher tried and failed to restore order, I stepped back, watching the children spin and chant with Yowchan leading the way. The room was pure chaos—and completely alive.

I’d come to the class with the question about the rat and the bird already in my head. It wasn’t spontaneous. These days, the absurd has a way of creeping into life, dressed as normal, and I’d wanted to see how children—innocent and untouched by adult reasoning—might respond.

And here they were. After their initial attempts to explain the absurdity, they had simply followed Yowchan, mocking the question and treating it as just another invitation to laugh, play, and join in.

Somewhere in the chaos, I smiled, was their answer.