The "School for Adult Education" (SFE) in Berlin
DE: Sometimes all it takes is an evening, a good meal, a few glasses of wine – and suddenly a time long past is back.
I recently had a visit in London from an old acquaintance from Berlin. D. and I have known each other since the 1970s. What binds us is a shared experience that has left a lasting mark on both of us: the alternative educational project, the ‘School for Adult Education’ in Berlin. He worked there as a chemistry teacher whilst I was a student taking my A-levels.
Over good food and drink on our roof terrace, memories of ‘our’ school came flooding back. Good ones and not-so-good ones – some that made us laugh, others that still made us angry or at least deeply frustrated.
Apparently, this school was so contradictory that, even after all these years, we still can’t agree on what it actually was: a bold experiment with immense potential – or hopeless chaos.
The evening went on late. At some point, we decided to write down our memories: D. from a teacher’s perspective, and I from a student’s. Two perspectives on the same school, the same era – and perhaps also two very different answers to the question of what became of the experiment.
Both can be read on this blog.
I wanted to be free – independent and creative.
It was 1977. Following a serious illness that made me think about my future, I decided to give up my job as a secretary and start something new.
I was 22 years old; I’d completed my secondary school (leaving with an equivalent of an O-level certificate) at the age of 15 and had been working as a secretary ever since – first in a bank, later in a solicitor’s office. But I felt more and more strongly that there had to be more than typing up texts dictated by others and spending my days on administrative work.
I wanted to be free – independent and creative. But what should I do? I had no idea.
I decided to take some time out to think calmly about the next steps in my life. A friend advised me to use the time to catch up on my A-levels. After that, I could see how things were going. An acquaintance of his had done this at a self-managed school for adults in Berlin and had had a very positive experience. I got in touch with him, and he spoke very highly of the SFE – the School for Adult Education in Berlin.
The School for Adult Education (SFE) in Berlin
was an alternative school offering a second chance at education. It prepared adults for the intermediate school-leaving qualification and for the Abitur, the German qualification giving access to university. The school was unusual in that it was run jointly by students and teachers.
The SFE grew out of a conflict at the Gabbes-Lehranstalt in 1972/73. Students went on strike to protest against an authoritarian headteacher, reactionary school regulations, overcrowded classrooms, intense academic pressure and the politically motivated dismissal of both students and teachers. In response, the students and teachers involved decided to take matters into their own hands and establish their own self-governing college.
In 1973, the SFE was formally established as a non-profit organisation. As a private school providing second-chance education, it was recognised as eligible for BAföG, the German system of state educational support.
Students and teachers set out to develop a different approach to education – one that was better suited to adults and based on the principles of:
* self-directed learning;
* freedom for personal development and creativity; and
* self-management.
Students and teachers shared responsibility for organising and running the school. The SFE was thus conceived not simply as a place where adults could catch up on formal qualifications, but as a democratic educational experiment based on participation, autonomy and the belief that adults could take responsibility for their own learning.
Further information is available on the SFE website: https://sfeberlin.de/wir-ueber-uns/
That sounded interesting. So I’d made up my mind: I wanted to give it a go too. The school offered day and evening classes. I applied for the day course and was offered a place for the following May – in five months. That worked out well. It gave me plenty of time to find a flat and a job, as I had to support myself. The BAföG grant for adult students (independent of parental income) would cover the tuition fees and rent, but would barely stretch beyond that.
I bought myself an electric typewriter – perhaps I could type up dissertations or doctoral theses for students. After all, I had plenty of experience in typing. So I packed my things and set off from Munich to Berlin.
My first experiences at the SFE: Political engagement
My first day at the school began with an introduction to what made this place so special. We, new students, were in the middle of an induction session in our classroom when we were suddenly interrupted by a call to attend a forum. This is a meeting where all students and teaching staff come together to discuss urgent matters.
A student from the Mittlere Reife classes (equivalent to O-levels) reported that the Berlin Senate Administration had cut funding for Mittlere Reife students with immediate effect. Without this grant, most of them could not afford the school fees and would have had to drop out.
I was in the clear: I had my BAföG and my typewriter. But it affected me all the same. It was my school, and I wanted to show solidarity with my fellow students who, like me, were seeking an opportunity to improve their lives.
We were all shocked. And angry. It was unfair. So – what could we do?
After a brief discussion, the answer was obvious: we would go straight to the Senator for Education at the Berlin Senate and speak to him. No lengthy planning, no hesitation!
About 50 or 60 of us squeezed into the available cars and set off. My little Renault 4 was completely crammed with classmates I’d only just met. I didn’t know them, and I certainly didn’t know the way – but that didn’t matter. The others knew where to go.
We all met at the entrance to the Berlin Senate building, marched up the stairs and sat down on the floor in front of the senator’s office. A ‘sit-in’, as I quickly learnt. Within a few minutes of making our presence known loudly, a couple of secretaries appeared first, followed by security officers, who asked what we were doing there. Then one of our classmates – the one who’d spoken at the assembly – pulled out a letter setting out our demands. He was clearly well prepared. We wanted the funding for the O-level students reinstated. Immediately and with backdated effect.
The letter was handed to the very surprised senator, who, however, quickly took his leave of us and withdrew to his office. After about half an hour, we left the Senate building and went back to school, proud of ourselves.
A few weeks later, the funding was reinstated – with backdated effect. We’d actually done it. It felt like real, living democracy – and it certainly wasn’t the last time I’d taken such action.
That was my introduction to a new world: a school where students had a say, were encouraged to take political action, and showed solidarity with others. I was proud to be part of a school like that.
Self-directed learning rather than cramming
The SFE was known for its unusually free approach to learning. Lessons were based on students’ interests and tailored to their life experiences to motivate us and spark our interest. Teachers and students decided together on the content and areas of focus. There were no marks, and attendance was not compulsory. To me, that sounded like the ideal school at the time.
