The Chains We Choose

Why Good People Perpetuate Bad Systems

 

"Citizens consent to bear chains, so they may impose chains on others in turn."
— Jean-Jacques Rousseau

The Most Uncomfortable Truth About Organizational Life

This is a story that echoes through the sterile conference rooms of modern corporations and reverberates in the hallowed halls of academia. It whispers through the service corridors of hospitals and hums beneath the surface of mission-driven nonprofits. It is a story that replicates itself with troubling consistency across law firms and government agencies, religious institutions and military organizations, technology startups, century-old foundations and even families.

It is the story of us - you and me and everyone else we know in organizational life. Good people with genuine intentions to contribute positively who find ourselves perpetuating the very dynamics that once wounded us. A pattern that touches each of our professional lives, regardless of where we work or what noble purpose brought us there, regardless of how different we believe our workplace to be.

This isn't the story about obviously toxic leaders or consciously malicious actors. It's a more unsettling story about the rest of us - about how ordinary people with normal human psychology become complicit in systems that harm others, often while sincerely believing we are doing the right thing. We prefer simpler narratives about organizational dysfunction. We point to "those at the top" - the narcissistic executives, the power-hungry managers, the disconnected leadership. We imagine that if only we could replace the villains with heroes, our workplaces would transform into the collaborative, nurturing environments we crave.

But Jean-Jacques Rousseau understood something more uncomfortable about human nature that we desperately need to confront: oppression isn't sustained merely by the greed of a small elite. It endures because of the psychological needs of everyone - especially those who suffer under it most.

The Seductive Promise of Future Relief

When a junior employee endures public humiliation from their manager, they will feel genuine pain and resentment. We know that because we have all experienced that ourselves in professional life. But there's often a flicker of something else too - a recognition, not just of cruelty, but of power and its possibilities. The pain we feel is real, but so is the unconscious calculation: This is terrible, but someday, it might be my turn.

This is the insidious bargain at the heart of most hierarchical dysfunction. We consent to bear chains because we believe - rightly or wrongly - that those chains come with the future privilege of binding others. The interns absorb impossible deadlines and dismissive treatment while unconsciously noting how authority works and fantasizing about the day they'll have their own interns to "toughen up." The junior doctors endure the brutal hours and casual cruelty of medical training while learning not just medicine, but the unspoken lesson that this is simply how knowledge and toughness are transmitted - with concrete idea about how they'll "properly prepare" the next generation.

Each level of the hierarchy becomes complicit, not necessarily through conscious malice and not just in their own oppression, but through the very human tendency to normalize what we experience and to seek relief from powerlessness through the eventual acquisition of power over others and the hope of redemption from pain through the opportunity to inflict similar pain downward.

What Do We Really Celebrate About Being Promoted?

Perhaps the question about what we actually celebrate when we get promoted opens up perhaps the most uncomfortable truths that implicates all of us.

Let's be honest about the psychology at play. When we see that LinkedIn update announcing someone's advancement to Senior Vice President (complete with the obligatory humble-brag about being "honoured to serve in this new capacity"), what are we really witnessing? And more pointedly, what are we really envying?

At its core, a promotion typically grants you authority over more people while reducing the number of people who have authority over you. It's a mathematical shift in what we might call the "vulnerability ratio" - you become less subject to others' arbitrary decisions while gaining the power to make arbitrary decisions about others.

This isn't inherently evil. Hierarchies can serve legitimate purposes: coordinating complex work, providing clear decision-making structures, enabling accountability. The uncomfortable truth, however, is that most of us are drawn to higher positions not primarily for these noble organizational reasons, but for deeply human psychological ones.

We envy the corner office not just for its view, but for its physical elevation above others. We covet the ability to "delegate" partly because it means transferring unwanted work downward. We desire the power to "set strategic direction" partly because it means our preferences become other people's mandates. We're attracted to roles where we can "make tough decisions" partly because it means we can impose costs on others for abstract organizational benefits while remaining insulated from those costs ourselves.

This attraction is profoundly human. Even our language reveals it: we speak of "climbing the ladder," "moving up," and "advancing" - vertical metaphors that explicitly acknowledge hierarchy as a system of elevation above other human beings. The higher you climb, the more people are beneath you. The more you advance, the more people you leave behind.

The Choreography of Corporate Status Displays

If you've ever watched a nature documentary about mountain gorillas, you'll recognize a fascinating ritual: after a dramatic chest-thumping display establishes a new alpha male, the rest of the troop engages in elaborate grooming behaviours that reinforce the new hierarchy. Everyone knows their place, everyone participates in the social confirmation of the new order, and life settles into temporary stability until the next challenger emerges.

Our corporate promotion announcements aren't so different, though we've certainly evolved more sophisticated plumage.

