Day 20: The dire consequences of a terrible education system
Nazia’s from an economically poor family; her father passed away when she was an infant, and her mom worked as a day laborer growing up to make ends meet. As a result, she didn’t go to school during this time at all.
But when she was 12, she was given the opportunity to join a Kasturba Gandhi school, which were set up: “to provide educational facilities for girls belonging to Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes, Other Backward Classes, Minority Communities and families below the poverty line in educationally backward blocks.” In simpler language, a residential program, with food, and teachers to provide extra hours of teaching as well.
Each “backward district” has multiple centers, which are managed by a District Program Coordinator, or DPC. These centers are notorious for corruption. Teachers are reimbursed for money spent on the girls’ food, so they frequently write significantly higher amounts than they actually spent, pocketing the difference. While the DPC knows that the teachers will take a percentage of the food funds, they employ a few of the girls to keep an eye on the teachers; the girls’ reports are then used to blackmail the teachers into giving the DPC their cut.
The DPC in Kishanganj liked Nazia and told her she was responsible, so she was chosen for this job. This entailed purchasing the vegetables, sitting down with the warden to fill out the vouchers, and then reporting irregularities in the accounting to the DPC.
Every week, Nazia was forced to write down false amounts so that the teachers could take their commission. Meanwhile, her stomach growled and her palette was left unsatisfied, as the teachers also began taking from the purchased food as well; the girls were fed watered down milk and half-meals, while the teachers enjoyed fresh fish, vegetables, and whole milk for themselves (even though they received a salary and were instructed to either eat at local restaurants or cook for themselves). Yet, the girls were intimidated and beaten to prevent them from speaking out.
But Nazia is brave, so she finally spoke up anyway. One day when the DPC came to their center with funders of the program from the state level, they asked the girls what they had eaten that morning. According to the menu, they should have eaten chana (chick peas), puri (fried bread/roti), and jalebi (a sweet), so out of fear, the girls responded that that’s what they had eaten. Except for Nazia — “no we didn’t have all of that — we had simple sabzi (vegetable) and roti.”
Everyone was shocked — the girls, the teachers, and the DPC. Their silent compact on how to act when the higher ups visit — that the girls act happy to make the teachers look good, which makes the DPC also look good to her supervisors — had been broken.
So the teachers sought retaliation. They began bullying her and gossiping about her to the other girls. They increased the abuse — physical and verbal. Until Nazia finally reached her breaking point. After the girls’ next set of exams, one of the teachers intentionally humiliated Nazia in front of the rest of her friends and classmates for getting low marks. Nazia said, “everyone did poorly on that exam — it wasn’t just me. But she singled me out and made me feel so stupid in front of everyone.”
She never felt more alone; like more of a failure; like life was nothing but pointless suffering. Nazia already had enough issues at home, but they paled in comparison to what she felt at the school. She couldn’t take it anymore. So she went in the bathroom, carefully locking the door behind her. Two bottles lay in front of her — one filled with a white liquid, and the other with a black one. “I thought I’d die if I drank the white one, so I reached for it and drank it all down,” she recounted.
She stumbled out of the bathroom, one foot lumbering over the other, until she tripped and fell face first onto the courtyard. A crowd quickly gathered; One of her roommates went into the bathroom: “when I went in the bathroom before Nazia, the cleaning bottle was completely full, but now it’s empty.”
They quickly shoved gobbar (cow dung) in her mouth to make her puke, which she did. Then they rushed her to the doctor, ten different people holding her down. The doctor then tried to give her more medicine to make her vomit some more; she refused, at which time he slapped her. So she took the medicine. All she wanted was to go home and rest.
It’s true that Nazia had struggles in her life beyond school and it’s difficult to ever pin something like suicide on a single event. But the constant punishment and humiliation by the teachers and the warden were undoubtedly among the most significant, if not the most significant, reasons why Nazia began to believe that death would be a better option than life.
I find it hard to fathom that the teachers would steal the food allocated for the growing girls, especially when their salary was more than enough for them to eat; I find it hard to fathom that their supervisor would more or less allow this to go on until a big issue was raised; I find it hard to fathom that after this event, the supervisor, who supposedly cared about Nazia, would ask her to switch to a different center, while allowing the teacher to keep her job, without any repercussions; I find it hard to fathom that a center that is ostensibly set up to provide a better life for these girls almost resulted in the death of a 12 year old girl.
True, she’s persevered and she’s stronger than ever today. But she just as well could have not been. And this suffering of the child at the hands of this system is hardly a fluke; I’ve visited hundreds of schools, and Abodh has visited 1,000 plus schools, across 5 districts, with over 500 teachers, and over 10,000 students; neither of us are yet to see any school, where the midday meal is provided properly, without any corruption. Meanwhile, malnourishment is the rule, not the exception, for children in Bihar.
What is it that leads people to act like this? Are they inherently evil? Why doesn’t anyone speak up? Are they also evil? Or scared? Or have they lost hope? Is it inherent to systems of mass institutionalization and scale that give little to no autonomy to those on the front lines — that apathy, negligence and corruption will emerge? Why is everyone focused on reform when every single piece of the system requires reform — as if you could reform the foundation of a house, brick by brick, without breaking down the house? How many more stories are there like Nazia’s that are untold that allow this system to continue chugging along?
—
I thought a lot about whether or not I should simply keep this reflection to myself or if I should share it, even after getting Nazia’s permission. I don’t want to make light of Nazia’s story or use it simply because I need to publish something everyday. And I don’t want to use her suffering as more sadistic porn on an internet where others’ pain seems to be a major source of entertainment and fascination.
I discussed publishing it with her three times today. I read her the article. I asked her several times if she wanted me to change her name.
Her response: “Give me a stage, and I’ll stand up in front of 10 million, 20 million people and tell them my story. Everyone should know about what happens in these places.”
