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Bringing English to India’s Forgotten Communities: Stories from the Frontlines of Hope
- Akshar Kothapalli
- Sep 5
- 5 min read
The classroom doesn’t look like one.
There are no walls—just tarpaulin sheets stretched between bamboo poles, flapping in the monsoon wind.
No desks—only thin mats laid over dusty earth.
A whiteboard leans on a wooden crate, and the marker runs out of ink by mid-lesson. But there they are: children barefoot, sitting in neat rows, eyes bright, waiting to learn.
We’re in a temporary relief camp on the outskirts of Assam, near the border with Bangladesh. Tents and makeshift shelters stretch across flooded fields. Water arrives in tanker trucks. Life here is fragile—but every morning, children arrive not for food, not for medicine, but for one thing: to learn English.
Why Teach English in a Crisis?
To some, teaching English in a displacement camp might seem like a luxury. After all, people here are struggling for clean water, shelter, safety. Many families fled violence, floods, or sudden eviction—some with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
But for those who’ve lost everything, English is not a luxury—it’s a lifeline.
It’s how you ask for help at a government office.It’s how you read a medical form.
It’s how you apply for school, fill out a job application, or simply say: “My child is sick. Please help us.”
“We’re not just teaching verbs and vowels,” says Priya, an HTE coordinator working in Northeast India. “We’re giving people a voice. A way to be heard when the world tries to silence them.”
And that voice? It can change everything.
Teaching in Motion
Life in a displacement camp is never still. Families move between temporary shelters, some return home when it’s safe, others are relocated by authorities. Attendance shifts daily—not because families don’t care, but because their lives are in motion.
So HTE doesn’t wait for perfect schools.
We teach under shade trees, in community halls, on the edges of fields.
Our teams carry portable kits: foldable whiteboards, solar-powered tablets, picture cards, and storybooks—all designed to work without electricity or internet.
Lessons are short, modular, and self-contained. If a child only comes once a week, that one class still matters. There’s no “falling behind”—only small steps forward. One word. One sentence. One moment of confidence.
“We call it teaching on the move,” Priya says. “If we wait for a permanent school, we’ll miss an entire generation. So we teach wherever children gather.”
The Real Teachers: Displaced Youth Teaching Their Peers
One of the most powerful parts of our work?
Refugees teaching refugees.
In a camp in Majuli, Assam, I met Amina, a 17-year-old girl from the Rohingya community. She arrived in India two years ago after her village was burned.
She didn’t know a single English word when she joined HTE.
Today, she leads beginner classes for younger children—translating, encouraging, singing songs with them in English and Bengali.
“Teaching made me feel strong again,” she told me.
“It reminded me I’m not just a victim. I have something to give.”
This is the heart of our model: local leadership.
When displaced youth become teachers, they’re not just passing on language—they’re rebuilding dignity, purpose, and community.
They speak the same languages.
They’ve lived through the same storms.
And they understand what it means to start over.
These peer educators aren’t just volunteers.
They’re proof that even in exile, you can lead.
You can grow.
You can hope.
Learning Through Trauma
Every child here carries a story.
Some saw their homes destroyed by floods.
Others fled violence.
Many have lost parents, siblings, or entire villages. Nightmares, silence, and anxiety are common.
They don’t leave that pain at the classroom door.
So we don’t teach like it’s business as usual.
Our instructors are trained in trauma-informed education—how to create safe spaces, avoid triggers, and use rhythm, repetition, and routine to build trust.
We don’t force children to speak.
We don’t shame mistakes. We allow silence.
We build in art, music, storytelling, and play.
One of our most powerful tools?
Storytelling.
Children draw comic strips.
They act out scenes.
They write poems.
One boy, Rahim, wrote about a boat caught in a storm. “But it reached the shore,” he said. “Like me.”
In that moment, language wasn’t just about words.
It was healing.
It was freedom.
When Pencils Run Out: Learning with What We Have
Forget textbooks.
Forget Wi-Fi.
In many camps, even paper and pens are scarce.
So we get creative.
We use pebbles for spelling games.
We sing songs to memorize vocabulary.
We turn the classroom into a pretend railway station—“Where is the train going?” “I want a ticket to Delhi.”
One of our most popular games is “Railway Counter.”
Kids take turns being passengers and clerks, practicing phrases like “How much?” and “Next stop?” It’s loud, joyful, and full of laughter.
We also use art as a bridge.
In a camp in Tripura, students painted vocabulary murals on water drums—words like family, book, school, hope.
These weren’t just lessons.
They were acts of resistance—reminders that beauty and meaning still exist.
Technology? Yes—But Not the Way You Think
In some camps, we’ve set up solar-powered learning corners—tablets loaded with videos, pronunciation drills, and animated stories.
Children crowd around, repeating words, laughing, teaching each other.
For many, it’s their first time touching a screen.
But here’s the truth: technology isn’t the answer.
It’s a helper.
The real magic happens in human connection.
It’s the teacher who remembers your name.
It’s the classmate who helps you sound out a word.
It’s the volunteer who sits with you when you’re overwhelmed.
In these places, trust is the real curriculum.
How Do You Measure Success When Nothing Is Stable?
In city schools, we measure success with tests and grades.
Here, we measure it differently.
We look for moments:
A teenager helping her mother fill out a refugee ID form in English.
A child confidently asking a nurse for medicine—without a translator.
A father writing his family’s name on a school application for the first time.
These aren’t small wins.
They’re life-changing.
Success here isn’t about fluency.
It’s about reclaiming agency in a world that has taken so much.
What the World Gets Wrong
Too many people think education in displacement camps is a “nice-to-have”—something we’ll address after food and shelter.
But families here don’t see it that way.
One mother in a camp in Meghalaya told me, “When we had to leave our home, I carried only two things: my children, and their notebooks.”
Education is not a luxury.
It’s hope.
And language learning?
It’s a bridge—to safety, to opportunity, to a future.
When combined with trust, cultural respect, and local leadership, the impact goes far beyond the tent.
The Lessons We’ve Learned
Teaching in displacement camps doesn’t just change students.
It changes us.
We’ve learned:
That education doesn’t need walls—just people who care.
That a single sentence can carry a lifetime of meaning.
That even in hardship, children laugh, dream, and teach each other songs in two languages.
We’ve seen mothers read new words to their babies.
We’ve watched teenagers stand tall and say, “I am safe.
”We’ve heard children whisper, “I have hope.”
And in those moments, we remember:
English is not just a tool.
It’s a promise.
A promise that no matter how far you’ve come,No matter what you’ve lost,You are not invisible.
You still belong.
The Real Classroom
The tent may be temporary.
The floor may be dusty.
The marker may run out.
But inside, something permanent is growing.
Every day, children walk barefoot into that space—and leave a little stronger.
Every lesson builds a little more confidence.
Every word spoken is a step toward a new life.
That’s what English means here.
Not just grammar.
Not just vocabulary.
But a bridge—to safety.
to connection.
to a future.
And every time a child raises their hand and says,“Teacher, I want to try,”
We know:
We’re not just teaching language.
We’re helping rebuild lives.
One word at a time.
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