The tone in our studies and the group dynamics in our class were never ideal, and it was set early on during the very first few week of our studies against me.
I am half Romany, and I have a well-known Romani last name, which is also shared by a famous Romany person in Finland. As I learned at the beginning of our studies, this person had been convicted of financial crimes.
This issue came up during a class taught by the senior journalism teacher at our school, Pertti Sillanpää. It was clear that Sillanpää did not like Roma people.
The topic of the class was how journalism can smear someone’s reputation simply by reporting that they have been suspected of a crime.
His way of illustrating this was by showing us pictures and names of people who had been publicly accused of crimes and asking whether they had been found guilty or acquitted in court.
He went through every name and face moderately fast, only giving the correct answer after our guesses except when he came to this Romany person who shared my last name.
With him, he took his time, repeating the last name several times, looking at me with a look I unfortunately know all too well. He also made sure everyone knew this person was Roma.
As if this blatant racism wasn’t enough, the entire class was silent. No one spoke up about the obvious racism happening right in front of them. In fact, one student, Santtu, even laughed at me.
This entire episode was a clear example of racism and prejudice in action. By singling out a Romany individua, who shared my last name, and lingering on that name with an unmistakably hostile stare, the teacher deliberately reinforced harmful stereotypes about Roma people. Using a real person’s name linked to crime to “teach” a class not only perpetuated stigma but also unfairly associated me with negative assumptions, despite my own innocence and individuality.
The teacher’s behavior was not only unprofessional but morally wrong. Instead of fostering an inclusive, respectful learning environment, he weaponized his position of authority to otherize me and my heritage. The fact that the rest of the class stayed silent, with some even laughing at my discomfort, further exposed a toxic dynamic. Their silence was a tacit acceptance of this racial targeting, creating an environment where I felt isolated, vulnerable, and dehumanized.
This moment set the tone for the entire class’s attitude toward me. It signaled that discrimination was tolerated, even normalized. It established a social hierarchy in which I was seen as an outsider, someone to be mocked or excluded rather than supported.
Emotionally, it was devastating. I felt exposed, humiliated, and powerless. The experience planted a seed of fear and mistrust toward my classmates and teachers alike. It reinforced a painful internal narrative that I didn’t belong and that my identity made me a target rather than a valued individual.
This kind of systemic, everyday racism is a form of violence that leaves deep scars — scars that affected not just my studies, but my sense of self and my ability to feel safe and accepted in the spaces I was supposed to grow and learn.
And oh, how that tone was set because this was far from the last time I had to endure racist comments during my time in Oamk.
One day, right in the middle of class, that same senior teacher turned to me and, in front of everyone, said something along the lines of: “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be home with your husband and kids?” After class, my classmate Senni asked me about the incident and what the teacher meant by his words. I just shrugged and told her I didn’t know. But sadly, I did know all too well. Senni seemed to understand early on that something was off about the dynamics in the class, which is one of the reasons I grew so close to her later on.
Now, someone might think I’m being paranoid or reading too much into the teacher’s comment. But a remark like that, coming from a person in power, in front of my peers, wasn’t innocent . It was loaded with stereotypes. Taking into account the teacher’s already clear negative attitudes toward Roma people (and toward me personally), it takes on a much heavier meaning.
That comment wasn’t random. It wasn’t just an offhand remark or a slip of the tongue. It was both racist and sexist. He was sending a broader, more poisonous message: that Roma people — and especially Roma women — don’t belong in higher education at all. On the surface, it might have sounded like a casual comment or a strange joke. But beneath that surface was something much darker.
It wasn’t just about me as a student; it was about where he believed Roma women should be — not in school, not advancing, not learning, but tucked away, silent, invisible. It was a reminder of centuries of prejudice: that Roma women are seen as outsiders, as people without the right to participate in the so-called “respectable” spaces of society. I wasn’t being seen for my mind, my potential, or my effort — I was being reduced to my ethnicity and my gender.
I know now that I wasn’t wrong, and I wasn’t paranoid. People from marginalized backgrounds often have to be more attuned to these subtle signals because they’re usually real. Dismissing those instincts or gaslighting yourself into thinking “maybe I’m imagining it” is exactly what oppressive dynamics rely on to keep working.
This is how power operates in situations like this: authority figures set the tone, defining who belongs and who doesn’t, often without ever needing to say it outright. The teacher’s position gave him the ability to shape the group’s atmosphere, and his words carried weight because they were backed by institutional power. When he made all his comments, it wasn’t just his personal bias on display. It was the power to mark me as “less than” in the eyes of the entire class.
Looking back, I often ask myself: why didn’t I report him? Why didn’t I tell another teacher or someone higher up in the faculty?
The honest answer is: mainly fear. I was afraid that if I spoke up, things would only get worse. I became genuinely afraid of that teacher. And through him, I became afraid of all the teachers in the faculty.