"I'm humbled and excited to announce my new role as Senior Vice President of Strategic Digital Transformation Initiatives. I'm grateful to everyone who made this possible and look forward to serving our team in new ways. #grateful #leadership #nextchapter"

And then we all know what comes next: the ritualistic responses with dozens of "Congratulations!" comments, the fire and clapping-hands emojis, the carefully crafted responses from colleagues who understand that visible enthusiasm for others' advancement is how you signal your own worthiness for future consideration.

There's something both beautiful and absurd about these performances, isn't there? The newly promoted person must display ritual humility ("I'm honoured...") precisely at the moment they've gained more power. They must emphasize service ("look forward to serving...") just as they've reduced their obligation to serve and increase their deservedness to be served by others. It's rather like watching a peacock, having successfully displayed its magnificent tail feathers, immediately declare its commitment to helping other birds find worms.

These aren't malicious rituals - they serve important social functions, just like their animal kingdom counterparts. They establish clear hierarchies, reduce conflict through acknowledged status, and create predictable social structures. The gentle absurdity lies in our elaborate pretence that something entirely different is happening.

What we're really witnessing - and participating in - is the establishment of a new position in the pecking order. Someone has successfully navigated to a tier where they can peck downward more than they get pecked from above. The promotion party becomes our version of the gorilla's chest-thumping: a community acknowledgment that the social hierarchy has shifted, and we all need to recalibrate our behaviours accordingly.

How Pain Travels Through Organizations

There's something tragically predictable about how we humans process workplace trauma - and I suspect you've seen this pattern yourself. It reveals itself not through conscious malice, but through unconscious repetition. The manager who was once micromanaged often becomes a micromanager, not out of deliberate cruelty, but because micromanagement represents their internalized model of "how management works." The executive who was once excluded from important decisions may create cultures of information hoarding, unconsciously replicating the very dynamics that once frustrated them.

This isn't conscious malice - it's what I think of as psychological archaeology. We excavate our own difficult experiences and, lacking better models to metabolise them, reconstruct them as "normal" professional practice. The behaviours that once made us feel powerless become the tools we unconsciously reach for when we gain authority.

What makes this pattern particularly insidious is how it disguises itself as wisdom. "I'm preparing them for the real world," we tell ourselves. "They need to learn to handle pressure." "This builds character." These rationalizations aren't entirely false - organizations can be challenging places, and some resilience is valuable. But our justifications often mask the reality that we're simply passing on pain because we haven't learned how to transform it into something healthier.

The difference between heroes and villains in organizational life often comes down to this crucial juncture: when we gain power, do we use it to replicate the conditions that shaped us, or do we take responsibility for creating better conditions for others? It's a choice we all face, whether we realize it or not.

Heroes, Villains, and the Defining Choice

Here's something I've noticed about the stories we tell ourselves: in mythology and literature, heroes and villains are distinguished not by their origins, but by their response to suffering. The villain's origin story is almost always one of trauma, injustice, or pain - but their defining characteristic is their decision to perpetuate that pain, often rationalizing it as justice or necessity. The hero, by contrast, is equally likely to have suffered, but is defined by their determination that others should not endure what they endured.

Think about Darth Vader's journey from victim to perpetrator, or how Magneto's experience in concentration camps becomes his justification for persecuting others. Their villainy lies not in their initial suffering, but in their choice to make that suffering someone else's problem.

Heroes make the opposite choice. They absorb pain rather than pass it on. They use their strength to protect rather than to dominate. They break cycles rather than perpetuate them.

In our organizational lives, we face this same choice daily, regardless of our level in the hierarchy. The manager who was once micromanaged can choose to break that pattern or reproduce it. The executive who was once excluded from important decisions can choose to increase transparency or to hoard information as others once did to them. The senior leader who was once humiliated in meetings can choose to create psychological safety or to continue the cycle of fear-based management.

The heroic choice is almost always harder. It requires us to absorb the pain that was inflicted on us rather than passing it downward. It demands that we use whatever power we've gained to create better conditions for others rather than simply to improve our own circumstances.

The Universal Temptation: None of Us Are Immune

Here's what makes this conversation so necessary and so uncomfortable: we're all susceptible to these patterns. I know I am, and I suspect you are too. The drive to escape powerlessness by gaining power over others isn't the province of obviously toxic people - it's a deeply human response to hierarchical environments.

Most of us have felt that quiet satisfaction of finally being senior enough to delegate work we don't want to do. Most of us have experienced the relief of reaching a level where we're consulted rather than commanded. Most of us have enjoyed the moment when we could make decisions that others had to implement rather than being the ones implementing others' decisions.

These feelings aren't inherently evil. I've felt them myself, and I imagine you have too. The problem arises when we mistake the relief of not being at the bottom for the justification to push others down. When we confuse our own advancement with the necessity of others' subordination. When we forget that our relief from powerlessness doesn't require us to make others feel powerless.

The invitation here isn't to feel ashamed of these very human responses, but to recognize them consciously so we can choose more deliberately how to act on them. Awareness creates choice. Acknowledgment creates the possibility of transformation. And let's be honest - we all need this kind of awareness, because none of us are immune to these patterns.

