Levels of serious youth violence have long been a concern in some of our communities. In recent weeks and months we have seen an escalation in the number and manner of violent attacks: there is increased media coverage, political manoeuvring and some ill-informed sharing of views about schools and the role they play. It’s dispiriting to see school leaders maligned at a time of crisis. It’s dangerous to publish words that undermine parental trust and confidence in what are some of the last genuinely functioning community institutions. It’s unfair to fail to recognise the many ways in which individual adults, schools and groups of schools work against the tide to safely deliver so many young people to their next destination with agency and belonging. The seas are rough for us all. We do indeed have different boats. The world we inhabit, the communities in which our children reside are not fair and equitable places to grow up. For many vulnerable children, schools are their only place of safety.

A brief scan over the back catalogue of just this blog would probably be enough to understand that inclusive excellence is something that matters deeply for me. It’s because inclusive excellence is what I think our children need and deserve, moreso in the parts of our city that have the least wealth. I hope those that work with me would attest to the fact that whilst I have dedicated my entire working life to this aim, I recognise the limitations of my own perspective and experience, the importance of reflection, and the value of listening.

I’d like to tell you about JJ (not his real name).

JJ’s arrival into the world was a little premature, and throughout his time in utero he regularly experienced rushes of stress hormones. Before he was even born, he had experienced domestic violence. JJ’s mother didn’t always receive the care she needed, because she had low trust in the services around her. She didn’t always understand the system(s) she must navigate, and she didn’t always want to. Once JJ was born, she may have benefited from some additional support from a local baby and children’s centre, but this support was not forthcoming. She faced some challenges with her mental health and endured periods of domestic violence, during which time JJ’s father formally left the family home. Over time, JJ’s relationship with his father failed to develop and JJ’s experiences of him were more often of violence and threat.

By the time JJ started primary school his language and communication skills were failing to keep pace with his peers. Whilst school staff recognised this, his needs were not the most pronounced within his peer group and it was not possible to prioritise him for additional support with the resource available. JJ was more often involved in conflict than other children and his interactions were reported to feature more aggression, which may have been linked to his speech, language and communication needs, to his experience of domestic violence or to unconscious bias from school staff in identifying his and his family’s needs. It is likely that each of these factors was in play.

Throughout his primary school experience, JJ presented as a child with additional needs that were not always able to be met within the mainstream classroom. At times he was able to access additional support; JJ’s mother was not always keen or able to engage with the school’s SENCO to discuss his emerging needs. In spite of a largely good relationship with school colleagues, she continued to have low trust in public institutions, having had poor experiences at school herself. Sometime she felt misunderstood, or that JJ had been misunderstood, and she found herself in conflict with school staff.

By Year 5, JJ was significantly behind his peers and regularly missing episodes of learning. At times this was because he chose to absent himself from lessons; at times he was unable to attend due to a prior incident under investigation. His attendance in school was periodically lower due to his mother’s mental health, his own feelings of failure in the classroom, fractured friendships at school and sometimes fears for his mother’s safety at the hands of his father and her more recent partner. Sometimes when JJ was not in school, he was also not at home. As a child without a garden he regularly played on the street, where he mixed with a range of other children and young people. He had become friends with older boys who looked out for him, gave him clothes and games he would otherwise not be able to afford, and asked him to run errands.

When JJ started secondary school he had additional support for his transition, which meant that he was monitored closely. Having struggled to maintain friendships during primary school, school staff were alert to the need to support him to make strong connections during this significant step. He was encouraged and supported to join clubs and teams, and opportunities were curated to give him the best opportunities to cultivate meaningful connections and friendships. Sometimes this worked. At other times he struggled to maintain a strong sense of belonging and although he accessed large chunks of the curriculum, there were parts that remained inaccessible to him. Sometimes support was available to him because adults assigned to work with other students were also able to include him. At other times he was unable to access learning, and there was no additional support available to him. The school SENCO brought together evidence to apply for funding, but this was not a full picture because records were not always available or up to date. JJ’s mother was not strongly in favour of securing more support: she worried about him being labelled as having special needs. She knew of examples of young black and mixed race boys with special needs being more frequently excluded from school: she did not want this for her son. She did not prevent the SENCO from doing the work, but she did not actively support it.