However, this freedom was somewhat limited. The SFE was a private, independent school designed to prepare students for the state ‘Mittlere Reife’ (O-level) and ‘Abitur’ (A-level) examinations. This meant that students ultimately had to sit their exams at a state school in accordance with the framework curriculum for Berlin State secondary schools. Consequently, the teachers had to strike a difficult balance between keeping us students interested and motivated to learn, whilst still imparting the knowledge prescribed by the curriculum that we needed for the exams.
So the idea of equality between teachers and students wasn’t quite accurate either. Teachers had a knowledge advantage because of their training and role. They knew what the exams required and were supposed to prepare us for them.
But we weren’t interested in that back then. First and foremost, we enjoyed the freedom that school offered us.
Freedom, freedom above all else…
I had completed my O-levels at a Catholic girls’ secondary school run by nuns. Strict rules characterised my time at school there (from 1965 to 1969). This didn’t just apply to our clothing – our skirts weren’t allowed to be too short, sleeveless dresses or blouses were forbidden, as were trousers. Everything that was becoming fashionable in the 1960s was strictly forbidden to us. School life was also strictly organised. During breaks, we had to walk in rows of two along the long, dark corridor and were only allowed to talk in hushed tones.
Lessons were designed to prepare us for life as housewives, mothers and wives who supported their husbands. ‘Behind every strong man stands a strong woman’ – that was the motto of our upbringing. Alongside German, English, and the usual school subjects, our curriculum also included needlework, cooking, commercial arithmetic, bookkeeping, shorthand, and typing.
Our teachers believed it was important to give us a good general education and train us in practical life skills. In many cases, they succeeded in doing so.
The school was well-known and enjoyed a good reputation. Its graduates were in high demand as workers in our town: well-trained, conscientious and respectful of authority. They did as they were told, and there were no disciplinary problems.
Yet not everyone was satisfied. The knowledge we were taught remained limited. I wanted more. At the time, I didn’t yet know exactly what I was looking for. But I felt like knowledge had been withheld from me. There was so much more to learn and understand.
At the SFE, I suddenly had the opportunity to catch up on what I’d missed, and to do so in a free atmosphere, without pressure, without constantly being corrected or reprimanded.
Suddenly, there was freedom. Exams lay ahead somewhere in the future, but at that moment everything felt open. You could go to lessons or stay in bed. Learn something or do nothing. There were hardly any rules. Discipline was frowned upon because it was seen as contrary to the principle of self-development and self-directed learning.
It is therefore not surprising that some people took advantage of this freedom. Some enrolled, turned up on the first day to secure their scholarship, and then disappeared for a long time. I thought it was a shame they didn’t make the most of the unique opportunities this school offered and thus squandered a chance to make the most of their lives.
I, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. I was curious. The opportunity to learn filled me with deep enthusiasm, and during my five semesters at the school, I didn’t miss a single day. Like a sponge, I soaked up as much knowledge as I could.
What was different about our lessons?
At the SFE, everything was different.
The teachers treated us with respect as adults. They made an effort to motivate us, the students, to learn, and invested a great deal of time and energy in tailoring the lessons – both in terms of subject matter and teaching methods – to suit adults.
In practice, this meant, for example, that in biology lessons we talked about the menstrual cycle and contraception – genuinely useful information that interested us. The idea was to spark our curiosity, so we would be more willing and able to understand even more challenging theoretical topics.
In chemistry, we looked at food additives and nuclear energy. Both were highly topical issues at the time – and we even made wine from supermarket apple juice.
For me, maths represented a huge leap away from my commercial training. I was good at calculating interest, but geometry and ‘proper’ maths remained a mystery to me at first. Suddenly, we were calculating how much carpet, wallpaper and wall paint we needed to redecorate our room. This was beyond my commercially trained way of thinking, but it proved extremely useful.
Abstract thinking wasn't taught at our practice-oriented girls’ secondary school. At the SFE, on the other hand, our maths teacher made a point of keeping lessons practical and clear. Once, when I couldn’t grasp how (and why) a plane should intersect a tangent, our maths teacher took my pocket knife, cut a corner out of a piece of cardboard, and held a sheet of paper against it to show how a plane intersects a tangent. Moments like these suddenly made abstract concepts understandable.
We’d also had practical lessons at our girls’ secondary school. In physics, for example, we learnt how a hotplate gets hot or why a thermos flask keeps coffee warm. That was useful information – but the fundamental laws of physics and the underlying theories weren’t taught to us.
At the SFE, the teachers repeatedly tried to help us grasp theoretical concepts. But their efforts often came up against a wall of resistance and incomprehension.
I still remember our maths teacher’s attempt to explain Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity. Some of our classmates – mainly the boys, as far as I can recall – took an interest in the subject, were fascinated by it and joined in the discussion enthusiastically. The rest of us, however – which mainly consisted of us girls – were left rather at a loss. We sat there, staring into space, without even beginning to grasp what it was actually all about.
Looking back, I have to admit that many of us students – myself included – had a strong aversion to anything theoretical. We regarded theories as something aloof and detached from real life, devised by an academic elite and serving, above all, to belittle or exclude people without the relevant knowledge (such as ourselves). Only much later did I realise how much this prejudice had prevented me from recognising the true value of theoretical concepts and from developing myself further.
My favourite subjects at the SFE were German and, above all, social studies, which made up much of the curriculum. I loved the political discussions and the constant exchange of ideas. For me, this was a completely new experience, as I’d hardly been interested in politics up until then.
Looking back, however, I view our discussions more critically. They often remained superficial and were characterised more by a desire for action and change than by a thorough examination of the issues. Although our teachers explicitly encouraged us to think critically and to question the status quo, in reality our criticism was directed almost exclusively against the existing social order. We adopted many slogans and catchphrases without really getting to their heart or having the necessary background knowledge.