The Radical Courage of Turning the Other Cheek

Perhaps no teaching has been more misunderstood than Jesus's instruction to "turn the other cheek." This isn't passive submission to abuse - it's one of the most radical acts of defiance imaginable, one that can only be truly comprehended through the crucible of personal experience.

It is only when we've felt the sting of humiliation that comes with a sharp slap on the face, that we can begin to understand viscerally what Jesus was talking about. Anyone who has faced aggression - whether physical, emotional, or professional - knows the immediate impulse: strike back, run away, or submit to domination. These are the responses our attackers expect and count on. But turning the other cheek shatters this predictable cycle entirely.

To turn the other cheek requires a strength that surpasses both fight and flight. It demands we look our aggressor in the eye and demonstrate that we are neither intimidated nor willing to perpetuate their pattern of harm. This act immediately wrests control from the attacker and establishes who truly possesses courage in the moment.

Consider what happens organizationally when someone breaks this expected cycle. The manager who responds to harsh criticism with genuine curiosity rather than defensiveness. The employee who meets workplace bullying not with retaliation or resignation, but with steady professionalism. The leader who absorbs organizational stress rather than passing it downward to more vulnerable team members.

These responses shock and disorient those accustomed to predictable power dynamics. They interrupt the machine of harm that organizational hierarchies often become.

The deepest aspect of this teaching lies in its requirement for love—even love for our enemies. This isn't sentimental feeling but a radical choice to see the humanity in those who hurt us, recognizing that their aggression likely stems from pain passed down to them. Through this love and forgiveness, we don't just protect ourselves from becoming like our attackers; we create the possibility of transforming them.

The Choice We Have

Every day in organizational life, we face a fundamental choice: will we use whatever authority we have - however modest - to elevate those with less power, or will we consolidate our own position? When we have information, do we share it or hoard it? When we face aggression, do we absorb it or pass it downward to someone more vulnerable? When we see someone being treated unfairly, do we befriend them and offer them encouragement, or walk away in fear that we might be suspected of conspiracy.

The heroic choice is almost always harder because it requires genuine sacrifice. But when we choose to turn the other cheek rather than perpetuate cycles of harm, when we absorb pain rather than pass it on, when we serve rather than demand service, we don't just break destructive patterns - we get to create something that can be unexpectedly beautiful.

This isn't naive idealism. It's strategic strength that recognizes a fundamental truth: true authority flows upward, not downward. The leader serves the team, the team serves the mission, and the mission serves the world. When we invert this flow - making everything serve the leader - we corrupt the entire system.

The depth of Christ's message can only be understood through its practice. And perhaps that's precisely the point - that transformation happens not through intellectual understanding alone, but through the courage to embody love in the face of harm, strength in the face of aggression, and service in the face of the opportunity to dominate.

Breaking the Chain, Choosing Heroism

The profound insight of Rousseau's observation is that most chains are not imposed from above - they are chosen from below by individuals who believe that accepting temporary suffering is the price of eventual power. But what if we chose differently? What if we refused this bargain entirely?

What if we understood that the privilege of any leadership position - whether managing one person or one thousand - is not the right to inflict the pain we once endured, but the responsibility to ensure others don't have to endure it?

This doesn't mean creating environments without challenge, accountability, or high standards. Heroes aren't permissive or weak - they're strategic about how they channel pressure and challenge in ways that build people up rather than tear them down. They understand the difference between tough love and casual cruelty, between high expectations and impossible demands, between building resilience and inflicting trauma.

We can try to be mindful about this every time we are in positions of influence over someone else's experience. Are we using this moment to pass on something that was passed to us, or are we consciously choosing to create something better? It's a daily choice, really, and some days I'm more heroic than others. But that's the point - it is a choice.

The Sacred Privilege Reframed

Clayton Christensen wrote beautifully about the sacred privilege of being a manager - the extraordinary opportunity to shape lives, nurture growth, and create conditions where human potential can flourish. Every person in a position of authority, no matter how modest, holds this sacred trust.

Yet how often do we witness this privilege being squandered or, worse, perverted into its opposite? Instead of using our positions to heal the wounds that hierarchies can create, we use them to perpetuate toxic behaviours. Instead of modelling the leadership we wished we had received, we reproduce the leadership that damaged us, convinced that "this is just how things work."

The children watching our choices - our own children, the junior employees starting their careers, the next generation of professionals - will inherit the organizational cultures we create through our daily decisions. Will they inherit workplaces where power is used to heal and build, or where each generation must survive the wounds inflicted by the last?

This isn't abstract philosophy - it's as practical as it gets. My children will enter the workforce someday. Your children will too. The environments we're creating today, the patterns we're perpetuating or breaking, the cycles we're feeding or starving - these will be the workplaces they inherit. That makes this deeply personal for all of us.

The Legacy We Leave

At the end of our careers, we will be measured not by how well we survived the dysfunction we encountered, but by how courageously we chose not to perpetuate it. Not by how effectively we climbed hierarchies that harmed others, but by how thoughtfully we used whatever position we achieved to make those hierarchies more humane.

