The pedagogical relationship lost in translation? Insights from a segregated Ukrainian refugee school in Norway

Abstract

Despite Norway’s long-standing tradition of integrating refugee children into mainstream schools, local authorities in Western Norway decided to establish a separate school for the hundreds of children arriving from Ukraine. Informally referred to as the “Ukraine school,” this school was staffed by a dedicated team of teachers, teaching assistants, special educators, a nurse, and a psychologist, several of whom spoke Ukrainian or Russian. In this paper, we examine some of the implications of this unique, segregated approach to refugee education, with a particular focus on the constraints and possibilities of cultivating pedagogical relationships. Grounded in a phenomenological framework, our analysis draws on the lived experiences of six teachers, alongside researcher observations conducted in classrooms and playgrounds during the spring of 2024. As understood in continental philosophy, the pedagogical relationship is dialogical, spontaneous, and situated, requiring teachers to engage authentically and responsively with the child in the moment. This study reveals the constraints on pedagogical relationships that arise when teachers and children are unable to communicate directly through a shared language. The immediacy and spontaneity of their interactions were lost in the translation process, which not only hindered the emergence of “teachable moments” but also curtailed teachers’ capacity to foster meaningful pedagogical engagement.

Introduction

Biesta (2004: 11) maintains that the relationship between a teacher and a student is a “process of communication,” to which Suciu (2014: 4000) adds that the pedagogical relationship itself is “built through communication.” What happens, then, when all verbal interaction must be mediated through Google Translate? What becomes of the authentic, in-the-moment qualities of teacher–child engagement when spontaneity is delayed—or even lost—in translation? As was the case in many European countries, teachers in Norway turned to digital translation tools in attempts to communicate with the sudden influx of Ukrainian refugee children (Bochkar, 2024; Lundtofte, n.d.). While such technologies certainly can help lower barriers to inclusion, it is crucial to acknowledge their limitations. Overreliance on machine translation risks undermining interhuman connectedness, including the relationship between teacher and child.

This article examines the constraints and possibilities of cultivating pedagogical relationships in classrooms with newly arrived refugee children. Our theoretical grounding lies in the concept of the pedagogical relationship, as articulated within the European continental tradition (Friesen, 2017, 2019; Saevi, 2013, 2014; van Manen, 1991). Herein, the pedagogical relationship is oriented toward the child’s inherent openness and indeterminate nature (Saevi, 2014). It requires teachers to engage with the child’s lived experience before addressing rational thinking through formal instruction. The underlying premise is that human existence is experienced before it is articulated (Friesen, 2019).

While we intentionally adopt the pedagogical relationship as our primary theoretical lens—owing to its emphasis on relationality and the existential dimensions of teaching—we also acknowledge the contributions of scholarship on multilingual education more broadly. García and Kleifgen (2018) remind us that language is not merely a communication tool but a fundamental aspect of identity, agency, and inclusion. Ticheloven et al. (2021: 491) deepen this understanding by exploring the pedagogical complexities of translanguaging in multilingual classrooms, particularly in contexts where teachers and students do not share a common language. They ask, for instance, whether “students need their so-called ‘home’ languages to feel happy and safe?”. Writing specifically on multilingual education for refugees—including those fleeing war in Ukraine—Midgette and González (2023) examine how trauma can hinder students’ ability to engage with literature and learning in a new linguistic environment. In the same vein, Kendrick and Early’s (2024) study on refugees’ language acquisition in Canada highlights the importance of pedagogical approaches grounded in trust and relational care. Taken together, this body of scholarship deepens our understanding of language and learning within refugee contexts. By centering the linguistic dimensions of relational teaching, these perspectives also expand our conception of the pedagogical relationship. In classrooms shaped by language barriers, a teacher’s ability to connect with students’ lived experiences emerges not only as a pedagogical imperative but as an ethical obligation. In this article, we focus on the specific and nuanced challenges of fostering meaningful pedagogical relationships in refugee education settings.

To develop our argument, we draw on empirical data from teacher interviews and field observations conducted at a segregated school for newly arrived Ukrainian refugees in Western Norway. The school—informally referred to as the “Ukraine school”—is a unique case, in that it is the only instance in Norway a separate school was established specifically for refugee children from a single country. Typically, all newcomers—whether refugees or immigrants—are placed in introductory classes within regular public schools (Eide, 2020; Hilt, 2015). These classes typically comprise children from diverse cultural and linguistic backgrounds, aiming to support their integration into Norwegian society by facilitating the rapid acquisition of the Norwegian language. At the “Ukraine school,” however, all students shared a common language, and there was also ample opportunity for the children to speak Ukrainian with teaching assistants and the school nurse. While this created a sense of familiarity and comfort, it also impeded the children’s motivation and opportunity to learn Norwegian. One consequence was a diminished capacity to build relationships between Norwegian-speaking teachers and the refugee children in their care.

In addition to language-related challenges, a common predicament for teachers in refugee classes stems from the fact that many children have experienced traumatic events during, and after their flight from war (Theisen-Womersley, 2021; Vukčević Marković et al., 2023). Rarely equipped with specialized training in trauma-sensitive pedagogy or care, teachers nonetheless attempt to meet the emotional needs of each child while still fulfilling their responsibility to teach the local language and culture. In Norway, acquiring the local language is especially critical, as newly arrived children are only offered mother-tongue instruction in a limited, transitional period before they are integrated into mainstream classes (Moraczewska and Randen, 2024; Valenta, 2009). An additional complexity arose from the fact that many older children attended Norwegian school during the day but continued their Ukrainian education online in the evenings. This dual schooling not only doubled their workload but also exposed them to two distinct educational paradigms—each with differing expectations and philosophies of learning.

