My son Janosch used to love going to kindergarten. He would run in with a smile every morning, excited to play with his friends. But then, suddenly, everything changed.
He started clinging to me, crying, begging me not to take him. At first, I thought it was just a phase—maybe he was tired or missing home. But when he whispered, “I don’t want to eat there anymore,” my stomach dropped. Janosch had always been a good eater. Something was wrong.
The next day, I showed up around lunchtime and glanced in through the window.
A teacher I didn’t recognize was towering over my son, forcing a spoon into his mouth as he cried and tried to pull away. “Open your tongue! Eat now!” she snapped. He gagged, tears streaming down his face.
I burst inside before I could even think. “Stop! Don’t you dare touch him like that again!” I shouted.
The teacher spun around, startled. “You can’t be in here!” she snapped.
“And you can’t treat a child like this!” I shot back, shaking with rage.
I grabbed Janosch and held him tight. That was the last day he ever set foot in that kindergarten.
