It is hot and stuffy outside, and most locals are taking their afternoon naps. Inside a community library at Sheikh Sarai in New Delhi however, the world is wide awake.
This motley bunch is not the usual lot that fills the small library rooms on a working week. They look around curiously, navigating new vocabularies and unfamiliar faces. They browse through rows of books and converse amidst themselves in their mother tongues. Once a week, under the initiative of the UNHCR-BOSCO Refugee Assistance Programme, around fifty Afghan children, aged between six and thirteen, visit the library as members. Entirely volunteer-driven, The Community Library Project (TCLP) passionately advocates reading for pleasure and learning as it upholds everyone’s right to access good quality books.
An estimated 30,000 Afghan families live in Delhi. Many tightly-knit Afghan communities have emerged in parts of Lajpat Nagar and Khirki, which include many children. The presence of such a library means that Afghan refugee children can now access a small world where they are free from surveillance. As their families negotiate bureaucratic mazes, these children are making an effort to pick up the pieces of their broken pasts in a far-away land. Access to good schools and resources remain a priority. Yet, given the fragility of peace, they are left to fend for themselves with inadequate support.
What does a library mean to children who have traversed borders and left behind familiar sights and spaces? Child refugees in India are often outside the ambit of our day-to-day discourses and dramatic performances of nationalism, some of which violently demonise them and their cultures. Amidst this deep uncertainty and occasional hostility, a library holds multiple meanings and prospects.
Does it evoke a sense of nostalgia? Do they enjoy the books? Does the library facilitate the learning of new skills? There are no straightforward answers. The strangeness of Hindi and English languages looms large over many of them. Yet, their exposure back in their homelands to that one sure-shot icebreaker – Bollywood movies – ensures that they are not totally oblivious to the sentiments of the local culture. The children pick up words in Hindi and English in their interactions. They observe intently and know which books appeal to them the most.
Photo: Divya Kannan
The shelves are stocked from ceiling to the floor with books of all genres for early readers to young adolescents – fiction, non-fiction, science, sports, art, crafts, picture books, magazines – most in English, and a considerable number in Hindi and Urdu. It houses books from most of the well-known names in Indian children’s publishing, such as Pratham and Tulika, which fly off the shelves! The collection is ever growing and books are replaced at regular intervals; Hindi and Urdu books are actively sought after, and the latest books in the market make timely appearance on the display shelves. For many of these Afghan girls and boys who have not had the opportunity to pursue regular schooling, the library thus presents a new one, however limited in scope.
To the children, language acquisition is important. The similarity between cultures and some aspects of Hindi and their mother tongues makes the process a bit easier. The challenge, however, remains in learning English – that increasingly all-powerful language that tends to make or break futures. These Afghan children, some as young as six, are acutely aware of this. Without it, their hopes of pursuing a school education in Delhi, amidst an otherwise taxing regime of ‘documentation’ and ‘identity-card registration’, will remain unfulfilled. The desire to learn and read English, therefore, is tremendous. At the BOSCO Assistance centre, English language classes are regularly held alongside tuition and bridge classes. It is an important aspect of the UNHRC intervention with refugee children to enable them to transition into the local government educational system or the National Institute for Open Schooling. Lagging behind in English literacy skills often raises hurdles towards the attainment of decent schooling. The children are gripped by a sense of urgency that the language must be acquired at any cost but not many make significant progress.
The library’s large English collection attracts them. Children ask for ‘fairy’ stories and superhero comics. They browse through the Hindi picture books but are eventually drawn to the English ones. The TCLP’s policy is clear; they do not offer any sort of subject-related classes or training. This is not supposed to be a formal school of any sorts. There are no teachers and principals here; no bells or fees. The library is meant solely for cultivating the skill and love for reading. If the children want to lounge around, delve into fantasies or simply run their hands over book spines, the library welcomes all. Children may lag behind at times and many read at a slower pace. Read-aloud sessions are thus at the core of the intervention and an essential component of the Afghan kids’ interaction with the library space.
Yet, uncertainties remain. The interaction of the local children with the Afghan group is limited, mainly owing to logistics. The latter’s visit occurs once a week, on a day when the library is not fully functional for the rest of its members. There is also a problem of accommodating a large number of children at the same time. One can’t help but wonder whether a greater degree of interaction may lead to different experiences. Will frequent exchanges lead to the Afghan children picking up reading faster?
If language continues to remain a barrier, does it make such a library space less useful? A cursory glance says it is highly unlikely. The openness of the library and the freedom it offers is a strong reminder to the children that they matter the most. Reading is not a privilege of the few and must be democratised. The TCLP reaches out to the Afghan children because books, no matter what the language, conjure up a positive world for readers, at least through their delightful illustrations. Often, when read-aloud sessions are held, Afghan children respond in the same way to the story as the Indian lot. Languages blur and emotions reign; they latch onto the essence of the story which makes it relatable. Of animals and cars, buildings and zoos, toothless grandmothers and naughty girls – everything seems all too familiar at that moment.
