George Schaller was unique because he never carried a gun. Others before him entered African gorilla country with trepidation and suspicion, armed and prepared for confrontation. But Schaller stepped into those forests and lowlands the way great teachers enter a classroom: with respect and curiosity[1]. Today, many among us are drawn to Schaller’s approach more than ever.
We hear that we are living in an age of trauma. Wars, political strife, and widespread meanness have seeped into the fabric of daily life and even schools, shaping our ecosystems and our hearts if we let them. Gorillas suffer no less, enduring poachers and habitat loss. These are not just external crises; they are internalized conditions. How we enter a space — be it a forest, a classroom, or a new year — shapes how we perceive and respond to the fear and threats around us, as well as the possibilities.
Schaller carried with him a quality of sanctuary that transcended the towering trees and dense undergrowth of the gorilla lowlands — and the fear it brought others. Imagine him entering a mist-hung jungle, with the drumming calls of distant silverbacks and the rustling of underbrush. To him, this was not a place of danger but a cathedral. His empty hands, the first in this region free of weapons, carried his faith in something deeper than dominance.
Unlike expeditions before him, Schaller’s work wasn’t about conquering the wild but understanding it. Moving quietly through the rainforest, he encountered ecosystems rich with the ancient rhythms of nature. The damp earth, the glinting dew on leaves, and the soft loam beneath his boots were more than a backdrop — they were the teacher. Schaller understood that fear and violence perpetuate themselves, and perhaps the gorillas understood, too. Instead of armor, he brought openness, calming the supposedly fearsome creatures that observed him from the shadows.
While Schaller’s primary focus was mountain gorillas, his surveys in 1959 with John Emlen included early assessments of Grauer’s gorillas of the lowlands (Gorilla beringei graueri), the mascot of The Grauer School, where I write on behalf of a future that may seem to these gorillas no more certain than their habitat. Schaller’s pioneering research laid the foundation for future primate studies and conservation efforts, influencing figures like Jane Goodall. Yet the lessons he drew were not confined to science. Schaller’s work showed a whole way of being — one rooted in presence, respect, and a refusal to dominate. This is the kind of legendary courage I wish for my students.
In the gorilla lowlands, trauma was no abstraction. Broken branches from poachers’ snares and the cautious eyes of elder gorillas bore silent testimony to generations of human brutality. Schaller saw that trauma shapes how we approach the world. For him, survival wasn’t about arming against threats but disarming our own impulses for control and fear.
Like Schaller, the best leaders today step into uncertainty and complexity without the armor of authority or the weapons of preconceived notions. Teachers and school leaders, in particular, navigate an age of trauma that weighs on the spirits of those they guide. The delicate balance of the lowland gorillas poses a similar challenge to us. Despite their immense strength, Grauer’s silverbacks lead not through aggression but through presence — quiet strength tempered by gentleness.
Schaller’s notebooks, filled with meticulous observations of gorilla family bonds, moments of play, and quiet endurance, tell a story of leadership grounded in trust and connection. These qualities are needed in our schools and communities.
Last week, amidst more school tragedies and gun violence, I heard someone say: “A heavily armed populace ensures that the balance of power remains with the people, not the government.” Such statements, amplified by fearful social media and hearsay, presume that fear and force are the natural state of things. This mindset, like a poacher’s snare, infects the cultures of schools and organizations, perpetuating trauma rather than healing it.
Schaller’s example shows us another way. We can embody sanctuary in our own lives. In classrooms, boardrooms, and family circles, we can choose to enter each day with respect and curiosity. This choice disarms fear and builds trust. When I first heard Schaller’s story, I thought: this is Socrates in the jungle — a seeker of wisdom, leading through questions and openness.
As Jane Goodall noted in her interview with Adam Grant: “And when you consider those who’ve made it to the top, the alpha males, you know, there are some who just use physical strength, and they’re aggressive and slightly brutal, and do a lot of attacking. They don’t last as long as those that use their intelligence. And they use that intelligence in different ways.[2]” I believe this.
The most powerful image from Schaller’s work is not of dominance but trust, as a form of knowing: a mother gorilla cradling her infant in the forest shafts of morning light, her dark eyes meeting Schaller’s across a clearing, unafraid. This was more than a scene of survival; it was a testament to the fragile, hard-earned optimism that trust can bring.
As we step into a new year, we can carry this vision with us. Like Schaller and the great silverbacks, let’s lead and follow with presence and gentleness, creating sanctuaries of peace and curiosity wherever we go, especially at our beautiful schools.
[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xO4nHNlQx0
[2] https://www.ted.com/podcasts/jane-goodall-leadership-lessons-from-primates-transcript
Join the Small Schools Movement!
Would you like your organization or small learning community showcased in our member spotlight? If you are not yet a member of the Small Schools Coalition, we welcome you to become a friend free of charge.
If you are already a member, contact us to discuss how we can give you the complimentary platform to show the entire world what makes your small school special!
Recent Comments