The chains Rousseau wrote about are real, and the temptation to wear them in hopes of someday wielding them over others is profoundly human. I feel it, you probably feel it too, and there's no shame in acknowledging that. But in every moment when we possess even modest authority over another person's experience, we can choose to be the leader we needed when we were powerless.

The question is not whether we will influence others - we all do, in ways large and small. The question is whether we will choose to be heroes or villains in the organizational stories we're helping to write. Will we use our influence to interrupt cycles of harm, or will we allow those cycles to continue through us?

I don't know about you, but I want to be able to look back and know that I broke more chains than I forged. I want the workplaces I helped shape to be places where my children could thrive, not just survive. I want to leave something better behind me than what I found.

The chains we choose to break today become the freedom we create for tomorrow. The heroism we practice in small moments becomes the culture we leave as our legacy. Choose consciously, choose courageously, choose heroically - because the world our children will inherit depends on it.

A Visionary in the Hills

 Alexander Garden Fraser’s Enduring Vision for Transformative Education

On a crisp evening in Kandy, on 6 November 1904, a young man stood alone on a hill overlooking Trinity College in Kandy, gazing down at the institution that would become his life’s work. Alexander Garden Fraser, just thirty-one years old then, had travelled an extraordinary path to reach this moment, taking over as Principal of a dilapidated school in all but complete disarray. From the rolling hills of Tillicoultry where he spent his childhood with beloved grandparents, through the rugby fields of Merchiston Castle School, to the hallowed halls of Oxford where a fellow student’s courage -- “I am in love with the Lord Jesus” - had transformed his life, Fraser had been shaped by experiences that defied conventional expectations.

The son of the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal by the time he arrived in Ceylon in 1904 (his father’s imperial rank was higher than that of the Governor of Ceylon), Fraser could have pursued any number of prestigious careers. Instead, he had chosen the missionary path, driven by a conviction that education must serve something greater than individual advancement. His courtship with Beatrice Glass, conducted under strict chaperonage during Student Volunteer Missionary Union meetings, had led them both to Uganda, where they married in Namirembe Cathedral and began their shared commitment to transformative education.

Now, standing on a hill overlooking the school he had just taken responsibility for in Kandy, Fraser offered a prayer that marked the beginning of one of the most visionary transformations in the educational history of Ceylon: “Thou knowest I did not seek to come here, and Thou knowest how ignorant I am. But we want this place to be Thine, and please make my pound weight a ton.” It was the prayer of a man who understood that authentic transformation requires divine partnership, that individual limitations need not constrain institutional possibilities, and that the most profound changes often begin with the humblest acknowledgments of dependence.

Alexander Garden Fraser in 1913

The Clay That Changed Everything

To understand the revolutionary nature of Fraser’s educational philosophy, we must return to a sweltering morning in Uganda two years earlier, where an episode unfolded that would fundamentally shape his approach to leadership and learning. The setting was significant: the building of a new brick Cathedral to replace the old structure of poles, reeds, and thatch. This was not merely construction but community transformation, a physical manifestation of spiritual and social progress.

The challenge Fraser encountered was deeply rooted in colonial education’s most pernicious effect. The Baganda students who had received Western schooling had internalized a dreadful hierarchy of work - the notion that intellectual labour was noble, manual work was degrading. They had learned to see themselves as belonging to a class above physical effort, a transformation that disconnected them from their communities and created exactly the kind of alienated elite that colonial education was designed to produce.

When the time came to carry clay from the swamps to the brickfields - a distance of two miles over challenging terrain - Fraser faced a moment of profound choice. He could have simply ordered the work to be done, accepting the emerging class divisions as inevitable. Instead, he made a decision that shocked both his European colleagues and his African students: he took up the clay loads himself.

The physical reality was gruelling. Mrs. Fraser’s account captures the toll: “They left very early before the sun was hot, but did not get back till 10.30, having twice carried clay on their heads over the two miles of hill and dale between the swamps and the brickfields.” The European missionaries who tried to follow Fraser’s example found the work left them as “wrecks,” and they did not repeat the experience. But Fraser persisted, understanding that this was about far more than construction logistics.

Years later, Fraser would articulate the profound realization that emerged from those clay-carrying mornings: “I thought of the greatest Teacher of all time and how He worked with twelve, one of whom refused the education, eleven of whom changed the history of the world; and I realized that the Incarnation was not only a doctrine but an example also, and that I must, if a principal, live with my pupils and staff and not above them. I was a disciple of Him who washed His disciples’ feet.”

This was Fraser’s educational Damascene moment. He understood that authentic education could not perpetuate artificial hierarchies that separated mental from manual work, that elevated some forms of human contribution (or for that matter some forms of human lineage) while demeaning others. If education was to serve communities rather than divide them, if it was to produce leaders rather than an alienated elite, then educators themselves must embody the integration they sought to teach.