Our paper is structured as follows: We begin by outlining the broader context of refugee education and mother tongue instruction in Norway. Next, we elaborate on the concept of the pedagogical relationship, with particular attention to the role of language. The third section describes our phenomenological approach to data collection and analysis. In the fourth section, we present our findings and discussion, organized around three core themes: (1) teachable moments lost in translation; (2) balancing the need to comfort with the responsibility to teach; and (3) navigating refugee parents’ perceptions of Norwegian schools as “play schools.” Finally, we offer concluding reflections on the possibility of cultivating pedagogical relationships beyond shared language.

Refugee education and mother tongue instruction in Norway

In their deliberations on refugees’ right to education, Willems and Vernimmen (2018) raise two critical issues: First, whether refugees have a right to speak and be taught in their native language, and second, whether it is justifiable to place refugees in segregated classes or schools until they can follow regular instruction in the local language. In the wake of the Ukraine war, questions regarding the language of instruction and segregated schools have become more relevant than ever. Following the European Union’s Temporary Protection Directive, member states received substantial numbers of Ukrainian refugees within a short period of time (Hernes et al., 2022). In response, countries across Europe adopted varied approaches to refugee education, shaped by different national priorities, capacities, and pedagogical philosophies. Estonia, for instance, implemented a flexible model that aimed to strike a balance between psychological safety, cultural integration, and academic engagement. As Birman and Zabrodskaja (2024) document, Estonian schools adapted their inclusion strategies to support acculturation, adjustment, and educational participation, offering both separate and integrated classroom arrangements tailored to local needs. UNESCO’s regional review of seven host countries—Bulgaria, Czechia, Hungary, Poland, Moldova, Romania, and Slovakia—further illustrates the diversity of responses. While some countries pursued full integration into national education systems, others adopted hybrid models that combined Ukrainian curricula with host-country instruction, allowing for continuity in learning while facilitating gradual adaptation (UNESCO, 2023).

Norway’s response—particularly the establishment of a segregated school for Ukrainian children—stands out in contrast to these varied models. In this case, the local municipality created a dedicated school exclusively for Ukrainian refugee children. This “Ukraine school” employed a full-time team of teachers, teaching assistants, special educators, a nurse, and a psychologist, several of whom spoke Ukrainian and Russian. The services available to Ukrainian refugees were notably more extensive than those typically offered to other refugee groups in Norway, where multiple schools often share a single nurse or psychologist, and staff rarely speak the refugees’ native languages. Furthermore, the children at the “Ukraine school” had significantly more opportunities to speak, learn, and play in their native language, arguably making it easier for them to adapt to a new country while dealing with the trauma of displacement. However, one apparent drawback of this segregated model was the delay in Norwegian language acquisition among the children. As mentioned above, a child’s inability to speak Norwegian also likely disadvantage the child’s opportunity to learn and thrive once they are placed in a Norwegian public school.

Norway’s policies on mother tongue instruction for minority groups have received criticism for, among other things, its lack of explicit implementation strategies (Bubikova-Moan, 2017). With a population of 5.5 million, of which 17.3% are immigrants, Norway’s multilingual landscape reflects its demographic diversity. The 1987 Education Act formally acknowledged the need for functional bilingualism among ethnic minorities, primarily indigenous groups such as the Sami (Bubikova-Moan, 2017). It was not until 1997 that the term “immigrant population” was formally recognized in official datasets (Seeberg and Goździak, 2016), and the 1998 Education Act subsequently introduced legal provisions concerning language instruction for ethnic minorities. However, the Act’s language remained vague, framing mother tongue instruction as a transitional measure, as illustrated in the following excerpt:

Pupils with another mother tongue other than Norwegian or Sami are entitled to special Norwegian language tuition until they have sufficient Norwegian language skills to follow the regular education in school. (§ 3-12, Education Act, 1998, emphasis added)

Moreover, the 1998 Act allows for significant local interpretation (Bubikova-Moan, 2017), meaning that access to mother-tongue instruction is contingent on municipal assessments of necessity. In cases where such instruction is deemed non-essential, newly arrived children typically receive language education exclusively in Norwegian, particularly during the initial stages of integration (Aarsæther, 2021). Today, most refugee children in Norway attend introduction classes—also referred to as “welcome classes” within regular public schools. This model is widely regarded as the most effective means of promoting socialization and exposure to the Norwegian language through interaction with peers and educators (Hilt, 2016).

Against this backdrop, the decision to establish a separate school for Ukrainian refugee children is notable and has elicited both praise and criticism. Some observers have questioned the apparent disparities in Norway’s response to the Ukrainian refugee influx, compared to responses to refugees from Syria and elsewhere. Despite receiving large numbers of Syrian refugee children, no municipalities allocated resources to create specialized schools staffed with native-speaking personnel for these children (Hernes et al., 2022). While no explicit rationale has been provided for the segregated approach taken with the “Ukraine school,” there is some historical precedent. In the 1960s, for instance, Tibetan youths were placed in segregated schools in Kragerø, Southern Norway (Eide, 2005; Kalisha, 2024). However, in that case, mother-tongue instruction was offered under the assumption that the children would eventually return to their home country. By contrast, the Ukrainian case in Western Norway lacked a clearly defined long-term objective, beyond, perhaps, a desire to make refugee education and integration more efficient. In Bergen, Ukrainian refugees were housed in a hotel, and children were transported daily by bus to and from the “Ukraine school.” Yet, beyond providing a physical school building and hiring a range of staff, the municipality did not offer much in the way of guidelines, trauma-related training, or even instructional materials. The responsibility for organizing classes and delivering instruction fell largely on teachers who did not share a common language with their pupils, requiring them to rely on creativity and improvisation to bridge the linguistic divide.