Photo: Divya Kannan
On one such day, while we read together, I had the opportunity to interact with the group with the help of a young, cheerful teenager, S – a community facilitator at BOSCO – who agreed to translate. If Bollywood can bridge cultural barriers, then why not story books, she said as the session began. Children pointed to pictures of animals, and mentioned the dozens of dogs and cats they left behind in their neighbourhood streets. E, aged 11, explained that his favourite story which he read back home in Kabul, was that of a ‘little cat,’ his eyes widening in remembrance.
“We love coming to the library,” says A, a rosy-cheeked bubbly girl of six as she nods vigorously at the mention of animal stories.
“Why do you like books so much?” I ask, and there is commotion as everyone volunteers to answer.
“I want to learn the language,” explains J, a thoughtful 8 year old boy. He can speak broken Hindi and English, and wants to learn more so he can start going to school here. His friends agree, and they insist that if there was a provision for bilingual books in Farsi and Hindi/English, they would benefit much more from this space.
“But don’t you like reading for fun?” I probe.
“Yes, I prefer stories about pari. Fairies,” says T who is 10 years old, and usually very quiet. “Like Cinderella.”
Source: TCLP Instagram Account
Next, Little M lifts up the comic-book he has just borrowed after some meticulous searching and bargaining with other potential borrowers. “Spiderman!” he crows, and there is another round of mixed giggling and talking.
“We love Iron-Man, Superman, Spiderman, the Hulk…” the younger boys rattle.
“Do you think there is a copy of Spiderman in Farsi?” M wonders, and everyone teases him for wanting every character to be Farsi-speaking.
The mood in the room is infectious.
S, the young facilitator is energetic, stern and humorous at the same time. She is enrolled in class XII at the NIOS, and hopes to study further. “I wish they knew how to read one language properly,” she remarks.
Books are diligently borrowed and returned every week. There is a feeling that there is a positive change in their learning environment.
“I take library books, and my elder brother reads them out loud,” shares A. This is not unique to Afghan refugee children. When the TCLP started, a large number of their young members were and many still are first-generation learners. It was essential that they had a library where somebody would read aloud to them. To hear that Afghan children, despite all odds, carry books back to their quarters to be read aloud is testimony that libraries remain crucial to learning.
“Did you read books in your hometowns?” I ask.
There is a strange silence.
“We did not have proper libraries in our schools,” answers an 11 year old boy. “My father used to tell stories.”
I point to a book about a small boy, and someone exclaims about how much they miss their schools in Afghanistan.
“Why?” I ask and pat comes the reply, “…because we had huge playgrounds.’ Everyone agrees while he draws a wide circle in the air, as high as his hands can take him.
As the conversation slowly veers to plans for the future, most insist that English is indispensable.
“I know a few words in English. These stories helps me learn more,” says 12 year old AD. He is quiet and finds the younger children too restless. “I studied till class 5, and I want to join school as soon as possible,” he continues. He enjoys listening to stories and picking up new words.
I ask if he would like to travel around the world.
“Canadaaaaa,” interrupts his friend, E, and in broken Hindi tells me that he has family members there.
Little M, who can speak Hindi and English slightly more easily also vouches for his family’s plans to move to Canada eventually.
There is a joint bobbing of heads as the word ‘Canada’ leads to a new chain of thought. In Canada, there are better jobs and safer homes, they have heard. Here in India, given their political status, it is difficult for adults to find regular, waged employment. Money is constantly the biggest problem. Besides, the children themselves see Delhi as a place of transit. In fact, they shyly reveal their partial dislike for their surroundings. “Delhi is so noisy and crowded,” they say.
One can imagine. The assault on one’s senses in India’s overpopulated and polluted cities is difficult to ignore.
The conversation is no longer about books. Children of conflict are not immune to the harsh realities of life. They are not led to believe that the violence unfolding in front of them is merely a nightmare, over as soon as you open your eyes. These children carefully choose their words, acutely aware of their country’s turbulent situation.
“We are waiting to go home,” one says.
“It is not safe in my town or even in Kabul,” JJ remarks.
“I like it better here. Nobody scolds me when I do something silly.”
“We don’t know how long we will be here. I come to the library to read and learn faster. I want to go to school,” M adds.
Source: TCLP Instagram Account
The room is silent again. Perhaps their own thoughts have taken over. Libraries can do that. Its solitude can take you to different places, or make you look deep within. We bring the discussion back to reading. Nobody wants to read for exams! They enjoy reading poems or stories about other children.
“I am a poet,” shares M, while his friends joke that he likely recites verses by the famous poet-philosopher Nasir Khusrao and claims them as his own. “Recite your own poem,” they tease M as he sits down, muttering Khusrao’s name in mock anger.
It is time to leave and I slip in a final question, pre-approved by the translator.
“What do you want to do when you return to Afghanistan?”
“To remove the Taliban, after I become President!” A jumps up. She is barely three and a half feet and entirely unafraid. “We want to make the place green and beautiful,” she adds.
The children cheer. I repeat her statement in English, confirming S’s translation.
“Yes. Green and beautiful,” they shout, and bid me goodbye.
(Thanks are due to the BOSCO Refugee Assistance Centre, New Delhi and UNHCR. Names have been changed to initials for reasons of privacy.)