Bridget Phillipson talking about inclusion in mainstream school is specific to a small minority of disabled children to appease people who hold views like Richard Tice. Kids who can’t sit still in school. Armchair critics who: “Didn’t have all this autism nonsense when I was a kid, just naughty kids. Those who can’t sit still.”
We did have kids like that. We had schools for them, we have always had schools like that. Though in some instances the word school is a stretch, the word institute would be a better fit, or insane asylum, or mental hospital. Whatever place they could hide disabled children away from society. These institutions weren’t designed for education but for containment, keeping those deemed “different” separate from the mainstream population. The conditions in many of these places were horrific – understaffed, underfunded, with minimal oversight and frequent abuses. Children were often denied basic dignity, let alone educational opportunities.
Obviously in today’s society we would never do such a thing as locking up someone with a disability. (Except about 3000 autistic people being held in ATU’s under the Mental Health Act. And in the prison system where autism is overrepresented. And up to 14% of all children in care are disabled). The irony is palpable – we congratulate ourselves on our progressive attitudes while continuing practices that segregate and institutionalize disabled people. These aren’t minor exceptions; they represent thousands of lives affected by systems that still treat disability as something to be managed rather than accommodated and supported.
Phillipson uses the word inclusion as if it’s a simple concept, easily implemented with minimal resources. But true inclusion requires fundamental changes to how our educational institutions operate, from physical infrastructure to teaching methodologies to assessment practices. It requires investment, training, and a genuine commitment to valuing diverse ways of learning and being.
With a change in Government, you normally find the incoming one talking about reform. It’s a culturally friendly word, that implies something is almost formed but a little rough around the edges, something that needs a little tinkering. “Reform” suggests improvement, progress, a gentle refining of existing structures. It conjures images of thoughtful adjustment rather than drastic cuts. It’s politically palatable language that masks often brutal reality.
They should be a little more honest and use words like “gut”, “strip”, “cut”. As this is often what they mean. These reforms frequently involve reducing services, narrowing eligibility criteria, and shifting responsibilities from government to families. They’re presented as efficiency measures or improvements, but the lived experience for disabled children and their families is one of diminished support.
A lot has been said about the Special Education Needs and Disability (SEND) reforms. These reforms have been ongoing for successive governments, and they always seem to add additional punishments for disabled children and their families. Each iteration promises improvement while delivering further bureaucratic hurdles, longer waiting times, and fewer resources. The pattern is painfully predictable – grand announcements followed by implementation that fails to match the rhetoric.
The Conservative Government had the “Safety Valve” scheme. The idea being that Local Authorities would be forced to reduce the number of disabled children in exchange for cash. This created perverse incentives where financial considerations trumped educational needs. Local authorities were effectively rewarded for denying support to children who needed it, turning what should be rights-based provision into a cost-cutting exercise.
And each successive governments’ failure is often blamed on the parents: pushy parents, parents with sharp elbows. Because who would want the best education possible for their child. This narrative portrays advocating parents as unreasonable, demanding special treatment rather than appropriate support. It ignores the reality that these parents are fighting for basic educational access that non-disabled children take for granted. They’re not seeking advantages but level playing fields.
Now Philipson wants mainstream schools to be inclusive of SEND children. But like a lot of people, she has forgotten the last letter in SEND. The “D” for disability isn’t optional – it represents real children with real needs that require meaningful accommodation. Focusing only on “special educational needs” without acknowledging disability allows policymakers to avoid addressing the more challenging and expensive aspects of inclusion.
A quick side note: it is SEND. Not SEN. By removing disabilities, you are diminishing the thousands of disabled children simply because you want to say your own child has Special Education Needs and is not disabled. Not your fault, but society still has very negative connotations of the word disabled. This reluctance to use disability language reflects and reinforces stigma. It creates a hierarchy where some needs are deemed acceptable while others are too different, too difficult, too expensive to accommodate.
Inclusion is always a great idea, but Philipson has continually overlooked several factors with her inclusion strategy. Will all schools be forced to become accessible? Schools across the country have a history of not being able to accommodate children in wheelchairs. Many were built in eras before accessibility was considered, with multiple floors but no elevators, narrow doorways, and inadequate bathroom facilities. True inclusion would require significant capital investment to modify these physical spaces.