The pedagogical relationship

While refugee education has received increasing scholarly attention, the relational aspects of teaching—particularly the connection between teachers and refugee children—remain relatively underexamined. Kaukko et al. (2022) highlight the scarcity of research on pedagogical love and teacher-student relationships in refugee contexts, as observed in their study of refugee children in Western schools. They advocate for deeper inquiry into the unique relational dynamics that emerge between educators and refugee learners. Similarly, Radhouane (2023), in a review of recent literature on refugee child integration in Europe, notes a near-absence of studies focused specifically on teacher-student interactions. In fact, their literature review found that most studies considered either the experience of the refugee student, or teachers’ conceptualizations of their role in classrooms with refugees. Radhouane (2023) found only one study that explicitly addressed the relationship between teachers and refugee children; however, the focus was mainly on how the language divide hindered communication between teachers, students, and parents (Shamim et al., 2020). These findings suggest a clear need for further investigation into how pedagogical relationships are shaped and reimagined in classrooms with newly arrived refugee children. This article seeks to respond to this need. We begin by unpacking the broader concept of the pedagogical relationship as a foundation for our inquiry.

The scholarship on the pedagogical relationship is extensive, tracing back to the works of Wilhelm Dilthey (†1911) and his student, Herman Nohl (†1960) (Friesen, 2017). After Max van Manen introduced the concept to Anglophone academia (Friesen, 2017), the body of literature on both pedagogical relationships and pedagogical tact has steadily expanded—with some notable recent contributions from Gert Biesta, Bas Levering, Wilfried Lippitz, Norm Friesen, and Tone Saevi.

According to Saevi (2013: 239), the pedagogical relation is “moral, self-regulating, and meaningful on its own,” and she further describes it as “personal and situated.” The pedagogical relationship, then, cannot be neutral and objective; it cannot be planned for, and it cannot be used simply as an instrument to achieve some other goal—whether that be learning, integration, or something else entirely. In the continental tradition, to which Saevi (2013) belongs, the pedagogical relationship has intrinsic, not extrinsic, value, and thus carries more moral weight than the teacher-student relationships typically described in the Anglo-American tradition. The motivation to cultivate pedagogical relations is not—or should not be—anchored in a desire to make learning more efficient. Instead, it stems from a desire to support a child’s self-cultivation, or Bildung. The relationship between teacher/pedagogue and pupil/child is a relationship between what Nohl (1957) calls “a mature person” and a “developing/becoming person”; the adult takes on the moral responsibility of supporting and guiding the development of the child. Yet, the relationship can only exist when it is “empty” (Saevi, 2013). That is, it exists only in open, unplanned moments, unconstrained by a teacher’s pre-planned ideas of who the child is or what they should learn. There is, therefore, an inherent immediacy and spontaneity embedded in the pedagogical relation. In fact, Friesen (2017: 748) stresses the instability and fragility of the pedagogical relation. An important question to ask in light of the present study is whether this spontaneity can be preserved when most communication between teacher and child goes through Google Translate. Additionally, in all translation—machine-generated or not—cultural meanings and codes are, to some extent, aporetic and unknowable (Todd, 2003). Can pedagogical relations truly be nurtured when spontaneity dissipates in translation?

Hickey and Riddle (2023) emphasize that in-the-momentness is central to relational pedagogy. In later works, they further highlight the importance of teachers allowing themselves to be led by the immediacy and energy of their encounters with each child (Hickey and Riddle, 2024). Lewin and Waterman-Evans (2024) expand on this idea, working from Citton’s (2017) concept of joint attention. They argue that the pedagogical relation is one of resonance, wherein the teacher, the child, and the world are brought together in brief moments of mutual engagement. For learning and danning (formation) to occur, both teacher and child must be present and actively engaged in the moment. This typically requires a dialogical exchange grounded in mutual respect and, crucially, depends on the legitimate authority of the adult (Friesen, 2017). The adult in a pedagogical relationship must lead the child—as reflected in the etymological roots of pedagogy: paidos (child) and agogos (leader)—while the child must be open to being led. As Friesen (2017: 747) asserts, “if the free obedience of the child is absent, the pedagogical relation can and will fail.”

Closely related to our reflections on joint attention is the concept of teachable moments. Well-established in the fields of education and curriculum studies (Havighurst, 1953; Woods and Jeffrey, 1996), these moments are typically defined as instances when “a mindful teacher and a ready learner spontaneously share an educational experience” (Miller and Szymusiak, 2021: 768). Identifying and seizing these moments requires a particular attunement on the part of the teacher—an intuitive sensitivity to the unfolding situation. This quality aligns with the notion of pedagogical tact, understood as a teacher’s active thoughtfulness and ability to take appropriate action in the immediacy of the moment (van Manen, 2015). The pedagogical moment sometimes requires immediate responses, and if pedagogical tact is lacking, the pedagogical in the moment is also lost (van Manen, 1991, 2015).

