Before we visit this school and the children who attend it, we'd like to address the word "spastic," which we hear often but which is usually misunderstood.
The Belgians don't speak of a center for "spastics" but rather a center for children with cerebral motor disorders. English speakers say "cerebrally disabled"—an even broader term for all children with various movement disorders. Movement disorders—"spasticity" itself—are the most visible, caused by damage to the brain before birth, during delivery, or in the first months of life. The causes are varied and often still unknown.
But let's focus on the word "spastic." Strictly speaking, it describes muscular rigidity. Muscles don't obey the signals sent to them, or they respond in chaotic ways, producing very imprecise movements. In severe cases, movement becomes impossible.
"Spasticity" is not a disease. It's one form—often the most obvious—of brain damage. Other forms may affect sight, hearing, or intellectual capacity. But the word "spastic" alone never indicates mental disability.
There are spastic children and adults with normal intelligence, sometimes even above average.
It's true that in many cases, brain damage has affected both motor control and intellectual faculties. But we must absolutely avoid equating the two. We cannot jump to the conclusion that a child whose movements seem uncontrolled—bizarre to our eyes—cannot understand. Those jerky movements happen against his or her will. We must not let them blind us—or anyone else—to what these children can really do, what they want, who they truly are.
With this in mind, let's return to Brussels and the C.B.I.M.C., directed by Dr. Yasse.
Directed? That's the right word, though it hardly captures the full picture. The center is animated and loved by Dr. Yasse.
Last summer, Maria Laura came to play with the children at this extraordinary school. She often saw the doctor, not behind a desk but everywhere the children were—in classrooms, on playgrounds. He moves among them naturally, warmly, every day. The children embrace him. A director's daily presence like this shapes everything: how teachers relate to students, how therapists work with children. The atmosphere is joyful and warm.
What also struck Maria Laura was the staff's expertise and the quality of the equipment.
The school has thirty-five children in five classes—seven per class. There is also a twelve-year-old girl who receives individual lessons daily; Maria Laura believes this is for pedagogical reasons.
The degrees of physical disability vary widely. Some children have intellectual delays, but all seem able to follow an adapted school program.
The equipment in every classroom plays a crucial role in correcting and preventing poor posture. Some students study seated at special desks, others standing. There are also sessions in specialized gymnastics, physiotherapy, speech therapy, and occupational therapy.
The day runs like a normal Belgian school day: nine in the morning to four-thirty in the afternoon, with lunch on-site and a long recess afterward. During recess, Maria Laura spent each day with the children, working alongside two other volunteers from a nearby school.
Everyone plays ball or quieter games. All classes mix together. Children who are more physically able push wheelchairs. Help and cooperation happen naturally, without prompting.
Children from the neighborhood come to play. This shouldn't surprise us. The door—literally—is always open, except at night.
So even though the center is highly specialized, it's not a ghetto.
Contact with the outside world is constant, and each child's program is designed with life beyond the center in mind—with eventual integration into ordinary community life. Every chance is seized to get the children out and into the world. For swimming, they go to a neighborhood pool at the same time as other local children, and the doctor doesn't just supervise—he gets in the water with them. Some children ride horses at a local club. Walking exercises happen on city streets, not in the school courtyard. Teachers and therapists send children who are able to run errands in the neighborhood. This way they learn to navigate streets on their own, to cross them (which takes real courage for some), to speak in shops—not easy for many spastic children with speech difficulties. By age ten or twelve, most work one or two afternoons a week in the neighborhood: in grocery stores, garages, libraries, even banks.
All of this shows a clear commitment to preparing children for life outside the center—both now and in the future.
As soon as a child is able, the center finds him or her a place in a regular neighborhood school to complete compulsory education. Otherwise, when schooling ends, the center works with the child and family to find apprenticeship or employment.
Some continue studying.
Each child's case is considered individually. The future is foreseen and prepared as thoughtfully as possible.
The program is constantly reviewed and adjusted as each child develops. The team meets weekly to refine and improve.
What struck Maria Laura most was the warmth, the equipment, and above all this relentless focus on integration—both today and tomorrow. It's an education built on brotherhood and competence.
It's what we all wish for our children, whatever their gifts.
Nicole Schulthes, 1977