The clay-carrying became legendary among the Baganda students, not because it was merely unusual, but because it demonstrated something they had never seen: a European educator who refused to consider himself above the work that needed to be done. Mrs. Fraser noted that “the men were delighted to be led by Europeans,” but the deeper significance lay in Fraser’s refusal to lead from a position of separation. He was showing them that true education must break down the false distinctions that divide individuals and communities against themselves.

 

Trinity College: A Laboratory of Revolutionary Practice

When Fraser arrived at Trinity College Kandy in November 1904, he found an institution in crisis that testified not only to the broader failures of colonial education but divisions of caste and race and creed and nationalism that have been left to ferment in a colonial vat. Discipline had collapsed entirely, with boys refusing to attend detention and openly drinking in public houses. Academic standards had plummeted so severely that not a single student had achieved honours in the Cambridge Local examinations. The school was overcrowded, understaffed, and financially precarious, teetering on the edge of being declared ‘inefficient’ by the government.

But beneath the administrative chaos lay a deeper malaise that Fraser recognized immediately: Trinity had become a microcosm of the colonial system’s most destructive legacy - the systematic division of people against themselves. The student body represented Ceylon’s complex social fabric: Sinhalese Kandyans and Low Country Sinhalese, Tamils from Ceylon and India, Christians from multiple denominations, Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims. Colonial administration had deliberately exacerbated these divisions, understanding that a fragmented populace was easier to control than a united one. At Trinity, these divisions manifested in segregated dining arrangements, hierarchical dormitory systems, and the kind of social stratification that made genuine community impossible.

Fraser saw beneath the chaos to the deeper problem: Trinity had become exactly what the clay-carrying episode had warned against - an institution that separated rather than united, that created hierarchy rather than community, that produced alienation rather than authentic leadership. His first actions were characteristically comprehensive and revolutionary.

While Fraser imposed firm discipline - expelling 140 incorrigibles in his first two terms and personally dealing with misconduct - he simultaneously began building the foundations for genuine educational community. He appointed the school’s first prefects, creating structures for student self-governance that honoured their capacity for responsibility. He instituted regular staff prayers and termly retreats, understanding that the spiritual and emotional health of educators was fundamental to their effectiveness with students.

Most remarkably, Fraser began systematically dismantling the artificial hierarchies that characterized colonial education. He chose to teach primarily in the lower forms, declaring that “the laying of the foundations was the most important,” thereby demonstrating that prestige should attach to service rather than position. This was not mere pedagogy but a revolutionary statement about the nature of educational authority.

 

The Asgiriya Vision: Engineering Unity Through Shared Struggle

But Fraser’s masterstroke in applying the Uganda clay-carrying lesson came in 1909, when he conceived what many considered an impossible project: creating an eight-acre cricket field from two hills and a valley. The Army had offered him a piece of “useless” land five minutes’ walk from the school - a V-shaped terrain consisting of one high hill, one low hill, and a valley between them. Public Works Department experts declared the scheme impractical, warning that monsoon rains would wash away any soil they moved. Most observers thought Fraser had lost his mind.

Yet Fraser understood something his critics did not: the physical impossibility of the project was precisely its educational value. Drawing directly from his Uganda experience, he recognized that the arduous, extended process of moving earth would become a crucible for forging the unity that Trinity desperately needed. This was not simply about creating a cricket ground - it was about engineering a transformation of hearts and minds through the discipline of shared labour.

The project’s timeline - five years from conception to completion - was no accident. Fraser deliberately chose the most difficult possible approach, requiring collaboration not just within the school but with the broader Kandy community. Students from different castes worked side by side, carrying earth loads that made no distinction between high-born and low-born. Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, and Muslim students laboured together under the same sun, their shared exhaustion and incremental progress gradually dissolving the barriers that colonial education had reinforced.

Fraser himself led by example, working alongside students and local villagers with pick and shovel. The sight of the Principal - son of the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal - covered in mud and moving earth with his hands sent a message that transcended any sermon or lecture. As Miss. Valesca Reimann (a devoted teacher herself whom Fraser had recruited to the Trinity Staff from Adelaide, Australia) noted, work progressed mysteriously during moonlit nights, as students voluntarily continued the labour, “working swiftly and singing lustily to the accompaniment of Mr. C.B. Weerasinghe’s violin... like gnomes or pixies... But the gnomes were college boys in their cloths and pyjamas.”

The Asgiriya project became what Fraser had envisioned: a lived demonstration that the artificial divisions created by colonial rule could be overcome through common purpose and mutual dependence. Students who might never have spoken due to caste restrictions found themselves relying on each other to move impossibly heavy loads. Those separated by religious differences discovered shared pride in creating something beautiful and permanent. The village workers who joined the project experienced unprecedented collaboration with the college community, breaking down the barriers between town and gown that had historically defined Ceylon’s educational institutions.