Thus far, we have considered the intrinsic value of the pedagogical relationship and its emphasis on the in-the-moment nature of learning. Another essential dimension is its orientation toward the future possibilities of the child. As Lewin and Waterman-Evans (2024) argue, the unique temporality of the pedagogical relation requires the teacher to be equally concerned with the future potential of the child, as s/he is with the needs and demands of the child in the present. In refugee education, this dual concern is particularly pronounced. Loving a refugee child, in pedagogical terms, involves not only offering comfort in the present but also fostering conditions for future flourishing. For teachers in refugee introduction classes, this might entail “pushing” pupils to acquire the local language, even when doing so presents emotional or cognitive challenges. A teacher of refugee children will often find themselves “split between the needs of a concrete present and the possibilities (even demands) of an uncertain future” (Friesen, 2017: 747). This, of course, is a dilemma most educators will face at some point. It is a dilemma, too, that speaks to the impermanence of the pedagogical relation. Spiecker (1984: 204) captures this impermanence by describing the pedagogical relation as one that must “gradually cease to exist.” Unlike other inter-human relationships, the one between teacher and pupil should seek to make itself superfluous. Adults bear the responsibility of preparing children to navigate the world independently, which includes fostering autonomy and resilience. Consequently, excessive protection from discomfort or harm, however well-intentioned, may be a disservice to the future child and might not be aligned with a genuine pedagogical relationship. For teachers working with vulnerable and trauma-affected refugee children, discerning the boundary between appropriate support and overprotection is a complex and ongoing challenge.

To summarize, five key characteristics define the pedagogical relation: (1) its intrinsicality, or what Spiecker (1984) refers to as sui generis; (2) its asymmetry, wherein the teacher assumes responsibility for cultivating the relation; (3) its particular temporality, with a future-oriented emphasis; (4) its moral dimension and emphasis on love; (5) its impermanence, in that the relationship ultimately aims to render itself unnecessary.

The concept of the pedagogical relation is deeply embedded in the Norwegian education system, including its teacher education programs. We were therefore interested in exploring how teachers in a segregated refugee school experience their ability to engage in pedagogical relations. In the following section, we outline the methodological starting point for this study, followed by a presentation of our findings.

Methodology of examples: A phenomenological approach

This study adopts a phenomenological orientation (Friesen, 2023; van Manen, 2014) to explore the pedagogical experiences of Norwegian teachers working with refugee children, aged 7–14, in a segregated school setting. Our inquiry is rooted in a commitment to understanding lived experiences as they emerge through pedagogical encounters, particularly in contexts marked by disruption and uncertainty. The school we refer to as the “Ukraine school” was selected for its distinctive status as the only school in the region serving pupils exclusively from a single national background. Although our research is situated within this specific, monolingual setting, we contend that the insights generated extend well beyond its boundaries. The challenges observed are not exclusive to Ukrainian refugee children; rather, they reflect systemic issues common across refugee education contexts, where linguistic barriers and unfamiliar cultural norms often complicate communication and connection between teachers and their pupils. What sets the “Ukraine school” apart is its transitional and segregated structure, which heightened the need for pedagogical responsiveness while simultaneously limiting its possibilities. This particular configuration provides a compelling lens through which to examine the relational and existential dimensions of teaching in environments where conventional modes of learning are inaccessible.

Our phenomenological approach is intentionally tentative and exploratory, raising questions about what it means to educate in moments of what describes as “crises of discontinuity” Bollnow (as cited in Friesen and Koerrenz, 2017: 51). These are moments marked by rupture—where the teacher’s role shifts from facilitating learning and shared pedagogical activities to navigating constant disruptions, misunderstanding, hesitation, and delayed responses. Such disruptions are especially pronounced in contexts where linguistic and cultural differences complicate communication and relational attunement. We draw on van Manen’s (2014) phenomenology of practice and Friesen’s (2023) articulation of pedagogical experience to guide both our orientation and analytic process. Our aim is not to generalize, but to illuminate the nuanced, situated realities of teaching in a context shaped by displacement.

To gain insight into how teachers and children interacted, we adopted two qualitative methods: field observations and a semi-structured group interview with six teachers. The 2-hour interview was designed to elicit rich accounts of the teachers’ lived experiences, both in the classroom and across the broader school context. The group interview was a particularly appropriate method for this study, as it made possible the exploration of shared experiences and collective understandings among teachers. This format fostered a dynamic, dialogic space in which teachers could reflect, build on each other’s perspectives, and co-construct meaning around the complexities of their daily professional realities. Furthermore, group interviews can be especially valuable when addressing sensitive topics such as trauma and cross-cultural tensions, as they promote psychological safety and relational depth among participants (Stathopoulou et al., 2025). From a methodological standpoint, they also enhance validity by surfacing nuanced perspectives that may remain latent in individual interviews (Stathopoulou et al., 2025).

Observations included both formal teaching sessions and informal moments during play and break times. Importantly, these observations were not only used to contextualize our understanding but also informed the development of the interview guide. The iterative approach strengthened the validity of our data collection instruments by ensuring that the interview prompts resonated with the teachers’ actual experiences and concerns. Although both observational and interview data were collected, the analysis presented in this article primarily rests on the interview material.

This study was approved by the Norwegian Agency for Shared Services in Education and Research (approval no. 275219) on May 02, 2024. Written informed consent was obtained from all participants before data collection. The group interview was audio-recorded and transcribed using an AI-assisted transcription tool. Transcriptions were produced in Norwegian, and all citations included in this article were translated into English by the authors. Participants’ names were anonymized in the final transcripts. All participants were women, representing diverse ages, ethnic backgrounds, and levels of teaching experience. Notably, five of the six had prior experience working either in introductory classes within mainstream schools or with refugee populations. While we acknowledge the absence of male participants as a potential limitation, our sample does reflect broader staffing patterns in primary education, where women constitute the majority of the workforce—particularly within European educational settings that serve refugee populations (Hunt et al., 2023). At the “Ukraine school,” as in most refugee classrooms across Norway, most teachers and teaching assistants are women. Therefore, the perspectives captured in this study are representative of the broader group of professionals most directly engaged in the care and education of refugee children.