I didn’t realise this at the time. Only years later, when I began to engage more deeply with political, historical, and social contexts, did I realise how often we parroted opinions that, while we held them with conviction, we couldn't adequately justify. As my knowledge grew, I learnt to question my own convictions critically – a skill that, while it was supposed to be taught to us, I ultimately only acquired later on.
Because of our great enthusiasm for debate, other subjects – such as mathematics or foreign languages – often fell by the wayside.
Our Spanish teacher, L, who was originally from Spain, tried to motivate us with current newspaper articles. However, he despaired not only of our poor language skills, but also of how little we knew about current political affairs. He was horrified to discover that we could not even spell the name of the French President, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing.
We were so fixated on our political activism that we didn’t want to waste time reading newspapers, and we weren’t interested in mainstream media. Consequently, we also found it difficult to make time and find the interest to learn Spanish vocabulary and grammar.
On the spur of the moment, our teacher organised for a few interested students from my class to take part in a four-week summer school at the University of Santander in northern Spain. Six of us travelled to Spain with sleeping bags and tents. I have never regretted that trip.
Those four weeks opened my eyes and ears to Spanish culture, food and the language. What’s more, we later had a clear advantage over the classmates who hadn’t gone. When the examiner said ‘Siéntese’ (‘Take a seat’) as a greeting during the oral exam, we sat down straight away. The others remained standing – they hadn’t understood a word. To us, it felt as though we’d already passed half the exam. And that was indeed the case.
Who was studying there? Who were we?
There were 30 of us in my class – all adults, aged between 18 and 36. Some had dropped out of school years earlier; others had broken away from their parents and left everything behind as teenagers; still others, like me, had already been working and decided to start afresh. Some had children, others were unemployed, and a few struggled with alcohol or drug problems. Everyone had their own story and their own reason for attending this school.
We were a diverse group of mature students. We were all different, and that's what made it so interesting. I was curious to get to know my classmates and hoped to meet like-minded people and make friends. I encountered new ideas and ways of life. It was here that I was confronted with homosexuality for the first time, when I saw two women from the neighbouring class snogging in the corridor. Why not?
I found it all fascinating and took it all in, with an open mind, without jumping to conclusions. I wanted to learn and understand new things, get involved in political activism and become part of this new world. But it soon became clear I didn’t really belong there.
I came from Bavaria. When I spoke up in a forum for the first time, my classmates and even some teachers laughed at my accent. That wasn’t very encouraging, but at the same time it was indicative of the low regard in which Bavaria and Bavarians were often held in northern Germany at the time.
When word got round at school that I’d previously worked as a secretary, that didn’t earn me any respect either. On the contrary: I was regarded as ‘naive’ and ‘conformist’. A middle-class background was often seen as a sign of a lack of life experience. People with rougher life stories – such as those with a history of addiction, periods of unemployment or a strong working-class slang – seemed, by contrast, more authentic, less conformist and therefore, in the eyes of many, more credible.
This labelling affected me deeply. I hadn’t expected it. I had come to this alternative school project expecting to meet people who were open-minded and free of prejudice, who wanted to break new ground with me, explore the limits of freedom and question social conventions – people who dared to stand up to the mainstream and wanted to change both themselves and the world.
Instead, I encountered arrogance, self-righteousness, exclusion, and contempt for anyone different. At the time, however, I did not yet realise the full extent of this. I wanted to belong. That is why I accepted the criticism directed at me, tried to fit in and earn my place. I worked on my High German (without local dialect recognisable) and made myself useful by contributing my organisational skills and professional knowledge to the school’s self-governance and by getting involved in various committees.
It took a long time before I spoke up again in a school forum – only once I was sure I could speak High German without an accent. A Berlin dialect might well have earned me more recognition, but that wouldn’t have been me. Despite everything, I wanted to remain true to myself.
Belonging was a question of status. Recognition went to those who thought, spoke and argued like those who saw themselves as an alternative to bourgeois society. In our alternative school community, everything was supposed to be different – thought differently, lived differently, organised differently. Yet it was precisely this demonstrative rejection of the bourgeois that revealed how little openness many actually showed towards other perspectives or ways of life. Instead, there was a subtle pressure to conform: one was expected to dress, speak and behave in a certain way. Anyone who deviated from this was quickly regarded as an outsider, ridiculed, criticised or marginalised.
Only many years later did I realise this supposed openness created its own conventions and constraints. Precisely where diversity and individuality were championed, genuine difference was often surprisingly unwelcome.
My classmates
But I wasn’t alone. I soon realised that, aside from the loud and dominant voices of a few, many of my classmates thought and felt much the same as I did. Gradually, I made friends with people who shared my views. We supported one another and stuck together. Even though we lacked the self-confidence to openly stand up to the loud, self-assured spokespeople, knowing we were not alone in our views gave us strength.
For example, in our class there was a group of four eloquent young men whom we called the ‘gang of four’. They tried, vociferously, to dominate the class and impose their views. For instance, they demanded the removal of a teacher they disapproved of. Time and again, their actions led to endless discussions and conflicts that ate into valuable lesson time. At first, we felt unable to match their rhetorical superiority. Time and again, they brought the same issues to the agenda, thereby bringing lessons to a standstill. Many of our classmates were annoyed by this and eventually inclined to give in – not out of conviction, but because they hoped the debates would finally stop and lessons could carry on.
However, a group of women, including me, refused to give in to this pressure. We tried to defend our position, but it was no easy task against the volume and persistence of the ‘gang of four’. The teachers deliberately stayed out of it. They regarded the disputes as a matter for the class community and believed that the students should resolve such conflicts themselves.