More profoundly, the project taught every participant that seemingly impossible transformations were achievable through sustained collective effort. Students learned that their individual limitations need not constrain their collective possibilities - a lesson that would serve them well as Ceylon moved toward independence. They experienced firsthand how patient collaboration could overcome geographical obstacles, social barriers, and technical challenges that appeared insurmountable to individual effort.

When Asgiriya was finally completed in 1915, visiting Australian cricketers declared it “the most beautiful cricket ground they had ever seen.” But Fraser understood that the ground’s true value lay not in its aesthetic perfection but in the human transformation that had created it. A generation of students had learned to see beyond the divisions that colonial administration had fostered. They had experienced the profound satisfaction of achieving the impossible through unity of purpose. Most importantly, they had discovered that their differences - rather than being sources of division - could become complementary strengths when organized around shared vision.

Asgiriya Cricket ground (circa 1920)

Fraser’s approach to community building reached its most extraordinary expression in the famous “rag” incident during a holiday in the hills with senior students and staff. In the dead of night, a playful conflict erupted between Fraser and fellow teacher N.P. Campbell, escalating into a water fight that soaked a student’s bed completely. Without hesitation, Fraser offered his space to the student and he himself slept elsewhere. This moment of casual humility, where the Principal shared real inconvenience without thought of dignity or protocol, created bonds that transcended typical teacher-student relationships and demonstrated Fraser’s complete rejection of artificial barriers.

Such incidents were not aberrations but expressions of Fraser’s core conviction that authentic education happens through authentic relationship. People who shared such egalitarian, undignified, genuinely fun experiences “could not help being drawn into an extremely close fellowship” that lasted lifetimes. The student who recounted this story decades later captured its transformative significance - it showed authority figures as fully human and demonstrated that genuine affection mattered more than institutional hierarchy.

 

The Vernacular Revolution: Honouring Indigenous Wisdom

Perhaps Fraser’s most controversial innovation was his insistence on teaching Sinhala and Tamil at Trinity College. As Fraser’s biographer W.E.F. Ward comments, ‘In those days, the movement towards a renaissance of Indian and Ceylonese languages and culture was in its infancy; nationalism in politics had not yet brought about nationalism in culture. Then, and long afterwards, the cry was for English and more English; a thorough mastery of English was desired as the essential key to power, and a European who made boys spend time studying Sinhalese or Tamil when they might have been reading more English was suspected of wishing to keep them back.’

In an era when English was seen as the exclusive key to advancement and prestige, Fraser’s policy seemed like educational suicide. Parents complained, educational authorities objected, and fellow missionaries questioned his judgment.

Indeed, the response from professional colleagues in the other privileged schools in the country, Ward points out, especially to the teaching of vernacular languages, took the form of denigrating the College and “personal abuse of the Principal as an individual. They criticised the lines of work and the educational policy upheld by Trinity College, but they were generally occupied with personal details, such as the quality of Mr Fraser’s brains and the credibility of his professions. The boys, past and present, were described as ‘mentally decrepit,’ or ‘non-progressive,’ while the Principal was ‘anti-native’, ‘bribed’ and a ‘conspirator’, and was training his boys to be ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’.”

Ward continues that ‘Fraser, on the other hand, contended that the boys had a very imperfect knowledge of their own language, and that if they acquired a thorough mastery of their own Tamil or Sinhalese, it would immensely facilitate their learning of English and of all other subjects’. In one of his early letters from Trinity College, Fraser reported that ‘The Colombo educational Missionaries attacked me vigorously for my educational policy...’ But still, Fraser did not waver because he understood then, something that would not become conventional wisdom for decades: that authentic education must be rooted in students’ own cultural and linguistic foundations.

Fraser’s argument was both practical and profound: “A thorough knowledge of the mother tongue is indispensable to true culture of real thinking power. More, a college fails if it is not producing true citizens; and men who are isolated from the masses of their own people by ignorance of their language and thought can never fulfil the part of educated citizens or be true leaders of their race.”

This was not merely linguistic policy but a fundamental reimagining of education’s purpose. Fraser rejected the colonial assumption that progress required cultural abandonment. Instead, he insisted that students must be deeply rooted in their own traditions before they could meaningfully engage with others. The boy who could not write a letter in Sinhala but was forced to study Latin represented everything wrong with colonial education - the creation of a culturally alienated elite disconnected from the very communities they were meant to serve.

Fraser’s vernacular policy proved remarkably successful. Government inspectors noted that Trinity’s English teaching was probably the best in the island, even as students gained fluency in their mother tongues. Most importantly, Trinity graduates emerged as cultural bridges rather than cultural alienators, capable of communicating across traditions without betraying either. An on the strength of that evidence, the rest of the country followed.

Social Service: Education as Community Transformation

Under Fraser’s leadership, Trinity became the pioneer of educational social service in the British Empire. The Trinity College Union for Social Service, developed under Norman Campbell’s guidance, represented a fundamental reimagining of the relationship between education and community development. This was not charity in the traditional sense but education in its most authentic form - learning through service, knowledge applied to community needs, privilege transformed into obligation.