The collected data were transcribed and thematically analyzed. While van Manen (2014) proposes existential themes such as relationality, spatiality, and temporality as guiding structures for phenomenological analysis, we chose to focus exclusively on relationality. Nonetheless, we acknowledge that other existential dimensions inevitably surface within our findings. For example, teachers’ temporal understandings of their relationships with pupils and the school environment emerged organically within the relational themes we identified. Our phenomenological stance enabled us to adopt a reflective position and to observe and interpret the teaching phenomenon in its concrete form to facilitate our understanding. In analyzing the transcripts, we adopted a hermeneutic-phenomenological method (Friesen, 2023; van Manen, 2014), engaging in iterative cycles of reading, reflection, and interpretation. This process involved revisiting the transcripts and audio recordings to discern what was intended, what may have been overlooked, and how these elements contribute to our understanding of the teaching realities in this specific case. In van Manen’s (2014) view, this method of analysis remains closer to the phenomenon of interest and incorporates aspects related to the hermeneutic circle. Our process involved a recursive movement between the initial research question, the theoretical framing of the pedagogical relationship, and the empirical context of the “Ukraine school”—continually revisiting and refining each element in light of the others. This back-and-forth strategy, though methodologically demanding, was essential for ensuring coherence between our inquiry, conceptual framework, and empirical findings.

Findings and discussion

Teachable moments lost in translation

When asked about the most challenging aspect of their work at the “Ukraine” school, the teachers’ response was unanimous and monosyllabic. “Language.” The stories they shared revealed school days marked by frequent misunderstandings, with the teacher persistently trailing behind the unfolding classroom narrative. Every child in the class speaks Ukrainian, but very little English and Norwegian. Conversely, the teacher speaks only Norwegian and English, but not Ukrainian. Consequently, the children are free to lead entire conversations to which the teacher is not privy. Her only way to engage in the conversation—or to understand why one little boy suddenly burst into tears—is to ask another child to repeat what was said, to explain, or to type it into Google Translate. One of the teachers shares:

He began to turn around slowly, and I observed an increasing level of despair on his face, with watery eyes. Once he had completed the activity, he put the pen he was using down. It is then that I asked what was going on. This prompted me to use Google Translate. I then asked him, “What just happened?”. I immediately sensed that this was a highly uncomfortable situation for him, and he began to cry deeply. The other three pupils in the class started to share what had happened, which represented the most significant challenge to me. Because then I must use Google Translate, and I have no idea what they’re going to say, but they say everything before I can stop them or read what they are saying as Google translates. Completely unfiltered. And the things that came out were pretty nasty.

Her colleague later adds,

We’ve had cases of bullying here. You get a sense that something is going on, but you’re not entirely sure what it is. It’s not like when it’s in Norwegian and you are able to be there in the situation. Maybe you know a few words [in Ukrainian], but yeah, you can’t be ahead of the situation. That I think is hard.

The first teacher chimes in again:

Very hard. And you don’t get this dialogue with the pupils here, that you actually get to talk with them about the difficult stuff, and yeah, you never get that good conversation afterwards, to process the things that happened; not with those who were targeted, and not with those who said the ugly words. I think that’s demanding. And even if you get help from those who speak the language, I at least, feel that you lose some of the contact with the pupil; that conversation between you and the child it goes via someone else.

The scenarios described above arguably position the teacher as an outsider. Despite their clear desire to connect with students—to support them through challenges and to “be there in the situation”—the teachers we spoke with often felt unable to cross the chasm between themselves and the group of children. This divide was deepened by the fact that every child in the classroom shared a common language that the teacher did not speak—a feature which, of course, was unique to the segregated “Ukraine school.” As a result, parallel spaces of interaction emerged: one between the teacher and the group, and another exclusively among the children. Although the teacher held the formal role of authority and responsibility, access to the children’s shared communicative space was contingent on a child’s willingness to interpret or summarize what had taken place. Even then, the teacher often struggled to discern what had genuinely occurred versus what was shaped by the subjective interpretations of the child relaying the events. Suddenly, the power to define the narrative lay in the children’s hands. The teacher was no longer the “responsible adult” we find and need, in a pedagogical relationship.

Challenges with shifting power dynamics was something the teachers returned to throughout our conversation. After having shared anecdotes of children using foul language, swearing, and name-calling, one of the teachers remarked that,

I’ve sometimes thought that they [the children] have had the upper hand when it comes to language, because they’ve realized we don’t understand what they’re saying, right? And they’ve sort of exploited that in many situations, those who want to, and they’ve been able to do that, absolutely.

Another teacher quickly added, “Yes, they have. We’ve thought it was nice things they were saying, and then it was really awful stuff.”

