The metal bars that adorned the windows of the Anani Memorial school in the Nima neighborhood of Accra, Ghana, reminded me of old American jails—black, rusted, perfectly spaced for confinement. Except for this time, it was those on the outside of the building who were left looking almost like prisoners, gripping the bars and staring stone-faced at the kids singing and dancing for the visiting Americans inside.

I sat by the barred windows and briefly made eye contact with a woman outside. She smiled at me, widely and mischievously. I did the white person head nod, smiling with my lips and nothing else, too sheepish to offer anything authentic. I looked away.

The classroom had around 40 desks, with three to four kids at each one. The pathways between the desks were lined with kids standing, sitting, playing. A sea of laughter and unintelligible wailing flooded the room.

In Ghana, elementary and middle school education has been free and obligatory since 1995. However, high school, while being government-run, required tuition. That was until this year, when the chaotic rollout of a new government program intended to provide free secondary education ended up creating just as many problems as it did solutions. There were too many students and not enough space. I was reminded of the new program when staring at the hundreds of kids packed into this one classroom. There were kids of age outside the building, staring through the window. I wasn’t able to find out why exactly they weren’t in school.

I thought back to my own elementary school. I remembered the large and color-coded U.S. map painted on the concrete in the center of the courtyard. I remembered the swings, the slides, the large and open green fields for running and playing. I recalled my friend Jake getting expelled for bringing his father’s knife to class. He had threatened to stab a girl for making fun of his appearance. He was known as the poor kid in school. His clothes were always oversized and filthy with the odor cigarettes and ash. I remember feeling bad for him.

The kids at Anani had a lot less than Jake did. No one kid appeared better dressed or more put together than another. They wore matching purple uniforms with an array of different closed-toe and slip-on shoes. Everyone appeared happy and cheerful towards one another. Yet, the happiness was contained within the school. In order to get to Anani, you had to walk through a set of snaking concrete paths, jumping over sewers and trash along the way. The sounds of school children screaming and playing appeared to descend from the heavens—an auditory reprieve from the destitute faces and pathways that surrounds me. I looked up.

A group of kids took turns reciting poems, speeches, and song. Many spoke three languages: Twi, French, and English. More than one began by saying “ladies and gentlemen,” before diving headfirst into a collection of spoken aphorisms and motivational speeches. One girl, maybe 10, proud and defiant, belted her voice across the room, serenading us with poetry that sounded familiar but distant. When she finished, I could see the beginnings of a smile forming in her eyes, but her lips stayed put. I could sense her need to be vulnerable. Yet, I could also sense her overwhelming fear to do so in front of strangers. As if she intuitively knew the power of a smile. How a smile both kills and cures. How it hurts and heals at the same time. How a simple smile could both destroy and rebuild. How it can scream and whisper in the same breathe.

I looked away.

Video by Kevin Wang