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Sunday, 22 September 2002 |
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Deprived of a basic right due to social stigma? : School is a dream... By Jayanthi Liyanage A sight which caught my eye while on a bus journey on the Colombo-Homagama
highway, once again awoke me to the reality of It has been five years since the enactment of Compulsory Education Act of November 1997 which stated in no uncertain terms that parents or guardians of every Sri Lankan child in the ages between 5-10 years, had to enrol them in school unless an alternative means of educability existed for them. And here I was, a mere week after we observed the rites of the International Literacy Day on September 8, looking over a stretch of paddy fields towards a huddled encampment, or a mini-hamlet, of black polythene and cardboard huts where a number of children can be seen. For them, 'school' was just a dream and yet another luxury, beyond the unseen barricadessociety had almost unconsciously and obtusely piled up between them and society. Curiosity overwhelmed photographer Nishantha and I began to wade the muddy murks to get a closer look. "Little Bo-Peeps" of all shapes and sizes appeared from behind makeshift walls. With bashful smiles, they slowly came out to look at the visitors, as if the "Pied Piper" had turned up. Tots with crew-cuts and long knotted plaits; girls in flounced frocks, oversized kurta tops, denim trousers with uncovered upper torsoes and even decked in white tennis shoes; boys, many of them bare-bodied except for the ubiquitious shorts and the occasional t-shirt. In the fold of the eleven families making their home in the Madawalakumbura ('Mada Kumbura') of Homagama, there would have been at least 30 children, with the oldest, Lakan at 20 and the youngest, Nadaraja at three months.
Calling them 'gypsies' would not be quite appropriate, as Selladorai Vijayan, obviously an authority of the community, explained to us. "We are not snake-charmers," he asserted vehemently. "We males sharpen knives and other steel implements and our womenfolk are fortune tellers." Quite a few fished out their national identity cards and birth certificates, declaring their race as Lankan Tamils. A troupe of itinerants who ages ago had come from Weppumadi, Puttalam and even from the up country areas such as Matale and Kurunegala. "We speak Malayalam," was the proud repartee of Chula Karupan when asked of his mother tongue. Piyasena, the solitary Sinhalese of the group called us aside and confided that he regularly visited his family domiciled elsewhere. Vijayan's voice was full of desire for merging within the mainstream society as he plaintively said, "We have been living in this location for more than six years. Now that our children have grown in number and are growing older day by day, we cannot wander from place to place any more. All of us adults want to settle down for their sake." Allow our children to develop into adulthood enjoying the rights, especially the right to education readily available to their mainstream counterparts, was the plea of this community. Vijayan's daughter, Ambiga at 18, drying her hair after bathing at one of the wells the community had dug for itself in the location, had never known what it was like to attend a school. Her younger companions clung to our clothing, tugging gently, whispering in hardly audible voices, "Can you bring us exercise books and pencils?" One, acutely aware of the magic her fingers could make, even asked for a drawing book.
"Can you find a school for them?" Was the crucial question which the parents dared not voice out loud for fear of refusal, but which seemed to quiver in their expressions. The children too crowded around us, looking at us expectantly. How could we, with remorse, brush their dreams aside? "Seven of our children once attended the literacy class conducted by a non-formal education unit at Homagama," Lakan enlightened us. "We felt that the teachers were not eager to teach our children. The kids were given a treat of biscuits and by ten in the morning they were back home. We did not feel satisfied." That the streak of marginalisation had somehow crept in, drawing an invisible yet a granite veil between their children and the others in the unit, was the feeling that pervaded the community. The families had drawn the Samurdhi allowance at their former abode but not at Mattegama where they now live. As an official from the Samurdhi Authority informed us, the eligibility for Samurdhi arises only if the Grama Niladhari confirms the community's permanent residency in the area. Some of them had been registered voters at Puttalam. Meanwhile, the children waved at us on our departure seeking our promise that on return we will bring them good tidings of the opportunity to receive an education. How do we honour this promise?
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