Of course, bullying, teasing, and fighting occur regardless of whether the teacher and children share a common language. However, as one teacher noted, “you never get that good conversation afterwards, to process the things that happened.” Conflict and tears can serve as fertile ground for so-called “teachable moments,” but this requires an attentive adult to help guide the child through their emotions. Teachable moments exist in the immediacy of the present; they are difficult to reconstruct or revive through Google Translate. As the famed French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson once said, “Oop! The Moment! Once you miss it, it’s gone forever” (The Washington Post, 1957; cited in Bernstein, 2004). Yet it is precisely in these fleeting moments that learning and emotional growth occur. As Hickey and Riddle (2023, 2024) argue, a core tenet of relational pedagogy is its “in-the-momentness.” Pedagogical relationships are dialogical and impulsive, calling for teachers who can enter the moment with the child, rather than piecing it together retrospectively. At times, what we observed at the “Ukraine school” could more readily be described as a reactive pedagogy, not a relational one.

For our teachers, a daily struggle lay in ensuring that language barriers did not become insurmountable—not only in relation to learning, but also in cultivating pedagogical relationships and expressing pedagogical love. Toward the end of our conversation, shortly after sharing stories of caring for trauma-affected children, one teacher reflected with quiet sadness: “You just can’t get close enough.”

Comfort or teach?

The teachers participating in this study had all requested a leave of absence from their regular jobs to be at the “Ukraine school.” Several of them had previously worked in introductory classes with refugees, but most had little experience working with newly arrived children who had fled war. All had decided to stay on at the Ukrainian school well beyond the 6 months they had initially signed up for. And all lamented their lack of training in trauma-sensitive pedagogy. As one of the teachers shared,

our competence is a little too weak, because we don’t know, is this just defiant behavior, or is it trauma? What is it we’re dealing with here? So then we’ve just had to try different approaches, we push a little, then show love and care, push, care, and just see how that pupil responds to what we’re doing.

The teachers believed that most of the children in their classrooms had experienced trauma. They were aware that many had lived with the constant sound of sirens and the ever-present fear of bombings. Some had spent days or even weeks in bomb shelters or in cold, dark basements. Several children still had family members fighting on the front lines in Ukraine, and many were now living with parents who themselves were grappling with grief and trauma-related responses. Yet, in the concrete meeting with each child, the teachers found it difficult to discern (1) how much of the child’s behavior was due to their experiences of war and forced displacement, (2) how much was because the child had to navigate a new culture and language, and (3) how much was simply due to the child’s attitude or maturity level. “Is this trauma or defiant behavior?” was a question that surfaced regularly at the school, followed by the question “Do I accept this behavior simply to comfort the child, or do I put my foot down and insist on proper behavior and attention?.” Comfort or teach, that became the question.

The challenge of balancing their role as a loving adult and as an educator was compounded by what the teachers felt was lacking external support. Despite having a full-time nurse and psychologist at the school, they admitted feeling alone in their day-to-day struggles, especially on days when large numbers of new children arrived. As one teacher expressed, “we’re teachers, we’re not health professionals,” to which her colleague shared the following:

I was a bit disappointed at first, because I envisioned that the PPT [Pedagogical- Psychological Services] would contribute a lot more. Just with the trauma bit and all that. But then we were basically told, very clearly, that this is just about relational work [They said]: we need you to work as teachers in the classroom and build relations. That’s what these children need the most.

Another teacher pondered further on why the level of teacher support provided at the Ukraine school was nearly the same as what was provided at regular public schools:

It surprised me at first. I thought that now the RVTS [Regional Resource Center for Violence, Traumatic Stress and Suicide Prevention] is on the field, here comes the cavalry to help! But it was no one. It was us who stood there.

The message from public agencies like PPT and RVTS, mentioned in the quotes above, was that teachers’ main responsibility was to build relations; that was their contribution to ensuring the newly arrived refugee children were cared for. That, and helping them learn Norwegian, however, some teachers found their role difficult to define and even harder to navigate. On one hand, they understood that failing to teach Norwegian could have serious consequences for the children’s future integration into mainstream Norwegian schools. On the other hand, they recognized that if they didn’t step into the role of loving, stable adults, no one else would. As one teacher said,

you know that this is the only free space they have. They get back to their hotel with parents who carry a lot of grief, and a hard situation. Not a lot of opportunities there, to be a child.

A second teacher added, “And then they get here, and they get to be children.”

The fact that these teachers worked in a school with solely refugee children—many of whom had been exposed to traumatic events, and few of whom spoke Norwegian or English—meant the balance between “comfort” and “teach” seemed even harder to strike—much more so, we presume, than would be the case in regular introduction classes in mainstream schools. Interestingly, some teachers also explained how they met resistance from parents and children when they deprioritized traditional learning in favor of so-called “relational work.” In other words, the Ukrainian refugees at times criticized teachers for choosing to comfort rather than teach. This is the issue to which we now turn.

“I’m here to learn Norwegian, not to make friends”

A short period into their assignment at the “Ukraine school,” the Norwegian teachers began to sense the differences between “how school was done” in the two countries. One teacher explains:

Social competency, for instance, is not something they work with in Ukrainian schools, at least from what I understand from parents, and especially from pupils. For instance, I’ve had kids who said that “Here in Norway everyone must be friends”. And I’ve explained that, no you don’t have to be best friends with everyone, but you have to try to be able to get along with everyone and accept everyone. “No, I’m not interested in that,” [says the child]. And they’re young; it’s 9- and 10-year-olds who say these things.

Another teacher tells the story of when a Russian-speaking colleague overheard a conversation between two refugee parents. They had referred to the Norwegian school system as a “play school,” or “pretend school.” The teacher elaborates further, adding:

We have had to work a bit on that, to explain it, what Norwegian school is about. We do a lot more here than just sit and read and write and do math. We have art, we have cooking. We go on excursions. And we experienced that in the beginning, when we had all these ‘alternative events’, it was like: oh, ok, I don’t have to come, I don’t need to go.