JJ’s attendance at school fluctuated. When he missed longer chunks of school he found it difficult to return: friendships had moved on and so had learning. He didn’t feel missed. It was hard to break back in.

By Year 9, JJ had few strong and lasting connections in his peer group at school. He was part of the basketball team but was not as skilled as others and he lost confidence in the face of their strength. Unable to express this or to note the emotion for himself, he more frequently got into conflict with others within and beyond the team. When an argument happened, he could not verbally keep up, and he resorted to more inflammatory comments which routinely led to fighting. This happened beyond school too, and the older boys that had once taken him into their group no longer felt they could rely on him: he was too volatile and not trustworthy enough.

Keen to ingratiate himself, JJ committed escalating acts of violence against others outside of the group. This led to reprisals and to the group themselves turning on him. His life outside of school became characterised by violence and to the adults in his life, JJ felt unreachable. On the basis of a series of referrals at school, a social worker was assigned to work with JJ and the school used some of its funding to employ the services of an alternative provision to undertake engagement work. This involved removing JJ from the community and taking him to places of interest to him in order to create the conditions for the kinds of work and conversations that might change his affiliations and ambitions. At times JJ engaged more fully with the social, educational and careers’ workers that spent time with him. For reasonable periods of time he attended school and engaged with lessons which were challenging for him to keep pace with. At times he appeared to be building more positive friendships.

However JJ still found it difficult to communicate his feelings or to understand what they were. He felt the absence of his father more than the presence of his mother. He sought acceptance and fraternity amongst those who would seek to exploit and harm him. He sought belonging in people and places that harmed him further. He walked the streets wired and ready to fight, pumped with adrenaline, knowing he might meet an adversary at any time. He carried a zombie knife wherever he went.

Whether or not JJ killed someone with, or was killed by, his knife is largely irrelevant. However the story with the blade ended, it cut short two lives. It left mothers and fathers grieving their sons’ futures, and it made headlines that sowed fear and hatred in others.

What’s striking about JJ’s story is that it’s not one of systemic failure – and yet the system failed him. It’s not a story of racist headteachers and obnoxious systems. There were lots of professionals in JJ’s life who cared about him. There are missed opportunities throughout his story, and there are also many examples of good work. Ultimately, JJ’s protective factors were not stronger than the risks he was both open to and at times prone to seeking. As a young adult he was required to take responsibility for his actions, and pay the price of them. As a child with a range of vulnerabilities and risk factors, it is hard not to feel compassion for him even at the inflection moment where his life changed for ever – or was ended by another JJ, with his own story.

He isn’t even real. He’s nine paragraphs and less than 10 minutes of your online life. He is not the most extreme or the saddest case story I have even heard today.

Don’t tell me that adults in education don’t care, don’t have sleepless nights, don’t go beyond what might be considered reasonable to be able to make the difference to children every day. I work in the system daily and that is not what I see. I do get frustrated that we can be inconsistent, that we make mistakes, that we miss opportunities. I do have hope and expectation of better for our young people and I do recognise the immense challenges of the moment we are in.

Like many others I am devastated by recent community events and I am, with my colleagues, asking questions about how we reached this point and what comes next – because this is what we do.

But being devastated is not the same as being surprised. Being shocked by the events that are unfolding does not mean that we expected never to find ourselves in this position at some point.

And what we do next matters. Commentators can throw stones at schools if they wish. There will no doubt be some element of truth in some of the things they say. I’m not sure, though, that throwing a stone is a way to model to our children how to navigate a difficult situation, how to build alliance or how to make change happen.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that public services are struggling to meet rising need with at best a paucity of resource. As civic institutions, schools and schools’ trusts play a vital role in bringing together communities, advocates, leaders, decision makers, those with lived experience, those with strategic and operational insight and enabling them to engage – at times with dissonance – in search of better.

A hand that’s throwing a stone can’t be building a better community. If we really mean to Be The Difference, we will not achieve it with vitriol.

If we are to make good of this horrific moment, it will be our compassion for one another that marks us out.