A documented account of safeguarding failures at Tien Shan International School (TSIS) — an English-medium school in Almaty, Kazakhstan — focused on transparency, accountability, and the protection of students.
April 2026
If you've found your way here, you probably have some connection to Tien Shan International School. You may be a parent, a student, an alumnus, or a teacher. Whoever you are, you are welcome here.
We are Joe and Sharon Byerly. We served at Tien Shan International School, most recently from 2023–2025. We worked directly with students in teaching, chaplaincy, and support roles. We left in January 2025.
We did not leave quietly, and we did not leave without reason.
We left after raising concerns about the handling of reported misconduct, the treatment of students, and the response of leadership to documented issues. Over time, it became clear that those concerns would not be addressed transparently within the system.
This publication exists for one reason: transparency.
Note: Throughout this account, an asterisk (*) indicates documented events supported by records, communications, or corroborating testimony.
A chronological account of what was reported, and what happened next.
Sharon Byerly · April 14, 2026
It's been nearly a year since we left Kazakhstan — a year which has simultaneously been both the longest and the shortest of our lives. I've gone back and forth trying to decide if it's even worth sending a letter like this, but if for no other reason than my own ability to move forward, I believe it's necessary. My hope, though, is that this letter can be enlightening for you as well.
Our exit from the school (Joe's and mine) was abrupt, and likely confusing for many of you. To be honest, it was confusing for us as well. But it's hard to explain without going back to the beginning of the school year, August 2024.
The year started off with Joe and I feeling more confident than ever in our roles in the school, and excited about the direction it seemed the school was going. We were part of a newly formed child safety team, and we had lots of ideas about how to incorporate what we were learning from TCKTraining.com into the fabric of the school. It seemed like the administration was on board with creating better awareness for families, teachers, and students themselves about the kinds of difficulties that TCKs face, and about preventing the kind of harm that can quietly follow them into adulthood.
That confidence fell apart in the very first child safety meeting, when Cecily Bader admitted, in front of school leadership, to engaging in what she described as "a lot of" grooming behavior.
Nothing came from that admission, despite both the Middle School principal/Child Safety Team lead and the High School principal being in the same room. And I don't think anyone ever would have followed up, except that within a few weeks there began a string of disclosures — from four teachers and seven students — who came forward to express discomfort with the way Cecily was interacting with students.
No one on the child safety team was surprised by these reports. We had all seen concerning behavior at different moments, but none of us realized how deep the problem had become, or how many students were experiencing it.
I personally received reports from two of those students and was part of the response team that sifted through all the reports to categorize the violations of our child safety policy. We compiled everything into an eleven-page document and submitted our findings to the administration, as required by the school's own safeguarding procedures.
For the record: This was an extremely difficult and painful process for everyone involved on the child safety team. None of us were "out to get" Cecily. None of us approached this with personal motives or grievances. It was heartbreaking to see the full picture come together and to realize that, whether intentional or not, students were being harmed. But our responsibility was to the students, first and foremost.
At that point, I truly believed our role as a response team was complete. I believed — naively, as it turns out — that once the concerns were clearly presented, there would be a process of accountability, reflection, and change. I thought there would be a shared understanding that the well-being of students had to come first.
That is not what happened.
I don't place all of the blame on Cecily. The administration failed her as well. Instead of clearly outlining the violations and providing a structured path for accountability and behavioral change, their (heavily altered) findings letter began by affirming her contributions to the school. When the concerns were addressed, they were presented in vague and incomplete terms, without clarity, without specificity, and without a defined path forward.
This failure was not only passive; in our experience, it was also shaped by board-level influence, where Jonathan McDonald, acting in his role as a board member, manipulated aspects of the child safety process and discredited the persons and work of the child safety team.
Given that, it is perhaps not surprising that Cecily's response was one of denial, suggesting that others were simply "jealous of her relationships with students."
Additional students came forward, sharing something that had not previously been known: that Cecily had discussed her ongoing personal struggles with pornography in classroom settings. This occurred in at least two co-ed classes — the Class of 2025 in their 11th grade health class, and the Class of 2027 in their 8th grade health class.
These disclosures were deeply concerning, not only because of the explicit nature of the content itself, but because they occurred without administrative or parental knowledge or consent. Parents were never informed. When the child safety team learned about this, our immediate instinct was to communicate transparently with families so they could support and process this with their children. That communication was never sent, because the administration did not support it.
At every point where there was an opportunity to respond clearly, responsibly, and transparently — to students, to parents, and to staff — those opportunities were missed.