In general, the Norwegian education system emphasizes competencies like collaboration, tolerance, and moral formation (or “danning”) over subject-specific knowledge in areas like language and arithmetic (Hilt and Torjussen, 2021). This translates into a school day where children spend considerably more time playing, visiting museums, or creating art than they do sitting at the desk following instructions from the teacher. There is also much less focus on a child’s academic performance than on their ability to get along with their peers—a stark contrast to the strict subject-focused structure of the online Ukrainian classes many children attended in the evenings, as some teachers noted. At a typical parent-teacher conference, therefore, a Norwegian teacher will likely be more concerned with how a child is doing socially than with their academic performance. This was the case at the “Ukraine school,” as well, and for many refugee parents, this seemed foreign. According to the teachers we spoke with, parents were confused by the seeming lack of academic rigor, and as a consequence, many did not take the school seriously.

In the beginning, the teachers explained, they had to engage in what they referred to as “adult training” for the parents. This included everything from telling parents that their child could not bring chocolate and soda as their packed lunch, to sternly informing them that the child was not allowed to stay home, or inside, even on days it was raining (a particularly poignant issue, as Bergen is the rainiest city in Europe, with around 240 days of rain per year). Despite these challenges, the teachers expressed empathy for refugee parents who were transitioning from a more hierarchical educational system, one characterized by authoritative teachers and frequent academic testing. These parents were unfamiliar with teachers who were predominantly concerned with their child’s social life and mental well-being, and who seemed less concerned with their child’s scholastic efforts and results. And while several parents grew to learn (and appreciate) the Norwegian teachers’ approach to education, the cultural gap remained a source of tension. One recurring issue was a perceived lack of respect for the school in general, and for teachers in particular. When parents kept their children home simply because they didn’t see the value of attending, it raised concerns about the message being sent. How might such attitudes undermine the teachers’ efforts to socialize, teach, and care for their pupils? We may recall that the pedagogical relationship requires mutual respect between teacher and child, as well as the child’s free obedience (Friesen, 2017). The question, then, is whether the newly arrived Ukrainian refugee child can recalibrate their understanding of what a teacher is—and how legitimate authority is expressed—within the context of Norwegian educational culture. How, if at all, can the teacher earn the respect of both the child and their parents, while maintaining their commitment to cultivating a safe and loving classroom environment?

Some of the teachers we spoke with did admit they initially found it refreshing to work with children from Ukraine’s more hierarchical and discipline-oriented school culture. It was a welcome change to enter a classroom where students were quiet, polite, and respectful—where they didn’t run around, chat with friends, or interrupt the teacher. However, most children were quick to adapt to the Norwegian approach to classroom discipline (or, perhaps more accurately, lack thereof). As one teacher noted:

When they first arrive, they sit like this (teacher sits up very straight). Then two days pass, and they’re like this (teacher slouches down in her chair): they’re laying down! And then the new ones look at them, and they’re completely shocked when they see the rest of the group. Can they sit like that on the chair? Can they talk directly to the teacher? Can they laugh in class? And then, you know, that we get called a ‘play school’, I get it. Because it’s an entirely different school culture. It’s much freer, I think, here.

The teachers even admitted that they found joy and relief in having to scold pupils for “bad” behavior. One of them said:

And it’s weird to say, but it’s almost been fun to reprimand them sometimes. Because you can see that they’re behaving like normal children. They’re naughty and get into trouble. As a teacher, as an adult, it’s like, OK, we have to yell, we have to be strict. But then on the inside, I think: Yes! They’re behaving like normal children!

The typical behavior seen in Norwegian schools, then, became an indicator of children’s improved mental state, and possibly even of their socialization into Norwegian school culture. “They’re behaving like normal children,” said the teacher, and smiled, fully aware that as the Ukrainian refugee children began to internalize the Norwegian way of schooling, her own workdays would grow more demanding—and noisier. The children stopped sitting up straight or obediently following instructions without question. While this shift brought more disruption and fatigue, it also meant more opportunities to engage with the children in a more authentic, in-the-moment manner. This type of relational work is central in all Norwegian education, and it includes the focus on “making friends,” as one Ukrainian pupil put it, and on establishing trusting relations between teacher and child.

What this study showed is that one cannot simply assume that pedagogical relations emerge once the student and teacher meet. For such relationships to become meaningful, there must be a possibility of mutual understanding—and even when that understanding is absent, it is essential to continue trying to revive it and explore opportunities for it to emerge. This is made even more difficult when language is always insufficient or unavailable, and when the focus leans heavily toward the transmission of academic knowledge rather than the human aspects of relational “being together.” The actual labor of cultivating meaningful pedagogical moments and relationships lies in the teacher’s capacity to be fully present—or, to borrow the Norwegian term, tilstedeværelse: being present in the moment with body and mind. meaning. This type of presence allows, even in glimpses, to see the human side of education, and to model it when it matters the most: now; not once teacher and child can understand each other fully.

Concluding reflections: The pedagogical relationship lost in translation?

