I attended the funeral of a close relative not long ago. Like many funerals in Zimbabwe, it was more than a ceremony to bid farewell to the departed. It was a gathering of generations. Family members had travelled from different parts of the country. Friends embraced after years apart. Elderly relatives shared memories of the deceased while children played quietly in the background, only occasionally reminded to lower their voices. Amid the grief, there was also warmth, laughter and the familiar comfort that families often find in one another during moments of loss.
As I greeted relatives, one of my nieces arrived. She was dressed in a very short skirt and a revealing top. I looked at her, then around me. Elderly women sat wrapped in black shawls. Church elders were greeting mourners. Young children watched the adults around them. Instinctively, I felt her clothing did not suit the occasion. A funeral is one of the few places where respect is expressed not only through what we say, but also through how we present ourselves.
I did not call her aside or embarrass her. Instead, I quietly approached her mother. “I think she should change," I said gently. "This is a funeral."
What followed caught me completely by surprise. "Don't tell me what to do about my child," she fired back. "Mind your own business." Her voice was loud enough for nearby mourners to hear. The conversation ended there. I simply walked away.
As I went home later that day, I realised the exchange had very little to do with a skirt. It was about something much bigger. It left me wondering when we became a society that mistakes concern for interference and advice for an attack.
Perhaps that question troubles me more than it would trouble someone else because I have spent much of my professional life working with children. I have taught them in classrooms, worked alongside them in humanitarian programmes and now devote much of my research to children's rights. Along the way, I have listened to children whose voices were ignored, comforted those whose rights had been violated and witnessed how decisions made by adults can alter the course of a child's life.
People sometimes ask why I always write about children. The answer is simple. Almost every challenge we wrestle with as a society has its roots in childhood. Violence, crime, drug and substance abuse, broken families and even corruption rarely begin in adulthood. They take shape much earlier, in homes, schools and communities where children are learning not only what we tell them, but who we are.
Children may not vote, occupy influential offices or write newspaper columns. Yet they inherit every decision we make. They carry into adulthood the values we model, the relationships we build and the lessons we either teach or neglect. If we are serious about changing our society, then we cannot ignore where society begins.
That is why I keep writing about children.
Some readers have jokingly asked whether I ever run out of other topics. The truth is that I do not see children as one topic among many. I see them as the thread that runs through almost every issue confronting our nation. Whether we are discussing substance abuse, violence, mental health, education, corruption, unemployment or even leadership, we are ultimately talking about the kind of adults our children will one day become. As the Jesuit priest and philosopher Father Richard Rohr once observed, "We do not think ourselves into a new way of living; we live ourselves into a new way of thinking." Childhood is where that journey begins.
Growing up, many of us were raised differently.
Parents carried the primary responsibility, but they were never expected to shoulder it alone. Grandparents corrected us. Teachers disciplined us. A neighbour could stop you from climbing someone else's fruit tree and your parents would probably thank them later. An aunt did not need permission to remind you to greet visitors properly. An uncle did not hesitate to tell you when your behaviour brought shame to the family.No one regarded that as an invasion of parental authority.
It was understood that children benefited from many caring eyes and many guiding voices. Looking back now, I realize that what protected many of us was not perfect parenting. It was the presence of a community that felt responsible for every child.
Today, that understanding seems to be fading.
Many adults have become reluctant to correct someone else's child, not because they no longer care, but because they fear the reaction from the parents. Too often, even the gentlest advice is interpreted as criticism, and criticism is met with hostility rather than reflection.
In trying to protect parental authority, we may be weakening the very support system that once helped parents succeed.
To be clear, this is not an argument about fashion. Every generation dresses differently. Young people should express themselves and society will continue to evolve. That is neither unusual nor undesirable. But every society, regardless of culture or generation, teaches that certain occasions call for certain standards. We instinctively understand that we dress differently for a job interview than we do for a football match. We would not attend a court hearing dressed for the beach. A funeral, perhaps more than any other public gathering, calls for modesty, dignity and respect.
Teaching children that distinction is not about suppressing individuality. It is about helping them understand that freedom is always exercised within a social context. Rights matter, but so do responsibilities. Personal expression matters, but so does respect for others.
Those lessons are rarely learnt by accident. They are passed from one generation to the next through correction, conversation and example. Children are always watching us. They notice how adults handle disagreement. They notice whether we apologise when we are wrong. They notice whether we receive advice graciously or reject it angrily. They notice whether humility is something we preach or something we practise.
When a child watches an adult dismiss another person's genuine concern with the words, "Don't tell me what to do about my child," the lesson extends far beyond that moment. The child may begin to believe that every correction is an attack, every disagreement an insult and every differing opinion something to resist rather than consider. That mindset rarely ends well.
Perhaps this growing discomfort with correction explains why so many institutions that once helped shape children are struggling today. Teachers speak of classrooms where discipline quickly turns into confrontation with parents. Coaches hesitate before correcting young athletes because they fear complaints rather than cooperation. Even church leaders and close relatives increasingly choose silence, not because they have stopped caring, but because experience has taught them that speaking up can easily be mistaken for interference.
The result is that children are left with fewer adults willing to guide them.
Yet the world beyond our homes will never be that accommodating. Employers will point out poor performance. Lecturers will challenge weak work. Friends will disagree. Marriage demands compromise, and society itself constantly reminds us that our actions have consequences. A child who has never learnt to receive correction with humility may struggle long after childhood has passed.
That is why parenting cannot be reduced to providing food, shelter and education. It is also about preparing children to live with others, to respect different views and to accept that growth often begins with uncomfortable conversations. Character is formed not only by praise, but also by guidance that is offered with love and received with humility.
As someone who works in child rights, I often remind people that children's rights and parental responsibility are not opposing ideas. They complement one another. Every child has the right to dignity, protection and participation, but those rights flourish best in families and communities where adults are prepared to guide, mentor and sometimes correct. Respecting a child's dignity does not mean abandoning discipline. It means ensuring that correction builds rather than breaks, teaches rather than humiliates.
Perhaps our greatest challenge today is not that parents love their children too much. It is that we have become so protective of our roles as parents that we sometimes close ourselves off from the wisdom of others. Yet none of us sees everything. There are moments when a teacher notices what a parent has overlooked, when a grandparent's experience offers perspective, or when a neighbour quietly sees a child drifting in a direction that those closest to them have missed.
Looking back, I hold no bitterness over what happened at the funeral. If anything, I am grateful for the lesson it offered. The disagreement lasted only a few moments, but the questions it raised have lingered much longer.
As I think back to that afternoon, I no longer remember the exchange as vividly as I remember the silence that followed. No one said another word. Everyone simply looked away. If a family cannot gently correct one of its own at a moment of mourning, what hope is there that a community will find the courage to guide its children when it matters most?
That, more than a skirt or an uncomfortable exchange between relatives, is what should concern us all. We have not stopped loving our children. We may simply have become too quick to mistake guidance for judgement and too slow to recognise that sometimes the greatest act of love is not remaining silent, but caring enough to speak.
*Simbarashe Crispen Kanyimo is an associate senior researcher with the Africa University Child Rights Research Centre