One classmate tried to mediate. K. was top of the class in English, and the reason for this was that he was an avid subscriber to the English music magazine Melodymaker. He had other qualities too: he was a Buddhist and, as such, was well-balanced and unflappable. His calm, level-headed manner often helped when we got carried away in heated discussions and came close to getting on each other’s throats.
I still remember those endless discussions. The atmosphere was tense; many were exhausted and irritated. To make the situation more bearable, I brought my knitting to class one day. I was knitting a wine-red jumper with a simple pattern – just plain enough that I couldn’t lose count despite the heated atmosphere. Knitting calmed me down.
Soon, some of my friends wanted to join in too. They’d borrow my knitting from time to time and carry on working on my jumper – sometimes almost frantically – less out of enthusiasm for knitting than out of a need to relieve their tension and avoid snapping at the annoying ringleaders. So, in a sense, the jumper was a collaborative effort. With so many hard-working hands, we finished it surprisingly quickly. Every time I put it on later, it reminded us of those heated arguments – and of how, with a bit of wool, two knitting needles and a dose of solidarity, we’d found a way to get through the situation together.
Within a short space of time, I’d found a circle of friends where I felt at ease. We got on well, studied together and supported one another.
One of my closest friends was G. from Britz. She was a single mum. We had a lot in common. Like me, she’d worked in an office and had both feet firmly on the ground. But she left school after just the first term. The self-directed learning within the open school concept was becoming increasingly overwhelming for her. She feared failing her A-level exams and losing her dream of a university degree and a professional career.
Eventually, she transferred to the Berlin-Kolleg. She hoped that there, in a more structured environment with clear guidelines, she would be better able to prepare for her exams. Unfortunately, we lost touch after that.
For me, the Berlin-Kolleg wasn't an option. I wanted to stay at this school.
Two other friends, I. and H., had actually done the opposite: they’d left the Berlin-Kolleg because they found the teaching there too bureaucratic and too school-like. They lived in a shared flat with their partners and H.’s twelve-year-old daughter. I often stayed with them – not just for study groups, but also for dinner, which I really enjoyed.
I was particularly impressed by the way they spent their free time. Once a week, they met in the living room for a reading and discussion group. At first, they studied August Bebel’s “Women and Socialism”, and later Marx’s “Capital”. I found these discussions interesting, but declined their invitation to join. The theoretical discussions seemed a bit dry to me, and besides, Berlin had so much more to offer that I wanted to discover.
As different as we students at the SFE were, we had one thing in common: money was tight.
Money, money, money! How did we earn our money?
The BAföG grant was enough to cover tuition fees and rent, but not living costs. That’s why most of us had to work part-time.
Many had poorly paid jobs, such as cleaning or stocking shelves in supermarkets. I was one of the few who earned a bit more. On the one hand, I typed up master’s theses and doctoral dissertations on my electric typewriter at home. On the other hand, I worked for an elderly journalist on Sundays. In his stately basement flat in Halensee, he would dictate his texts to me directly into a telex machine.
By 1977, this machine was actually already long out of date. Although it had a keyboard, the text I entered didn’t appear on a screen or on paper; it was simply output as punched tape. I then had to send this to various news agencies. The work required the utmost concentration, as I couldn’t check whether I’d made a typing error or whether full stops and commas were in the right places. Mistakes couldn’t be corrected. Looking back, it was an excellent exercise in concentration and accuracy. I used to earn 15 DM an hour working for him. My Sunday shifts regularly brought in 45 DM. That was good money back then.
A friend of mine, T., regularly took part in pharmaceutical trials and earned surprisingly well from them – around 1,000 DM per trial series. However, she had to put up with occasional side effects. On one occasion, after an allergic reaction to a cream, she showed up with a bright crimson face that lasted a couple of weeks. A few months later, she signed up again for the next trial nonetheless. T. played the drums in an all-female rock band. That was fun, but that didn’t bring in any money.
Another friend, B., had the most unusual job of us all: she worked in a peep show. There, she sat naked on a stool, knitting a jumper. Whenever someone put money into the machine, she’d put her knitting aside, stand up and dance to the music for a minute. As soon as the time was up, the music would stop, the visor would flip down, she’d be alone, sit back down and carry on knitting as if nothing had happened. Of all of us, she earned the most. And at least her knitting kept her warm. Later, she worked in family support, mainly looking after people with disabilities. She earned far less in this job, but she found great fulfilment in her work.
Freedom for personal development – often at the expense of others
The preservation of freedom for personal development was upheld as one of our school's fundamental principles. Discipline was therefore a taboo word and frowned upon. Unfortunately, this often meant that those who claimed this freedom for themselves did so at the expense of others – selfishly, without any regard for others.
One example of this is constantly turning up late. Lessons were supposed to start at 9 o’clock, but at that time there were often only a few students present alongside the teacher – usually the same ones. Because another five to ten students would arrive within the next 15 to 30 minutes, the start of the lesson was often delayed. As a result, we lost valuable teaching time while waiting. Those who, like me, arrived on time reacted with annoyance. They were the ones who lost out.
Some even turned up after 10 o’clock and looked at those present with complete indifference. As they had missed the material we’d already covered, they could barely follow the lesson and asked numerous questions about topics we’d discussed long ago. That was extremely frustrating.
What was so difficult about turning up on time for lessons? Of course, something unforeseen can always happen: a car breakdown, a flat bicycle tyre or a delayed underground train. Anyone can experience these incidents at some point. But turning up late regularly? Punctuality is expected in any employment relationship, and repeated lateness usually leads to warnings and, in extreme cases, can even result in disciplinary action under employment law. But our arguments were met with nothing more than a shrug, at best, or a remark that we were conformist or bourgeois. Excuse me?
Was this anti-authoritarian behaviour or rebellion against society? But we weren’t ‘society’ as a whole; we were fellow students who were disadvantaged by the behaviour of a few individuals. Many grumbled, but no one could argue against the principle of freedom. After all, everyone was free to make use of that freedom and behave as they pleased.