And those missed opportunities have had real and lasting consequences. They have affected the students directly involved. They have affected students who sensed something was wrong but were left in confusion. They have affected families who were not given the information they needed to support their children. They have affected teachers who tried to respond appropriately and were instead pushed out of the community.
By January 2025, it became clear to us that nothing we said or did was making a meaningful difference. The very systems that were supposed to protect students were no longer functioning in that way. In some cases, those systems seemed to be working against the very people trying to uphold them.
We were called "woke" for listening to students and taking their concerns seriously, as if caring about the safety and dignity of children is a purely secular sentiment. As if advocating for the vulnerable is optional.
And as the concerns themselves could not be easily dismissed, the focus shifted to discrediting the people raising them. Our character, our motives, and our integrity were questioned in ways that are difficult to fully describe.
There is a particular kind of damage that happens when your own community turns against you, not because you have done something wrong, but because you refused to stay silent.
Joe was told that he was "trying to destroy the school" because he continued to bring forward concerns about leadership decisions and safeguarding failures. That was never our intention. But if the choice is between protecting an institution's reputation and protecting the well-being of students, that is not a difficult choice for me.
And I would ask you, sincerely: Is it a difficult choice for you?
Because that is the question that sits underneath everything that has happened.
This letter is not written out of anger. It is written out of grief, and out of a deep concern for the students and families who are still part of the community. It is also written with the hope that greater awareness can lead to greater accountability — because without accountability, there is no real safety.
We loved this community. We invested in it. We believed in what it could be. And that is precisely why this has been so difficult to process, and why it has taken so long to say anything publicly.
But silence — in situations like this — does not protect anyone.
My hope is not to tear anything down. My hope is that by telling the truth, there is still a chance for something better to be built — something safer, more transparent, and more aligned with the values that the school claims to hold.
Legal Notice: In February 2026, both Campus Crusade for Christ (CRU) and the International Mission Board were placed on formal legal notice regarding the safeguarding concerns and the way they have been handled. Their responses were vague; they neglected to take responsibility and didn't engage with what had been shared.
— Sharon Byerly, Tien Shan Alumnus (1999–2008), Teacher (2013–2016, 2023–2025)
We kept speaking. We kept advocating. But trauma kept us from telling this story…until now.
We didn't plan to do this. For months, even after we left, we told ourselves we were done. Done with the meetings. Done with the tension. Done with the quiet calculations of what we could and couldn't say. We knew at some point we would need to move on.
But the truth refuses to stay silent.
In January 2025, my wife and I left Tien Shan International School. We didn't leave because we were burned out. We didn't leave because of conflict or personality differences. We didn't leave because of the difficulty of the task.
We left because a teacher engaged in grooming behaviors with students,* and the system responsible for protecting those students failed. Not once. Not accidentally. Not because of a lack of information. It failed repeatedly, even as the evidence grew clearer.
This didn't come out of nowhere. On August 29, 2024, during a child safety meeting, a teacher self-reported grooming behavior.* Two weeks later, another teacher reported concerns about that same individual.* An investigation began.
Between September and December 2024:
• 7 students came forward*
• 3 additional staff members reported concerns*
• The accounts were independent, consistent, and corroborating
• The teacher's own self-report aligned with what others were describing
This was not ambiguous. This was not rumor. This was not a single misunderstanding.
When the findings were presented, administration altered* the documented findings, weakening the conclusions and reshaping the report to make the situation appear less serious. Language was softened. Conclusions were minimized. The reality of what had happened was reshaped into something easier to manage.
These things weren't done for the good of students. They were done to uphold the reputation of the institution.
At the same time, the teacher's sending organization was informed. And they were ready to pull them from the field. But then the organization was told by administration that the situation was being handled.* Behind that phrasing, students were still carrying what had happened. Staff were still trying to raise concerns. And those responsible for acting were choosing containment over accountability.
We were part of the child safety team. We sat in the meetings. We heard the reports. We saw the pattern forming in real time. And we watched, over and over again, as opportunities to act were deferred, redirected, or diluted.
Eventually, we reached a point where staying meant participating. Not actively, but implicitly. And we couldn't do that. So we left.
We didn't start speaking immediately. We tried to process. We tried to move forward. We tried to convince ourselves that leaving was enough.
But here's what we couldn't stop thinking about: The students are still there. The system is still in place. The same dynamics that allowed this to happen haven't meaningfully changed. And silence doesn't protect anyone.
This wasn't a failure of people having the right information. It was a failure of response. People knew. People reported. People documented. And still, the system chose protection of itself over protection of students.
