At what age do you earn the right to speak up?

Children are often told: pipe down, keep quiet, shhh! But just maybe they have things to say that are worth hearing.

This article, by student Ngesihle Dlamini, was produced out of News Decoder’s school partnership program. Ngesihle is a student at African Leadership Academy in South Africa, a News Decoder partner institution. Learn more about how News Decoder can work with your school.

The first time I remember being told not to speak, it was not by the government or by the police. It was at home.

As the youngest child in the house, I was often silenced whenever I wanted to have a say on things I didn’t understand that were happening around me.

The day I was silenced, I was questioning a decision about why the house was to be painted yellow, when it made perfect sense to have it be painted grey, because the colour palette of the tiles would perfectly complement a grey tone.

To me, the logic was clear. Yet, to my surprise, I was met with immediate dismissal, no apology or explanation. I was told I was “too young” to have an opinion, “too young” to be involved in the conversation. The message I received was clear: questioning my mother’s authority was not my place.

This encounter wasn’t just about the house being painted yellow. It was my first lesson in a pattern that has shaped many youth in eSwatini, the Southern African country I come from: the suppression of voice through cultural norms, educational systems and family structures.

Testimonial injustice

British philosopher Miranda Fricker calls this “testimonial injustice”, where someone’s capacity to give knowledge is diminished because of prejudice about their social identity. The crucial distinction she makes is that experiential knowledge genuinely doesn’t come with age and experience.

My ability to observe, reason and propose alternatives didn’t disappear because of my age. I could see the colours and recognise patterns. Yet, my voice was dismissed, not because it lacked logic, but because it came from someone younger.

To understand this, I had to look beyond that moment and look into the culture and generation my mother was raised in. According to historian Alan Booth, in traditional Swazi culture, decision-making is left to the head of the homestead; even when they are away, their commands are sent for or are waited upon till they return.

Hence, this brings to light that the head is in control of all decision making, meaning young people are often seen as lacking maturity, being inexperienced and not fully socially competent, regardless of their ability to reason.

Understanding this context helped me see why my mother responded the way she did. She grew up in a time when questioning authority or talking back at adults was seen as disrespectful. However, understanding does not mean accepting that this belief should continue unchanged.

Silence is no longer golden.

Times have shifted. Cultures are evolving. We are living in a time where problem-solving, accountability and innovation cannot rely on silence as a virtue.

The lesson I learned at home followed me into school. I found myself not being able to speak up on the multiple severe punishments that were given to students in my school, even though Article 29(2) of the Constitution of 2005 of eSwatini states that a child should not be subjected to abuse, torture, inhumane or degrading treatment when being chastised for purposes of correction.

Yet the same Constitution presents a contradiction that leaves students vulnerable to the abuse the Constitution claims to prevent. Like many others, I was conditioned not to question authority or systems and hardcore punishment was a tool that perpetuated that fear in school.

In many rural public schools in eSwatini, students have little to no freedom of expression. Questioning authority is often seen as disrespectful rather than engagement. When I began speaking to other students, the pattern of silencing the voice of the youth became clearer.

One high school student said they witnessed the silence firsthand. “The food quality was getting so bad that some students were becoming ill,” he said. “We tried to approach the administration to respectfully ask for improvements.” Instead of dialogue, students were faced with corporal punishment.

Repercussions for speaking out

Another student, a former head prefect in her school, learned that even positions of student leadership came with strict restrictions. She said she was removed from her position because she questioned school rules that were unfair to students.

“Students who lived far from the school always arrived late, yet the school showed no empathy for them, giving them punishments for their late arrival,” she said. “I wanted to challenge this and advocate for the well-being of the students through my position; however, I learned that my role was to enforce rules, not challenge them.”

In both cases, these were not acts of rebellion but attempts to improve school conditions. Yet they were met with punishment.

By the time many students reach adolescence, silence has become habitual. Speaking up feels unsafe and staying quiet feels like survival. Several students shared how they no longer bother raising concerns, even when something feels wrong. Fear has turned into a routine.

This culture of silence doesn’t stop at school. As citizens, many young people in eSwatini grow up knowing that openly criticising those in power is dangerous.

Whether spoken aloud or quietly understood, the consequences are real. Living in this environment has taught many of us that silence isn’t a choice, but something we’re trained into over time, starting from childhood. We are living in a world that demands innovation, advocacy and leadership. Yet we are trained from childhood that our ideas don’t count until we’ve earned the right through age and experience.

The house is still painted yellow. I’ve grown used to it, the same way you get used to anything that won’t change. But that’s exactly the problem. Even though the paint stayed yellow, I lost my willingness to believe my perspective mattered.

How does one now unlearn this silence when it feels familiar, just like the yellow walls? Perhaps it begins with recognising that silence is a choice and unlearning it would mean choosing to speak even when my voice begins to shake.

Questions to consider

1. What is meant by the expression “silence is golden”?

2. Why do you think so many adults want children to stay quiet?

3. When was the last time someone told you to keep your thoughts to yourself?