Children are society’s most vulnerable.

And autistic children?

Even more than “most.”

A few nights ago, a friend shared a video.

A horrible incident.

In it, a so-called special educator thrashes a 10-year-old autistic boy in a school.

I am not sharing the video here.

Not because it should be hidden.

But because I found it deeply disturbing on multiple levels—so much so that a part of me wanted to “un-see” it, to “un-know” that such things happen in this world.

And another part of me wanted to reach through the screen and stop it.

I needed a few days before I could write about it.

A few days to sit with Krishna’s laughter, with the quiet rhythms of my family, and with conversations that helped me step back just enough to think clearly.

Let me tell you what happens in that video.

It begins innocuously.

A table.
A sheet of paper. Black-and-white text and images.
A man’s hands—fisted, resting on the paper.

A small hand approaches his.

Tentative.
Shy.
Almost graceful.

The child touches the man’s fingers.

And the man explodes.

He drags the child up.

Thrashes him.

Throws him back into the chair.

Hits him again.

Then sits down.

Throughout the clip, what do you hear?

The man’s voice.

Harsh. Demanding.

Another adult voice—a woman’s—equally harsh, instructing another child to eat.

What do you not hear?

You do not hear a single child’s voice.

You do not hear this 10-year-old autistic boy’s voice while he is being beaten.

That silence is not accidental.

It is the centre of the problem.

The reported facts are these: a complaint was filed, and the man has been arrested.

That is necessary.

But it is not sufficient.

Because what we are looking at is not just an incident.

It is a failure.

Now let me tell you a story for these facts.

Let us assume, for a moment—difficult as it is—that this man is not a caricature of evil.

Let us assume he is human.

Flawed.

Frustrated.

Untrained, perhaps.

Overwhelmed.

Why did he behave this way?

Because the child did not respond to his teaching the way he expected.

Because the child did not fit the method.

Because the system demanded compliance—and the child could not comply.

So the adult, unable to teach, chose to control.

And why did the child reach out to touch his fingers?

Perhaps he was curious.

Perhaps he was overwhelmed by the black-and-white abstractions on the paper.

Perhaps he processes the world through touch.

Or perhaps—most simply—he was trying to communicate.

And did not have the words.

The child is autistic.

He processes the world differently.

This is not a deficit of intent.

It is a difference of wiring.

And yet, the world he is placed in—the classroom, the expectations, the methods—are built for a different kind of brain.

Research has repeatedly shown that autistic children are at a higher risk of abuse and neglect, particularly in institutional settings where understanding is low and expectations are rigid.

Not because they are “difficult.”

But because they are often unable to communicate distress in ways that are immediately recognised.

So their distress is misunderstood.

Their behaviour is misinterpreted.

And their attempts to connect are sometimes met with control.

Or worse—violence.

Dear autism parents, your children do not learn the way a neurotypical brain does.

But they can learn.

They do learn.

The responsibility lies not in forcing them into existing methods.

But in discovering how they learn.

Sometimes the answer is not complex.

Sometimes it is as simple as changing the medium.

Using colour instead of monochrome.

Movement instead of stillness.

Connection instead of command.

And sometimes, it is as fundamental as this:

Seeing the child.

If your child refuses to go to school, has more meltdowns, or is suddenly more “difficult” than usual, pause before you label it.

Look deeper.

Behaviour is not random.

It is communication.

And when a child cannot say, “I am scared,” or “I do not understand,” or “This hurts,”

they show it.

Investigate.

Be vigilant.

Ask questions that others may dismiss.

Trust what you observe over what is assumed.

Because here is the uncomfortable truth.

Even the most qualified professional sees your child for minutes.

You live with your child.

You see the patterns.

You feel the shifts.

You notice what others miss.

That is not emotion clouding judgment.

That is data.

Stand by it.

This kind of incident should not happen.

Not to any child.

Not anywhere.

But until systems change—and they must—we have to hold the line for our children.

Firmly.

Relentlessly.

Because they cannot always speak.

So we must.

PS: If you have the time, listen to nonspeaking autistic individuals who are now finding ways to communicate their inner world. It will change how you see everything.