Only in the final term before the final exams did behaviour change. Suddenly, every minute of lesson time mattered. Lessons began on time. Additional study groups were organised to make up for lost time.
The pleasure principle
The pleasure principle is the psychological force that drives humans to seek immediate satisfaction and avoid pain.
Self-directed learning means having the freedom to decide for oneself when and what to learn, and how to learn it. However, this freedom requires self-discipline. Vocabulary must be learnt, and mathematical and chemical formulas practised and regularly revised – unless, of course, you are a genius.
Many of my classmates misunderstood the concept and confused the freedom our school offered with the pleasure principle. If someone doesn’t feel like coming to school and would rather do nothing, that is, of course, their decision. However, this has only a limited connection with self-directed learning, as the emphasis is on learning, not on not learning. With such an attitude, however, it becomes difficult to pass an exam – if, that is, you actually want to pass it.
The freedom of self-directed learning is therefore not boundless; it is always linked to the goals one wishes to achieve and the priorities one sets.
Misused freedom can lead to missed opportunities and, later on, regret. Unless, that is, one’s aim is not to pass the A-levels at all, but rather to use the freedom to gain other experiences or develop in other ways. That, too, is legitimate.
Take HJ, for example. He rarely attended school. He sought financial support to build his professional career as a political cabaret artist. So he would turn up regularly at the start of each term to register and secure his BAföG. He wasn’t the only one to do this, and many criticised such behaviour as fraud. Others supported him, as he worked hard to build up his theatre group. We were regularly invited to his cabaret performances. He was good, and we were proud of him.
Who were our teachers?
Our teachers were not much older than us, ranging from their mid-twenties to their late thirties. Only a few had completed formal teacher training. Most came from a wide variety of backgrounds – social work, politics, engineering or the humanities and social sciences. However, they all had one thing in common: they were enthusiastic about our school’s concept and wanted to use their skills to help further develop the project of self-directed learning.
The teachers had no guidelines, but were free to structure their lessons as they wished. Each teacher had their own idea of how to put self-directed learning into practice. The range of these ideas was particularly evident when comparing two subjects: social studies and German.
Our social studies teacher, L., a sociologist, was enthusiastic and often took a lively part in our school forum discussions. We admired her knowledge and quick wit. However, she took the concept of self-directed learning very literally. She expected us students to independently lead the discussion on a topic of our own choosing. She would sit in the circle, full of anticipation, waiting for us to fill the lesson with our contributions.
But we usually had little to say. Although we had chosen the topic because it seemed interesting to us, we had hardly any background knowledge. That was why we hoped to learn something from her and expected her to provide some input. Instead, an agonising silence often ensued. This frustrated us because we realised how little we knew about the topic and felt stupid and ignorant. It was just as frustrating for her, because she felt she was failing to live up to either her own standards or the school’s ethos. We did talk to her about it, but couldn’t find a solution. Often a sort of stalemate developed: who would give in first? Most of the time, it was our teacher. Eventually, she started providing us with information on the chosen topic. We were then relieved. Self-directed learning or not – what mattered most to us was learning something.
Our German teacher, Mr R., was completely different. He was a philosopher who’d studied German, history and philosophy, and his lessons were much more structured. This occasionally led to accusations that he wasn’t engaging sufficiently with the concept of self-directed learning, but was instead simply delivering traditional, teacher-centred lessons. For most of my classmates and me, however, his teaching method seemed more suitable. That was what we were used to.
Using the materials he had prepared, we discussed literature, history and social issues. This often led to lively discussions. By the end of the lesson, I felt that I had actually learnt and understood something. It was good to follow a structured lesson, as many of us were overwhelmed by the idea of spontaneous, entirely self-directed learning.
Today I believe that self-directed learning cannot simply be conjured up out of thin air, but must be learnt. Students must learn how to explore new material in their own individual way, evaluate information and build up knowledge independently. After all, every student learns differently. It is equally important to recognise and correct mistakes. Correction has nothing to do with patronising or criticism for its own sake.
Like me, many of my fellow students were initially overwhelmed by this form of learning, and we would have benefited from more guidance and structure. After a few semesters, however, as we gained more experience, self-directed learning became easier, and we began to appreciate it.
Under the pressure to perform whilst preparing for exams, however, we reverted to the familiar teacher-centred approach: a mechanical cramming of knowledge, often involving the mechanical memorisation in parrot fashion of facts without really understanding them – knowledge that could be recalled in the short term but soon faded from memory.
The power of the students
One distinctive feature of our school was that, at the end of each term, students could vote on whether they wanted to keep a teacher for another term or swap them for someone else. And we certainly made use of this opportunity.
This happened, for example, with our English teacher, A., an American. I liked her. Her lessons were lively, and I enjoyed learning from her. Nevertheless, she was voted out. A group of four men in my class felt they couldn’t learn with her. They made her life difficult for a whole term and eventually rallied most of the students against her. A group of women in my class, including me, supported her and wanted to keep her, but most of our classmates were fed up with the endless debate and eventually gave in. That marked the end of A.’s time at our school. I thought that was a great shame.
This rule allowing students to ‘vote out’ teachers was well-intentioned. It was designed to allow students to part ways with teachers with whom they were unable to work effectively. However, it also had its downsides. As a result, some teachers came under pressure not only to deliver good lessons, but above all to be popular.
This also meant, in some circumstances, pandering to the students and fraternising with them. Particularly successful in this regard were those who participated vociferously in forum discussions and received applause when they expressed particularly socially critical views. Only years later did I realise these contributions were often shallow and insubstantial. Other teachers won favour by cultivating close relationships with certain groups of students and meeting up with them in pubs in the evenings. This was particularly the case with the students who attended the evening school after lessons.