In times of crisis, schools are often perceived by both policymakers and the broader public as safe havens for children, primarily due to the stabilizing potential of education. Some of the benefits, argues Devine (2015: 1376), are knowing that children are “present in school” and can be accounted for, and that school provides them with “a sense of normalcy.” For Ukrainian refugee children, whose experiences were marked by uncertainty—whether they would remain or relocate or be reunited with family members left behind—there was an urgent need for a school that could foster stability and routine. However, within the segregated “Ukraine school,” the educational purpose appeared ambiguous. Was the school merely a temporary holding space for children while their families awaited resettlement? Or was it intended as a “crash course” in Norwegian language and culture to prepare children for integration into mainstream public schools? Although the “Ukraine school” was transitional, each day presented moments of interaction. Opportunities for pedagogical love and relations are not, and should not be, reserved teachers and children in permanent schools. Yet, there seemed to be an implicit belief that meaningful pedagogical relationships must wait until we all understand each other; until the children and teacher share a common language. We confirmed in this study that pedagogical love can indeed be expressed through means other than comforting words—this, of course, is not a new revelation to educators. However, when the children all exist in the same linguistic sphere, where the teacher cannot enter, this does place significant constraints on the teacher’s ability to protect and guide the child. It limits opportunities for “teachable moments” and can delay—or even exclude—the possibility of genuine pedagogical encounters between teacher and child.

van Manen (2015: 38)—building on Langeveld’s (1975) idea of the immediacy of the pedagogical moment—says that “to some extent, in an increasingly complex and risky environment, children need to be able to experience the world as secure, to depend on certain adults as reliable, and to experience a sense of continuity in their social relationships with those who care for them.” Ethical educational practice, therefore, requires adults to create spaces where children feel safe and emotionally supported. In crisis contexts like that faced by Ukrainian refugee children, communication is further complicated by cultural dissonance. Expressions of emotion, gestures of respect, and other culturally coded behaviors are not always shared between students and teachers. This places children in the difficult position of identifying caring adults before they can effectively communicate with them. Tragically, by the time a shared language begins to emerge, the window for early relational bonding may have already closed.

Despite evident challenges, we find it is still possible to create pedagogical relational moments that are meaningful in children’s lives, also in the absence of shared language. Here, Todd’s (2003) work is particularly intriguing to consider. She conceptualizes teacher-student encounters as aporetic, marked by the teacher’s ongoing effort to “translate the other.” Todd argues that educators are ethically called to attend to the refugee in their otherness, difference, and unknowability. This “ethical attention to the other that precedes understanding” (Todd, 2003: 145) demands that teachers remain open to the unpredictability of the newcomer and persist within the discomfort of not fully understanding. Of course, it is pertinent to note, as well, that the act of translation itself can constitute meaningful pedagogical moments. A teacher’s attempt to understand a child across linguistic boundaries can be a powerful gesture of care and commitment. However, as this study seeks to highlight, the temporal delays inherent in translation can obstruct the pedagogical response. The relentless pursuit of word-for-word translation—such as the approach taken by the teachers—is akin to navigating a painting by examining each brushstroke in isolation, losing sight of the vibrant whole. It can be an experience that strips language of its soul, leaving behind a skeletal frame of mere words. What slips through the cracks in this mechanical process is the essence of human communication: the subtle dance of paralanguage, the flicker of a smile, the arch of an eyebrow, the rhythm of a sigh, the melody of intonation, and the silent eloquence of gestures, each of which is strongly cultural. These elements weave together a tapestry of meaning that transcends verbal expressions, each thread irreplaceable and untranslatable within its unique cultural context.

To conclude, then, this study demonstrates that the pedagogical relationship is deeply vulnerable to the fractures caused by linguistic and cultural dissonance. In the “Ukraine school,” the language barrier was not merely a logistical hurdle; it was a profound rupture in the relational fabric of the classroom. Teachers, unable to fully access the emotional and behavioral cues of their students, often found themselves adrift, navigating moments of distress and joy with limited tools for interpretation. The immediacy that relational pedagogy demands—its presence in the moment—was repeatedly compromised by the delays and distortions inherent in translation. This disruption is especially consequential in light of Saevi’s (2013) assertion that pedagogical relationships only exist in open, unplanned moments. Hickey and Riddle (2024) similarly emphasize the spontaneity of encounters between teacher and child, stressing the importance of teachers remaining open to being guided by these emergent moments. Yet in the context of forced displacement, such responsiveness is often obstructed. As we saw in the “Ukraine school,” teachers were frequently forced to reconstruct meaning retroactively, rather than attune themselves to the unfolding moment.

Further complicating the challenge was the ambiguity surrounding student behavior—whether it stemmed from trauma, defiance, cultural differences, or developmental variations. Additionally, we observed teachers navigating complex relationships with parents, serving as cultural mediators within an unfamiliar educational system. And yet, within this complexity, something quietly resilient emerged. As children acclimated to the Norwegian classroom culture, their spontaneity and expressiveness grew. The noise that replaced initial quietude did not signal disorder; it marked a shift, an adjustment, a tentative embrace of a new relational rhythm. It is here that we glimpse the enduring potential of the pedagogical relation.

One might say the pedagogical relationship can be lost in translation—but it can also be reimagined. Rather than a seamless transmission of intention, it becomes a mosaic of shared meaning, pieced together through gestures, presence, and trust. Our findings confirm that the pedagogical relationship, as theorized in continental tradition, is especially fragile when immediacy and spontaneity are hindered by language and cultural barriers. Still, the “Ukraine school” demonstrates that even a partial understanding, when met with teachers’ persistence and attentiveness, can sustain meaningful care. The pedagogical relationship is vulnerable yet adaptable, grounded in patience, embodied presence, and an openness to difference. For refugee education, this broadens pedagogical engagement to embrace silence, miscommunication, and uncertainty, while sustaining hope for genuine connection. The task is not to erase these fractures, but to recognize and work within them, cultivating relationships that remain attentive and ethically attuned, even when language falls short.