Richard Keyser, Jr. reads aloud from "I Will Survive," a poem he composed at the Baraka School.
This film resonated with my own experience in working with African-American families. Overwhelmingly, they have told me of their fears for their children, particularly their sons. In our book, Boys Into Men: Raising Our African-American Teenage Sons, my husband and I describe the "minefield" that many Black families, such as those in the film, face in raising their sons to manhood. We advocate for efforts to "take our sons back from the streets." The Baraka School is a program that represents that effort at its best. It counters the "self-fulfilling prophecy" of failure that so many of them encounter in urban school systems and the staggering statistics that one in three Black men in their 20s is either incarcerated, on drugs or under the control of the criminal justice system. It taps the resiliency and the desire to "be somebody" that so many of the boys in the film express.
Their year at the Baraka School is a life-changing one for all of the boys. They learn conflict resolution, alternatives to violence, the ability to believe in themselves, the value of cooperative teamwork, academic skills and the will to make a difference in their world. We see their transformation from scared, homesick boys to strong, Black young men.
This film offers a powerful message of hope to African-American boys, their families and all who are concerned about their future. That future is characterized by an eloquent poem read by one of the boys, entitled "I Will Survive." This is a deeply inspirational documentary that will touch the hearts of all who view it.
Nancy Boyd-Franklin, Ph.D., is the co-author of Boys Into Men: Raising Our African-American Teenage Sons and author of Black Families in Therapy: Understanding the African-American Experience.
Montrey Moore in class during the summer orientation for the Baraka School
As I watched The Boys of Baraka I thought a lot about the kids I got to know while working on my book, There Are No Children Here. They postured and posed. They spoke of the violence in their community without affect, without emotion. They seemed hardened and distant. But as I got to know them, it became clear that much of it was their own manner of self-protection from the harsh realities around them. For a long time I believed that given the pressures — either within the home or on the streets — for so many of these children, the answer was to pull them out their environment, partly to show them something different, but equally importantly to give them an emotional break from the tumult around them. Watching "The Boys of Baraka" reinforced that belief while also pointedly underscoring the paradox which I've long struggled with: being away from troubled family members can cause other anxieties, not the least of which is a sense of helplessness, of being unable to assist a brother or sister or parent in need. (I so felt for Devon when he called home, and asked his grandmother where his mom was; his grandmother lied, and told him she still hadn't come home when in fact she was back in jail. From Devon's face, I believe he knew.) It can also create a sense of guilt. Why me?
The strength and the beauty of The Boys of Baraka is in its absolute loyalty to these boys' stories, to the unexpected twists and turns that confront them. I did wonder, though, why the school chose to establish itself in Kenya. It didn't seem that the boys had much contact with Kenyans or with the Kenyans' way of life. They could just as easily been in the hills of New England or in the mountains of Colorado. And while I found myself in awe of Montrey's transformation — he not only survives but in the end blossoms — there are the two brothers, Richard and Romesh, who come out of the experience, it seems, unaffected. I've seen that before. Years ago, I had helped a teenage boy from Chicago's West Side get into boarding school. For a year he thrived, but then as the travails of his family pulled on him (he later told me he felt like he'd abandoned them) he buckled. He'd call me constantly, asking me to check in on them. To bail a brother out of jail. To help his mother out with the rent. To buy school clothes for a younger sister. In the end, being disconnected got to be too much for him. He sabotaged himself, and managed to get himself expelled. This experience, as well as The Boys of Baraka, suggests to me that we can't rely solely on programs which take kids away from their families and their neighborhoods if we're unwilling to do anything to reinforce and rebuild those same families and neighborhoods. That was certainly brought home in this film when the boys are home for summer vacation and then learn that the school has to close because of security concerns. Some filmmakers might have jumped ship, but not Ewing and Grady. They kept right on filming, and we should be forever grateful. What they ended up with is a much more complicated, rich and edifying story. This is one important film. Riveting and daringly honest.
Introduction
"Their year at the Baraka School is a life-changing one for all of the boys. They learn conflict resolution, alternatives to violence, the ability to believe in themselves, the value of cooperative teamwork, academic skills and the will to make a difference in their world. We see their transformation from scared, homesick boys to strong, Black young men."
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"Everybody is indicted for not thinking and not doing and pretending that they don't know. This movie requires that people get up and save these children. That's the requirement. The children are telling you in this movie: 'We want to be saved.'"
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"'The Boys of Baraka' suggests to me that we can't rely solely on programs which take kids away from their families and their neighborhoods if we're unwilling to do anything to reinforce and rebuild those same families and neighborhoods." Read more »
Nancy Boyd-Franklin
The Boys of Baraka is a wonderful and profoundly moving film. We are drawn in by the compelling stories of each of these boys as the film traces their challenges at home: drugs, violence, poverty, failing schools, and incarcerated parents. More importantly, it captures the strengths in each of these boys: their determination, courage, and their will to go on. The love, compassion, and spirituality in their extended families is also clearly shown as they make the sacrifice and send their sons to the Baraka School, with the hope of a brighter future for each of them.