The social service program was voluntary but transformative. Students built shelters for rickshaw coolies who had previously worked exposed to weather, operated dispensaries for villagers who lacked medical care, conducted comprehensive surveys of Kandy’s slums that influenced government housing policy, and provided education for children who would otherwise have had none. Campbell’s legendary moment of wading into clogged drains in the Mahaiyawa slum, to clean them himself, followed by students jumping in to help, became emblematic of the program’s spirit. They were conducting a thorough scientific survey of the slum, the results of which were eventually debated in the legislative council.

The impact extended far beyond immediate services. Students learned that knowledge without service was meaningless, that education created obligation rather than privilege, and that genuine leadership required willingness to address society’s most pressing needs. The Attorney-General acknowledged in the Legislative Council that Trinity students had helped make their country’s laws while still at school.

An old man in a village, hearing Trinity boys talk about Jesus who went about doing good, interrupted to say, “Yes, yes. We know the man you mean. He lives up at the college.” The man was referring to Norman Campbell, who Fraser had also recruited to the Trinity staff and would become and remain one of Fraser’s heroes. When Fraser entered a boisterous crowd during the communal riots in 1915, he said afterwards that he was able to do so because ‘All the people knew me, [as] Campbell’s headmaster; and he always said that Trinity’s reputation among the poor and outcastes was due to Campbell’s work, not to his own.’

To fully appreciate who Norman Campbell was and his contribution to educational institution building requires its own book, but this reflection is about Alek Fraser.

 

The Peradeniya Vision: Ecumenical Education and Indigenous Expression

One of Fraser’s greatest institutional achievements apart from Trinity College in Kandy and the Achimota School in Ghana, was the creation of the Peradeniya Teacher Training Colony in 1914. This ecumenical institution, jointly operated by Anglican and Methodist churches at the time until the government took over in the 1960s, represented the mature expression of his educational philosophy - a place where spiritual formation, academic excellence, cultural pride, and community service were seamlessly integrated.

The Training Colony embodied everything Fraser had learned about authentic education. Students learning to become teachers, lived in genuine community, with denominational barriers minimized in favour of shared purpose. The curriculum included not only academic subjects but also agriculture, traditional arts, and extensive social service. Most importantly, education was conducted in Sinhala, with explicit instruction in Buddhist philosophy and Ceylonese history, ensuring that graduates would be cultural bridges rather than cultural destroyers.

The present state of the Chapel at the Peradeniya Teacher Training College

The present state of the Chapel at the Peradeniya Teacher Training College, which represents a turning point in Sri Lankan/Christian architecture, which was an understudy for the Chapel of Trinity College and later inspired the Cathedrals of both Diocese of the Church of Ceylon to be built in vernacular style, and likely provided inspiration for the design of Independence square – the design of which likely involved one of its original draftsmen, even though the claim has not yet been verified from primary source documents.

The crowning achievement was the chapel (that would become the understudy for the Trinity College Chapel), designed by the Vice-Principal of Trinity and visionary architect Rev. L.J. Gaster, drafted in traditional Kandyan style at least with a lot of assistance from a very young Clement Leo Unamboowe  (if not by him) who was a recent graduate of Trinity then, and carved by the master craftsman Bezalel Patabendige. This building represented Fraser’s vision made manifest - authentically indigenous yet genuinely Christian, beautiful yet functional, rooted in local tradition yet open to universal truth. The construction process itself exemplified Fraser’s educational approach: European missionaries worked alongside local craftsmen, students who would be teachers participated in every aspect of the project, and the result was not merely a building but a symbol of educational philosophy that honoured both local wisdom and universal values.

 

Cultural Bridge-Building: East Meets West in Mutual Respect

Fraser’s approach to cultural engagement was decades ahead of its time. Rather than seeing Eastern and Western traditions as fundamentally opposed, he understood them as complementary wisdom traditions with much to offer each other. His recruitment of scholars like Kenneth James Saunders, who studied Buddhism sympathetically and produced lasting works on Eastern philosophy, demonstrated his commitment to genuine dialogue rather than cultural imperialism.

At Trinity, students not only studied Christian theology alongside Buddhist philosophy, but the best Christian missionary scholars educated in the classics came from places like Cambridge University to learn Pali and Sanskrit from Sinhala and Buddhist scholars in the island at a CMS Missionary school, where they collaborated to translate the Dhammapada from its original Pali text into English, annotated with explanatory notes and comparative explanations from Biblical and Western philosophy to make it accessible to Western scholars of Buddhism.

The Buddha's "Way of Virtue": The Dhammapada translated from the original Pali
W.D.C. Wagiswara and (Translator) K.J. Saunders (Translator)
Published by John Murray, London, UK, 1912

W.D.C. Wagiswara was an ex-Buddhist monk and a highly respected scholar of Buddhism and Pali whom Fraser recruited as professor of Sinhala and Buddhism at Trinity and Kenneth James Saunders was a Classics scholar from Cambridge who joined the Church Missionary Society to serve as a missionary teacher under Fraser, along with the likes of scholars in the calibre of W.S. Senior, Norman Campbell, Paul Gibson and others.