Will all schools be asked to include suitable toilet facilities for disabled children? Dignified access to appropriate toileting facilities isn’t a luxury – it’s a basic need. Yet many schools lack changing tables, hoists, or private spaces for children who require personal care. Without these facilities, children are effectively excluded regardless of official policies.
Will all schools teach, and train staff sign language? And provide funding for equipment to allow hearing impaired children to participate. Communication is fundamental to education, yet deaf and hard of hearing students are routinely expected to adapt to environments designed for hearing people rather than having their communication needs met proactively.
To be honest it should be on the curriculum anyway. Sign language education benefits all students, creating more inclusive communities beyond school walls. It recognises deaf culture and language as valuable, not merely as accommodations for disability.
Will schools also be funded to provide specialist equipment for non-verbal children? Or for those children who have limited control over their body so require eyegaze or other assistance technologies? These technologies aren’t extras – they’re essential tools that allow children to communicate, participate, and demonstrate their learning. Without them, children’s abilities remain hidden, their potential unrealized.
If she is not willing to commit on any of these things, then she really should not be talking about inclusion. Her idea is for a group of children who can be better accommodated in schools with minimal changes or funding for support. And this is a very small group of children, children who can excel academically with the correct help and support. Support which includes properly trained teachers and teaching assistants. True inclusion encompasses all disabled children, not just those whose needs are easiest or cheapest to meet.
Fundamentally all children deserve an education and how that is attained is where the problem lies. This principle should be non-negotiable, yet our systems repeatedly sort children based on what’s convenient for institutions rather than what’s best for their development and learning. We create arbitrary thresholds that determine who deserves support and who doesn’t, who belongs in mainstream settings and who doesn’t.
As one example: my daughter was born with cerebral palsy. She was non-verbal and had very little control over her body. When going through the EHCP process, I was told, point blank, that any form of education would be a waste of money. The best place for her would be a setting where they would make sure she is kept clean and entertained. This dehumanising assessment reveals how deeply ableism is embedded in our educational systems. The assumption that certain children are uneducable reflects prejudice, not reality.
We suggested that we wanted our daughter to at least have a chance and not to be written off. We never went through the tribunal process as the Local Authority accepted our school choice when our daughters’ medical needs changed. I often wonder how many parents were told the same and just accepted it. Not every family has the knowledge, resources, or energy to challenge these determinations. For every child who receives appropriate support through parental advocacy, there are others who fall through the cracks.
For those children that are unable to speak or communicate effectively it is left to the parent to interpret for them. And like all parents, wanting the best education setting for your child is important. Especially for those who cannot advocate for themselves in school. These parents are labeled pushy, all looking for the golden ticket. The characterization of parents seeking appropriate education as demanding “golden tickets” dismisses the legitimate fights families must wage simply to access basic rights. It portrays reasonable accommodation as special privilege.
What does a Golden ticket get you? Well for me, I gave up my job to care full time, I spent months on end in hospital with my daughter, I had to deal with my own worsening mental and physical health. This so-called privilege comes at enormous personal cost – financial insecurity, career sacrifices, physical exhaustion, and emotional trauma. The “golden ticket” isn’t admission to some wonderful opportunity; it’s basic support that should be readily available without battle.
And I wonder if the government has considered this at all? Has anyone calculated the economic and social costs of forcing parents out of the workforce to become full-time advocates and carers? Has anyone measured the toll on family well-being when basic educational rights must be fought for through adversarial processes? The short-term savings achieved by denying support lead to greater long-term costs, both economic and human.
When talking about EHCPs Phillipson again overlooks the second and third letters, Health and Care. EHCPs are about more than education, they are a link for additional services that cater to a child’s health and care needs. The fragmentation of services creates additional burdens for families who must navigate multiple systems with different criteria, processes, and priorities. An education that ignores health and care needs isn’t truly accessible or appropriate.
True inclusion isn’t charity; it’s recognition of human diversity and the creation of systems that accommodate that diversity by design.