This film resonated with my own experience in working with African-American families. Overwhelmingly, they have told me of their fears for their children, particularly their sons. In our book, Boys Into Men: Raising Our African-American Teenage Sons, my husband and I describe the "minefield" that many Black families, such as those in the film, face in raising their sons to manhood. We advocate for efforts to "take our sons back from the streets." The Baraka School is a program that represents that effort at its best. It counters the "self-fulfilling prophecy" of failure that so many of them encounter in urban school systems and the staggering statistics that one in three Black men in their 20s is either incarcerated, on drugs or under the control of the criminal justice system. It taps the resiliency and the desire to "be somebody" that so many of the boys in the film express.
Their year at the Baraka School is a life-changing one for all of the boys. They learn conflict resolution, alternatives to violence, the ability to believe in themselves, the value of cooperative teamwork, academic skills and the will to make a difference in their world. We see their transformation from scared, homesick boys to strong, Black young men.
This film offers a powerful message of hope to African-American boys, their families and all who are concerned about their future. That future is characterized by an eloquent poem read by one of the boys, entitled "I Will Survive." This is a deeply inspirational documentary that will touch the hearts of all who view it.
Bill Cosby
Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady: Do you know kids like Richard and Romesh?
Bill Cosby: I was all of those kids. That's my neighborhood in North Philadelphia in the housing project. In 1949 I graduated from 6th grade and my teacher wrote a whole bunch of wonderful things about me, but that I needed to be watched and I needed people to stay on me about my homework and what was due, so I couldn't get away with anything. Well, I went from "Satisfactory" grades to "O" grades, which in those days meant "Outstanding. So my point is what did that film show that the boys needed? It wasn't giraffes, it wasn't a place where they were so far from the airport that they couldn't run away. That wasn't it. They needed someone to put a body on them.
If people don't do better with our children in the cities, this film will be like the writings of W.E. B. DuBois and Carter G. Woodson; you'll pick it up 60 years later, put the film on DVD and say "You know, the same thing is happening today." We're not talking about billions of dollars of change, we're talking about individuals walking in and saying, "this is not good enough, we're going to do this and we're going to do that." We need to jump on people and grab them by the throat and say "You're killing our children. Not only are you letting them fall through the cracks, but you're a part of opening the cracks so that they don't have to fall, they can just walk on in." And that's from the neighborhood to outside to the school ... everybody is indicted in this. Everybody is indicted for not thinking and not doing and pretending that they don't know.
This movie requires that people get up and save these children. That's the requirement. The children are telling you in this movie: "We want to be saved."
Alex Kotlowitz
In The Boys of Baraka, I suppose there's a lot to be forlorn about: the unrelenting violence, the drug-addicted and absent parents, the lousy school, the decrepit housing. But the thing about it is, you come away from this film smiling. You come away cheering. There's one pretty incredible victory in this film, and given all that you've seen and heard, one triumph feels like enough. But should it be?
As I watched The Boys of Baraka I thought a lot about the kids I got to know while working on my book, There Are No Children Here. They postured and posed. They spoke of the violence in their community without affect, without emotion. They seemed hardened and distant. But as I got to know them, it became clear that much of it was their own manner of self-protection from the harsh realities around them. For a long time I believed that given the pressures -- either within the home or on the streets -- for so many of these children, the answer was to pull them out their environment, partly to show them something different, but equally importantly to give them an emotional break from the tumult around them. Watching "The Boys of Baraka" reinforced that belief while also pointedly underscoring the paradox which I've long struggled with: being away from troubled family members can cause other anxieties, not the least of which is a sense of helplessness, of being unable to assist a brother or sister or parent in need. (I so felt for Devon when he called home, and asked his grandmother where his mom was; his grandmother lied, and told him she still hadn't come home when in fact she was back in jail. From Devon's face, I believe he knew.) It can also create a sense of guilt. Why me?
The strength and the beauty of The Boys of Baraka is in its absolute loyalty to these boys' stories, to the unexpected twists and turns that confront them. I did wonder, though, why the school chose to establish itself in Kenya. It didn't seem that the boys had much contact with Kenyans or with the Kenyans' way of life. They could just as easily been in the hills of New England or in the mountains of Colorado. And while I found myself in awe of Montrey's transformation -- he not only survives but in the end blossoms -- there are the two brothers, Richard and Romesh, who come out of the experience, it seems, unaffected. I've seen that before. Years ago, I had helped a teenage boy from Chicago's West Side get into boarding school. For a year he thrived, but then as the travails of his family pulled on him (he later told me he felt like he'd abandoned them) he buckled. He'd call me constantly, asking me to check in on them. To bail a brother out of jail. To help his mother out with the rent. To buy school clothes for a younger sister. In the end, being disconnected got to be too much for him. He sabotaged himself, and managed to get himself expelled. This experience, as well as The Boys of Baraka, suggests to me that we can't rely solely on programs which take kids away from their families and their neighborhoods if we're unwilling to do anything to reinforce and rebuild those same families and neighborhoods. That was certainly brought home in this film when the boys are home for summer vacation and then learn that the school has to close because of security concerns. Some filmmakers might have jumped ship, but not Ewing and Grady. They kept right on filming, and we should be forever grateful. What they ended up with is a much more complicated, rich and edifying story. This is one important film. Riveting and daringly honest.