English literature was celebrated alongside Sinhala poetry, Western science alongside traditional agricultural practices. This was revolutionary in the colonial context, where most missionary education sought to replace indigenous knowledge with European learning. Fraser insisted that both traditions must be honoured and integrated, producing students with the intellectual confidence that comes from deep roots in one’s own tradition combined with genuine appreciation for others.

The result was a generation of cultural ambassadors capable of communicating across traditions without betraying either. They became leaders who could navigate the modern world while remaining authentic to their cultural heritage, exactly the kind of bridge-builders that Ceylon needed as it was beginning to envision and later move towards independence. Fraser himself was not merely an avid supporter of the movement towards independence, but in some ways led the way -- without contradictions -- because he fiercely identified himself as a missionary and not an imperialist. Writing in ‘The Times of Ceylon’ Fraser made the first call for the franchise for Ceylonese as far back as 25 April 1919. In fact, in his reflection, he articulated very clearly how he was struck by the moderation of the proposals of Ceylonese Reformers themselves and urged that ‘an essential prelude [to independence] was to have a broad franchise.’

 

The Embodied Philosophy: Living the Vision

What made Fraser’s educational philosophy so powerful was not merely its theoretical coherence but his willingness to embody it -- without denying his own human flaws and fallibilities and the imperfect ways in which he manifested it. He lived on campus not as a distant authority but as a member of the community. He shared meals with students regularly, participated in their games, and made himself available for the informal conversations that often proved more educationally significant than formal lectures.

Fraser’s wife played an equally crucial role, creating a family atmosphere that extended educational influence far beyond the classroom. She memorized every student’s name, family background, and personal circumstances, scoring at cricket matches and traveling third class with teams to away games. This attention to individual dignity and worth created bonds that lasted lifetimes and demonstrated that authentic education is ultimately about relationship rather than instruction.

The couple’s hospitality was legendary -- “All our champion teams come to the bungalow for dinner as a matter of course,” Fraser wrote, “but almost every day masters, prefects, and other boys come in to one meal or another.” Mrs. Fraser organized tea parties for entire classes, complete with games and treats, while Fraser took students on jungle expeditions and camping trips. Through such experiences, they created what Fraser called “one college, of one community, and its future lies with us all.”

 

The Enduring Legacy: Principles for Contemporary Education

Fraser’s educational philosophy offers profound insights for contemporary challenges in education and development. His integration of academic learning with practical skills, his emphasis on community service as fundamental to education, and his commitment to cultural responsiveness provide a framework for addressing modern educational inequities and disconnections.

His understanding that education must serve communities rather than extract talent from them speaks directly to contemporary concerns about brain drain and urban-rural divides. His insistence that students must be deeply rooted in their own cultural traditions before engaging meaningfully with others offers guidance for maintaining cultural integrity in an increasingly globalized world.

Perhaps most importantly, Fraser’s demonstration that genuine transformation requires authentic relationship and shared sacrifice provides a model for educational leadership that transcends traditional hierarchies. His willingness to carry clay, share meals, and make himself vulnerable created bonds that enabled extraordinary institutional achievements and produced graduates who carried similar values into their own careers and communities.

The Frasers on their return to Trinity in 1950

The Sacred Ground That Nurtures

All schools are built on sacred ground - because they are places where sacred visions of human possibility are born and realised. The buildings Fraser erected, the playing fields carved from hillsides, and the chapel designed in indigenous architectural style at Trinity College, remain as physical testaments to an educational philosophy that honoured both practical needs and aesthetic values.

But the deeper legacy lies in the countless individuals whose lives were transformed by encountering educators who believed that authentic learning required authentic relationship, that genuine authority emerged from service rather than dominance, and that the highest purpose of education was not individual advancement but community strengthening.

Fraser’s prayer on Trinity Hill in 1904 - asking that his “pound weight” might become “a ton” - was answered beyond his wildest imagination. The ripple effects of his educational philosophy spread across continents and generations, inspiring countless educators who refuse to accept that schools must simply reproduce existing inequalities, that learning must be disconnected from living, or that education must serve institutions and systems rather than people.

In our contemporary context, as we grapple with educational challenges that seem increasingly complex and intractable, Fraser’s example reminds us that transformation is possible when we are willing to carry the clay ourselves, when we choose relationship over hierarchy, when we honour local wisdom while remaining open to universal truth, and when we understand that the most profound education happens not in classrooms but in the countless moments of authentic human connection that make learning a sacred act.

The young man who stood on Trinity Hill in 1904, acknowledging his ignorance while asking for divine partnership in the work ahead, became one of our history’s most transformative educators not because he had all the answers, but because he was willing to embody the questions that mattered most. His legacy challenges us to ask the same questions and to have the courage to live the answers, wherever our own educational journeys may lead us.