Our maths teacher, Mr M., was the complete opposite. He was quiet and reserved. He hardly ever took part in discussions about school policy and was therefore regarded by many as uninteresting, boring or ‘out of touch’. I liked him. He knew his maths and tried, with great patience, to pass this knowledge on to us.
When he realised how patchy our basic maths knowledge was, he even offered free tuition at his home on several Saturdays to any interested students. A small group of about six students gratefully accepted the offer. I was one of them and enjoyed going there, hoping to finally understand maths better. I have only vague memories of much of that time, but his cat has stayed in my memory: snow-white, with strikingly blue eyes. She always watched us suspiciously.
Despite his dedication, M. found it difficult to be accepted by the class. The outspoken ‘gang of four’ didn’t really know what to make of him, but they didn’t try to have him removed from the post. Presumably, they respected his subject knowledge and sensed that they could actually learn something from him.
Instead, another classmate stood out for his disrespectful behaviour. He regularly turned up half an hour late for lessons, then sat at his desk looking pointedly disinterested and burped loudly and uninhibitedly to himself. His behaviour made me uncomfortable, and I felt ashamed of him.
At the time, I wondered whether this wasn’t a very typical way for students to behave towards teachers: ‘Teach me something, but don’t bore me. But I’ll make it as difficult as possible for you!’ Or perhaps even: ‘I reject you because you know more than I do.’
But I hadn’t expected anything like that, particularly at our school. The school’s ethos was that the relationship between teachers and students should be characterised by mutual respect – or at least that was the aim.
Our maths teacher reacted to the disruption with remarkable composure. He ignored him and carried on with his lesson. After a year, however, he left our school. I don’t know what became of him.
Zeitgeist of social criticism and hostility towards achievement
The general atmosphere at our school and in parts of our ‘alternative’ milieu in Berlin at the time was characterised by a zeitgeist of critical attitudes towards existing society and an anti-hierarchical mindset. On the one hand, this led to some teachers being deliberately criticised; on the other, it meant that some teachers did not wish to exercise their authority – which was based on their subject knowledge, their academic training and their understanding of the examination regulations – and refrained from taking a stance that might expose them to potential criticism from students.
This anti-social attitude meant that some students (and some teachers) did not want to conform to social norms, but instead deliberately sought ways to rebel against society.
Take M., for example, one of my classmates. I liked him. He was a Berliner with a typical Berliner sharp tongue. He was funny and outspoken. Once, I bumped into him during the lunch break at the nearby supermarket. Despite the heat, he wore a woollen hat and seemed a bit distressed. As I got closer, I noticed that some blood was running down his cheek from his hat. I asked him if he was all right or needed help. He just waved me away, though, and paid for his Harzer cheese, a typical Berlin cheese speciality that I found rather an acquired taste. Outside the supermarket, I bumped into him again. He’d taken off his hat and, with a cheeky grin, proudly showed me the kilo of frozen steak he’d smuggled through the till, hidden under his hat. It all clicked for me then: that explained the trail of blood. I didn’t think it was right, but I had to laugh anyway, and I secretly admired his nerve. He justified his behaviour by saying that, as a schoolboy, he didn’t have much money. Okay, well then he shouldn’t have eaten steak, but something more within his means, such as hamburgers. Other classmates, however, hailed him as a hero. He’d shown society what he was made of. But M. unfortunately didn’t consider that this was theft and that the supermarket would have to recoup its loss by raising prices for all of us.
The prevailing spirit of social criticism meant that at our school, too, the view often prevailed that academic ambition was something to be questioned. Anyone who performed well, wanted to take their A-levels or go on to university was quickly labelled a ‘high-flyer’ or mocked as ‘A-level-obsessed’. Even some teachers openly and vociferously endorsed this attitude, emphasising another of the school’s guiding principles: the freedom of personal and creative development.
As a result, quite a few of my classmates left school without taking their A-levels. That was fine, as long as it was their decision and they saw an alternative way to develop themselves further.
But to me, that felt contradictory. The school promoted self-directed learning, yet anyone who used that freedom to set ambitious educational goals had to expect rejection.
Even back then, I thought this attitude was wrong. Whether or not people were obsessed with getting their A-levels. For me, it was simple: I wanted to open up new possibilities in my life and improve my future prospects. For me, the path to achieving this lay in taking the A-levels and going on to university. For me, that meant freedom for personal and creative development.
My friend and classmate, BJ, once summed this up perfectly. He said he was standing at the crossroads between a life as an unskilled labourer or a potential welfare recipient, and a university degree leading to a career. His remark stuck with me because it made the significance of that decision so clear. For him, there were only two options: continue working as a manual labourer and, if necessary, claim benefits, or take the Abitur, go to university, and climb the career ladder. His uncompromising view surprised me. For him, there seemed to be no middle ground – such as vocational training or another skilled occupation. I found it astonishing that he didn’t even consider these options.
Years later, I bumped into a former classmate, D., at a demonstration in Berlin. She had been intelligent and talented, but had left school without her A-levels. During our conversation, she told me that she had been living on benefits for years.
The irony was that her case worker was, of all people, one of those teachers who had vociferously criticised ambitious students at our school and encouraged others not to complete their education. Now he sat on the other side of the desk, dealing with the consequences of the decisions he had once helped to bring about. Whilst he himself enjoyed job security as a social worker, she had to bear the consequences of that decision for the rest of her life.
But for those of us who wanted to take the Abitur, the exam and the preparation for it were no walk in the park.
Self-directed learning – but in the end, there’s the exam
After five semesters – that is, two and a half years – the Abitur exam was due. As the SFE does not have state accreditation for examinations, students sit their Abitur as external candidates at a state school. The Abitur examination covers the subjects German, International Politics, Social Sciences, Mathematics, Biology, English, Chemistry and, optionally, French or Spanish.