We're speaking now because we believe breaking the silence matters more than our comfort. And because the cost of silence is not theoretical. It's carried by real people. Some of them are still there.
Fear, trauma, and the system that enforces silence.
One of the first questions people ask is: "If this was so serious, why didn't you speak out sooner?" It's a fair question. But it assumes something that isn't true. It assumes that speaking is simple.
Speaking up inside a system like this is costly. Not eventually. Immediately.
Tien Shan is not just a school. It is a system built around preservation — of reputation, stability, and continuity. And when something threatens those things, the system responds. Not by asking "Is this true?" but by asking "What happens if this becomes known?"
When concerns are raised, especially serious ones, the response is not neutral. It becomes protective. And that protection shifts toward leadership, the institution, and the appearance of safety. Not necessarily toward students.
In August 2024, Cecily Bader confessed* in a Child Safety Team meeting to engaging in "a lot" of grooming behavior. She was emotional. Shaken. It was not ambiguous. And nothing happened. No immediate action. No escalation. The meeting moved on.
That moment explains more than anything else.
Everyone in that room understood something: speaking would have consequences. Not abstract consequences. Personal ones. People knew what happens to those who push too hard, what happens to those who disrupt the system, what happens to those who refuse to let something go. And so they stayed quiet.
When Joe reported the head of school for mishandling abuse cases involving students and staff:
• He was told he was trying to destroy the school
• His motives were questioned
• His credibility was undermined
• Students were told he was "delusional"*
• Board members reinforced that narrative
• Sharon was pressured to doubt what Joe experienced*
That is what happens when someone breaks the pattern.
Staff told the Byerlys directly: they had been harmed. They had seen harm done to others. But they would never speak publicly against leadership. Because they had "given up fighting."
That is not apathy. That is learned survival.
Fear doesn't just silence people once. It conditions them. People often assume that if it were really that bad, more people would say something. But the opposite is often true. The more costly it is to speak, the fewer people will.
We did not wait because it wasn't serious. We waited because we were not able to speak. Trauma does not produce clarity. It produces shutdown. It has taken time — distance from the system — to process what happened. To regain stability. To speak without being overwhelmed by it.
In a system like Tien Shan, silence is not the absence of concern. It is the presence of fear.
Not students. Not staff. It protects itself.
There is a belief that most people carry about schools like Tien Shan. It's a reasonable belief: that the primary goal is to protect students. But what we experienced tells a different story.
Tien Shan operates like many institutions. Its primary priority? Its own survival. That includes reputation, stability, donor confidence, and organizational relationships. When those are threatened, decisions begin to shift.
When Sharon spoke with the head of school about TCK advocacy, she emphasized prevention — helping students and their families before harm occurs.
"You can't stop bad things from happening to TCKs."
— Head of School, in response to TCK prevention advocacyThat statement reveals a mindset that sees harm as inevitable — not preventable.
When Sharon was later asked to build a TCK advocacy cohort, the material was rejected immediately. No discussion. No exploration. When she suggested bringing in an external audit of the school's TCK advocacy program, it was dismissed outright.
In 2024, after a session led by an adult TCK describing real and personal hardship, leadership responded: "That doesn't happen here." But it did. To many students over many years.
A staff member reported: "I've been here for months and never had a background check." They were shocked. These were all teachable moments for the school. Instead, they were ignored.
In Fall 2022, a student disclosed ongoing emotional and physical abuse and neglect. Multiple staff verified the situation.
"Unless there are bruises, there's nothing we can do."
— Head of School, in response to a student's disclosure of abuseThat student remains in that situation to this day.
When concerns were raised about the head of school, board members responded: "We must protect [him]." Not: "We must investigate this." That distinction matters.
Across situations, the pattern is consistent: when faced with a choice between protecting people and protecting the institution, the institution is prioritized. This is not about one person or one incident. It is about a system that minimizes risk until it becomes unavoidable, resists accountability, and protects itself when challenged.
Parents often ask: "Is this a safe place for my child?" A better question is: "What happens when something goes wrong?" Because that is where you see what a system truly protects.
You are not alone. If you have experienced or witnessed harm connected to Tien Shan International School, you can share your story confidentially.
Submit a Report Use Google Form InsteadThe Google Form is hosted by Google and is not anonymous — Google logs your IP and can associate the submission with your account if you're signed in. The form on this site does not have those issues.
We understand the weight of speaking about these things.
We also understand the cost of silence.
This space exists because transparency and accountability matter —
especially when the well-being of students is involved.