I read a lot of research. Given personal circumstances, even more than usual lately. And while much of what I read mainly seems to confirm what we already know or adds a certain nuance, every now and then I come across a study that makes me think: I had never considered this before. The title of this study by Idit Fast and colleagues immediately sparked a chain of thoughts: “Challenges to inclusive teaching during war.” My first reaction was: Is inclusion a luxury when you fear for your life? But the study led me to very different insights than I had expected based on the title.

We often think that good education means recognising differences. That you make space for identity. That you acknowledge what is happening in the classroom, especially when it concerns students in vulnerable or marginalised positions. That is also what much of the literature on inclusion tells us. But what if the context of war makes this almost impossible?

In this study, the researchers examine a secondary school in Israel during the war in Gaza, where Jewish and Palestinian students attend classes together. We sometimes complain about difficult circumstances in education, but let’s be honest: this is not an easy context. Students arrive carrying emotions, loss, anger and fear. The teachers do too.

So what do teachers do in such a situation? Not what you might expect. They avoid the topic. They do not explicitly name differences. In fact, they mainly try to de-escalate, to cut off conversations, to keep discussions small. “Keeping the fire down,” as one of them puts it. The school leadership also explicitly encourages this approach: keep things calm, keep it within the classroom, and do not turn it into a bigger issue.

From a traditional inclusion perspective, this feels uncomfortable. Isn’t inclusion precisely about recognition? About making differences visible? About creating space for stories and identities? And yet, this silence is not simply a lack of competence or willingness. It is functional. It helps to prevent escalation. This silence makes it possible for students to remain together in the same classroom at all times. In a context where tensions can erupt at any moment, calm becomes a goal in itself.

At the same time, that choice comes at a cost. By not naming what is happening, a form of institutional silence emerges. The presence of Palestinian students is barely acknowledged as a group. Their experiences remain under the radar. Problems are addressed individually, behind closed doors, or simply ignored. This can harm their well-being and make inequality less visible.

We often think that good education means addressing difficult differences. But what if reality sometimes demands that we do not address them? Let’s be honest: this is far from a comfortable conclusion. It rubs against much of what we think we know about inclusion, diversity and equal opportunities.

But we need to recognise that education is rarely, if ever, about a single principle that applies everywhere. It is almost always about trade-offs. About choices between goals that are each defensible in their own right, but cannot always be pursued at the same time. Inclusion matters. But it is also fragile, especially in contexts where differences do not only mean diversity, but also conflict. And then the question is not only: what works? But also: at what cost?