Freedom and the discipline of hard work
The closer the exams came, the more reality caught up with us. Despite all the talk of freedom, school was no walk in the park. After all, we had to meet the same Abitur requirements as students at mainstream schools. – Except that those students had had years to prepare.
Exam preparations took up a lot of energy and demanded discipline and perseverance.
We organised study groups and sat mock exams. Our teachers supported us as much as possible and worked hard to get us through the exams.
In typical SFE style, a few months before the exams, we went on a week-long study trip to the countryside together with our teachers. It was actually a wonderful time.
During the day, we sat mock exams, went for walks and cooked together. In the evenings, we made music. Some brought their instruments; others improvised with whatever was to hand. Our German teacher played the out-of-tune piano until his fingers were bleeding.
It was chaotic, noisy and full of zest for life. Yet not everyone made it to breakfast or lessons on time the next morning.
Although many of us had learnt to think for ourselves and make decisions, we hadn’t necessarily developed the discipline required to stay on the ball in the long term. The pressure to perform increased and became overwhelming for some.
Some dropped out of school early, others failed their exams, whilst others called in sick and postponed the exam – or at least part of it – until the next term.
Self-governance – sharing responsibility
The SFE had a strictly grassroots, democratic and anti-hierarchical self-governing structure. There was neither a headteacher nor a director, nor any traditional school management. The school was run jointly by students and teachers. Formally, the teachers had no more authority than the students. The relationship was mostly friendly; everyone was on first-name terms and treated one another as equals.
However, the fact that this supposed equality was ultimately only formal was hardly ever discussed. After all, it went without saying that teachers had a considerable advantage in knowledge because of their professional training and experience.
The highest decision-making body was the school assembly, the plenary meeting. Here, all important matters were discussed and decided upon jointly by students, teachers and staff – ranging from restocking toilet paper and purchasing equipment to political activities and statements on current events. The individual classes dealt with their internal affairs and conflicts in so-called class conferences. There was no outside interference – unless it was expressly requested.
Although we employed an accountant and an administrative assistant, most organisational tasks were carried out collectively or on a rota basis. The students also organised the school's cleaning on their own initiative. For example, each week a different class was responsible for cleaning the entire school. Unsurprisingly, cleaning wasn’t exactly one of our top priorities. Consequently, the place often looked rather untidy and, at times, quite dirty.
A large part of the administrative work was carried out in committees, in which students and teachers were equally represented. There were committees for finance, social support, coordination and planning, as well as other areas of responsibility. Everyone could get involved here.
My involvement in the self-governance body
That was just right for me. The student council offered me a great opportunity to get involved in my school. I joined the finance and social committees. I enjoyed the work and felt at home there. Finally, I found something where my previous work experience came in handy.
On the Finance Committee, I gained insight into the school’s financial situation, its regular expenditure and income, and the need to manage finances wisely to ensure the school’s long-term financial stability.
The school received state funding from the Land of Berlin to cover staff and operating costs. Another source of income was the students’ tuition fees. In my time, these amounted to 150 DM per month. That was a lot of money, and not everyone could afford it. To ensure access to the school for people from all social backgrounds, a portion of the tuition fee revenue was channelled into a social fund. This allowed for a flexible approach to financial emergencies. In cases of hardship, tuition fees could be reduced, deferred or, in some instances, even waived.
This social fund played an important role in our work on the Social Committee. We managed it independently. Here, I regularly encountered fellow students who had fallen on hard times and were seeking support. In many cases, we could help. For example, we could waive or defer the school fees for a few months. We could grant loans for overdue rent or necessary purchases, linked to a realistic repayment plan.
In addition, we helped find a free or cheap fridge, affordable accommodation, or sourced baby formula and more. We tried to meet a wide range of requests with dedication, creativity, and ingenuity, and through our contacts with people willing to help.
Whilst working in the self-governing body, I came across two ‘old acquaintances’: two members of the ‘gang of four’, my rivals from school who had tried so eloquently to dominate our class discussions. Interestingly, they showed a completely different side to themselves here. Instead of being arrogant and opinionated, they came across as committed, took an interest in the school’s future and actively looked after classmates who had found themselves in difficult financial or social situations.
J. – a life after prison
J. was the oldest of us. Shortly before the start of the school year, he had been released from Tegel Prison in Berlin, where he had served a prison sentence of several years for a robbery. He spoke openly about his time in prison and about the fact that his father had been a police officer, though he never discussed the exact circumstances of his crime or his family.
In prison, J. had spent a lot of time in the library. Reading had evidently changed his outlook on life and was ultimately one reason he attended school after his release.
In class, we had endless discussions. J. had an unpleasant way of asking questions, often like an inquisitor. In doing so, he would frequently put the other person on the spot. Unfortunately, I have to admit that he was often right. Even so, it wasn’t exactly the most tactful way of doing things.
Outside the classroom, however, he also showed other sides to his character. He got involved in the school office and made himself useful in the school administration. He never took his A-levels, but when a post became vacant in the office, he took it and soon managed the school office very efficiently. He seemed content with that. The adult education centre had become his world.
I liked him, even though we always treated each other with a certain degree of caution. But ultimately, we respected one another.
M. – the spokesperson for the gang of four
M. was one of the spokespeople for the gang of four. He arrived for lessons on time every day in his VW bus and exuded a mixture of arrogance, power and influence. Lots of women fancied him. Not much was known about his past, but rumour had it that he’d been involved in drug dealing or other criminal activities. He also didn't seem short of money. Last semester he had passed his O-levels at the SFE and now continued his studies.
His motivation for taking his A-levels was clear: he wanted to study law.
He came from a working-class background and was a vocal critic of the so-called alternative scene, whose members wanted to change the world but wouldn’t even clear up their rubbish after a demonstration or a picnic. On his initiative, the school was at times – at least for a while – cleaned a little more thoroughly.