Another reason I stayed silent was the way the rest of the class saw him. They constantly praised him, saying how great he was, how much they admired him. That was crushing. How could they speak so highly of someone who treated me this way? Their admiration didn’t just deepen my sense of isolation but sent a chilling message: if everyone else likes him, then I must be the problem. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m imagining things.
But I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t making up the stares, the comments, the small but cutting humiliations. From the very beginning, he had marked me as an outsider, and I felt it in every interaction.
And as time went on, my classmates didn’t just follow the teacher’s example — they sharpened it. Emboldened by his cues, some began acting out their own racism toward me, as if mocking, excluding, and belittling me had been given a green light.
Santtu, who laughed during that very first racist incident, began using the racial slur “manne” in front of me on several occasions, casually claiming it was “just a joke.” I was not laughing. Each time, it cut deep and made me feel more isolated.
I also vividly remember another moment in class where students sitting right next to me, fully aware of my presence, talked openly about how some Romany people had allegedly tried to rob them or their friends. They used racist slurs as they spoke, normalizing prejudice and hatred in the very space where I was supposed to be learning and studying.
These moments made it painfully clear: the group accepted racism as normal. They tolerated cruelty and exclusion as “jokes” or casual conversation. It wasn’t just an individual failing. It was a collective silence and participation that fueled a toxic environment.
But there was one person in our class to whom I am forever grateful. Laura was a bit older than most of us, and after that humiliating incident with the senior teacher, she came to me at a party and gently brought it up. She asked me questions about Romany culture — not out of judgment, but out of genuine curiosity and respect.
Whenever my mind drifts back to that painful racist incident, I also remember Laura and her kindness. Her compassion was a small but powerful light in an otherwise dark time. It reminds me that even in places filled with cruelty and exclusion, there can be understanding and human connection. And that makes this story easier to carry.
I understand that most of my classmates might not have known what to say or how to deal with these situations. Their silence may have come from fear, discomfort, or even surprise. It’s not always easy to confront racism or exclusion, especially when it happens in a group setting where social pressures run high.
But silence, no matter the reason, can also be a form of complicity. When hurtful words and actions go unchallenged, it sends a message that such behavior is acceptable — that the person being targeted is alone and unsupported.
Their silence left me isolated, vulnerable, and without an ally when I needed one the most. It allowed the toxic environment to persist and worsened the pain I was already carrying.
In moments like these, speaking up can be difficult, but it is also essential. Because standing by silently can deepen the wounds and reinforce the divisions between us.
I understand now that fear and uncertainty can silence people, but I also wish my classmates had found the courage to speak out, not only for me but for the kind of community we all deserved to be part of: one built on respect, empathy, and inclusion.
If sharing my story can encourage even one person to challenge silence and stand against injustice, then it is worth it. Because none of us should ever have to carry the weight of exclusion alone.
Now, what I need you still to understand is that I do not think that all of my classmates were racist or that the senior teacher somehow brainwashed them all against me but his words and behavior shaped the atmosphere in the room in ways that ran much deeper than individual beliefs.
Group behavior often follows patterns, not personal opinions. In psychology, this is called norm setting: the informal rules of a group are shaped by what’s modeled and reinforced, not just by what each person privately thinks or values.
So even if some of my classmates privately thought I was smart or kind, they were moving inside a system where the teacher was clearly signaling that I was worth less. His attitude gave the message: “She doesn’t really belong here.” Supporting or praising me might have cost classmates social points. On the flip side, ignoring me or excluding me became “easy,” because the person in charge had already made it clear that I was fair game.
It’s not that the teacher directly told them to mistreat me. It’s that he set the tone that shaped how others interacted with me. This is how power works: it doesn’t just control individuals one-on-one, it shapes the whole group. Even a few comments, looks, or dismissive remarks from someone in authority can ripple through the room, shifting the group’s mood and behavior. We see this everywhere: in schools, in workplaces, in the army.
Just think about this: If the teacher had openly praised me said, “You’re doing great, you’re such an important part of this class” — don’t you think some of my classmates would have treated me differently? Probably, yes. Not because they were fake, but because people naturally adjust to the social cues set by those in power. When the person at the top signals that someone should be diminished, the group often follows without even realizing it.
And as I have mentioned earlier in this chapter, all of this happened right at the very start of our studies, when our group was still forming. That’s important because the beginning is when social hierarchies, friendships, and roles are still flexible. It's when people are especially sensitive to the cues they get from authority figures. The teacher’s early signals didn’t just shape one moment; they shaped how the whole group settled into its patterns going forward.
I want to emphasize that I’m not trying to undermine my classmates or suggest they had no free will. I’m not saying they were helpless or blindly following the teacher without their own thoughts or values. People always have responsibility for their actions.
What I’m pointing out is that social environments, especially in new, forming groups, exert a subtle but powerful influence on behavior. This explains how even good people can be pulled into harmful behavior when the social atmosphere encourages it.
Recognizing these dynamics isn’t about taking away anyone’s agency, but about understanding how human behavior is shaped by both individual will and the larger social context we’re all operating in.