Cats are cute :D

What a Mongoose Can Teach Us About Fairness in Education

When nature quietly models what systems often forget

Somewhere in the wild grasslands of Uganda, just before dawn, a group of small, cat-like animals begins to stir. The banded mongoose is not a creature that usually draws attention. But when researchers observed their birthing patterns, they found something quietly profound—something that challenges how we think about fairness and how we design systems of care, including those in education.

In each group, most pregnant females give birth on the same night. Scientists call this “birth synchrony,” but it creates something even more meaningful: a “veil of ignorance.” The pups, all born at once, look, smell, and sound nearly identical. Even their mothers can’t tell them apart.

What follows is remarkable. Since no mother knows which pup is hers, they begin caring for them all. Not equally—but equitably. The weaker, underweight pups are allowed more time to suckle. Those who might have been overlooked in a strict parental preference system are given what they need to survive, grow, and catch up. Within weeks, the weight disparities vanish. The litter becomes level.

That idea that fairness is not about sameness but what each one needs is not new. Fairness means recognizing that different starting points call for different kinds of support. That’s the heart of equity. But we don’t always see it practiced, especially in large systems like education. And increasingly, we hear strong voices questioning the very idea of equity, arguing that it lowers standards or compromises merit. Yet here it is—in the wild. Quiet. Undebated. Natural. A community choosing not uniformity but care calibrated to need.

This image of fairness in the mongoose world finds an echo in the work of cognitive neuroscientist Helen Abadzi. She spent years studying how children—especially those from disadvantaged backgrounds—learn best. Her message is clear: if we want education to work for everyone, we must design for difference, not assume sameness.

Abadzi points out that many children come into school already behind—not because they are less capable, but because they’ve had fewer chances to develop the cognitive fluency needed for formal learning. Slower processing speed, fewer books at home, unstable environments—these early hurdles add up. And yet, most schools treat these children the same as everyone else, expecting them to keep pace in a system that was never built with them in mind.

But just like the banded mongooses, Abadzi suggests that the answer isn’t favouritism—it’s calibration. If a child struggles with fluency, they may need more repetition, more visuals, and more time. If attention spans are low, lessons may need to be shorter, more focused, and less cluttered. These aren’t grand solutions. They’re quiet design shifts—subtle changes that respect the learner’s starting point.

The beauty of the banded mongoose story lies in its gentleness. No one told them to be fair. They simply couldn’t do otherwise. The veil of ignorance left them no choice but to care for all.

In the case of humans, fairness is not a matter of chance or confusion—it’s a conscious choice. In our classrooms, we don’t have a veil of ignorance. We do know which child comes from which background. And that gives us both the burden and the gift of choice. Because we can see the difference, we are called to respond—not with pity or sameness, but with intention and care. With a commitment to offering each child what they need to thrive.

Fairness, then, is not about blindfolding ourselves. It is about seeing clearly and acting with compassion and precision.