It was also he who would fly off the handle whenever drug paraphernalia was found in the toilets or on the landing. In particular, he warned of the danger of relapse for former drug addicts.
After our initial clashes in the classroom – which were often domineering and unpleasant, though his arguments could not always be dismissed out of hand – I began to sense that M. had other sides to him too. He looked after classmates who were in trouble, and you could rely on him.
We worked well together on the committees, organised our language study trip to Spain together, and set up study groups to prepare for our A-level exams. We respected one another. He and I were among the few who passed the exams.
Responsibility for the school’s future
In my second year at the SFE, I joined the school board. There, we tackled major, long-term issues, such as ever-rising rent costs and how to secure the school’s financial future by purchasing its own building.
This involved drawing up a financing plan, holding loan negotiations with various banks and searching for suitable properties. My previous experience in a bank’s credit department proved extremely helpful. The accusation that I was naïve and lacked sufficient practical experience clearly no longer held.
We laid the groundwork well. Shortly after I took my A-levels and left the school, the newly elected board was finally able to sign the purchase agreement. In 1980, the SFE, together with other alternative projects, acquired a former factory building in Kreuzberg, which later became known as the Mehringhof Cultural Centre.
This secured the school’s financial future for the time being. We could certainly be proud of that.
Incidentally, the SFE is still located in the same premises today.
And what about me? Through my consistent involvement, my commitment in class and my work in the school’s self-governing body, I earned the respect of my classmates and teachers, and over time my self-confidence grew too.
WHAT REMAINS?
Of the 30 students in my class, only five eventually passed the Abitur (A-levels).
I was one of them.
(A few more managed to pass the Abitur on their next attempt. )
At the time, I felt above all relieved and proud. I had achieved my goal. The Abitur opened up the opportunity for me to study and to continue my life in a way that I, as a secretary just a few years earlier, could scarcely have imagined.
Today, almost fifty years later, I see the SFE in a different light.
I owe this school a great deal. It gave me a second chance. It showed me that learning is possible without fear, constant supervision and blind obedience. It encouraged me to ask questions, speak my mind and get involved. I met people from completely different walks of life and this opened up a world to me that I didn't know existed. I learnt to take responsibility.
Above all, however, it gave me something I had never experienced at any other school: the feeling that I can determine the course of my own life.
My first experience at the SFE was the sit-in at the Berlin Senate. That was when I learnt that democracy means not simply accepting what others decide, but getting involved and standing up for a cause together with others.
Today, I would add: democracy does not just mean freedom and having a say. It also means taking responsibility. It also means taking knowledge seriously, giving others space, and not restricting the freedom of others through one’s own freedom.
Yet, as I recall, this is precisely where the SFE repeatedly fell short.
Self-directed learning didn’t work automatically just because nobody forced you to do it. Freedom didn’t mean you could turn up whenever you wanted without disrupting the others. It didn’t mean you only had to learn whatever you fancied at the time. And democratic participation didn’t mean that the loudest voice was automatically the most convincing.
I learnt to question authority. Only much later did I realise that specialist knowledge does not automatically mean oppression, and that a teacher who knows something I do not yet know is not necessarily my adversary.
I enjoyed the freedom to make my own decisions. It was only later that I realised that self-determination, without self-discipline, can easily turn into arbitrariness – and that one’s own freedom reaches its limits where it impinges upon the freedom and opportunities of others.
Was the SFE a democratic school of self-development – or hopeless chaos?
Judging by what I think about it today, it was probably both.
The SFE was a bold experiment that gave us the freedoms we desperately needed at the time. But, in my view, it overestimated people’s ability to handle this freedom independently and responsibly. It sought to abolish hierarchies, yet in doing so underestimated the value of experience and expertise. It aimed to facilitate self-directed learning, but sometimes forgot that self-determination, too, must be learnt. And whilst it sought to overcome social conventions, it ended up developing its own, often surprisingly rigid notions of what was ‘right’ and ‘alternative’.
All too often, freedom was confused with the pleasure principle, discipline was viewed as fundamentally negative, and achievement was undervalued.
Nevertheless, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on this school.
Perhaps precisely because of its contradictions.
It wasn’t suitable for everyone, and of course I can only speak for myself.
For even though I didn’t learn everything there that I should have learnt for my A-levels, I learnt something else that was at least as important: freedom is not the opposite of responsibility. Without responsibility, freedom becomes arbitrariness. And democracy only works when people not only demand their own rights, but are also prepared to take responsibility for the community.
That is perhaps the most important lesson I took away from my time at the SFE.
And that is why, if asked today what this school actually was, I would answer differently than I did back then:
It was neither just one thing nor just the other.
In many ways, it was ahead of its time. Perhaps at times it was even too far ahead. It was an experiment – a courageous, contradictory and sometimes chaotic experiment.
And perhaps that is precisely where its special value lay.
Despite all the criticism, I am grateful to have been there. The school was chaotic, contradictory and often exhausting. But it changed my life.
And what about the SFE today?
The School for Adult Education in Berlin still exists. What’s more, in 2016 it was awarded the German School Prize. This speaks volumes about the value of its approach and its remarkable longevity, now spanning more than five decades.
Of course, not all students successfully passed their A-levels. But for many of them, the SFE was nonetheless a turning point in their lives. It gave people the opportunity to take control of their lives, embark on new educational paths, and seize a second chance.
Perhaps that is ultimately this school’s greatest success: not just how many people have gained their Abitur there, but how many have found the courage, through it, to set their lives on a new course.
CONCLUSION:
Freedom is valuable, but it only realises its full potential when combined with responsibility, self-discipline and knowledge.
LL
P.S. Only recently a film has been made about the SFE "Berlin Rebel highschool". Hier is a photo. More information and a link to the film can be found on the SFE website: https://sfeberlin.de/berlin-rebel-high-school/
