What Happens When Classrooms Speak Your Language?
A story of language, belonging, and how UNICEF's partnership with Odisha is strengthening foundational learning outcomes for children from tribal communities
- English
- हिंदी
Savitri Pingwa was seven when she first understood what a classroom could feel like. Not the silence of confusion. Not the weight of words that meant nothing. But the lightness of recognition when a teacher pointed to a book and read, Savitri knew exactly what that meant because the word was hers.
In her village of Kumbhitangari, tucked deep in the forests of Keonjhar district, Odisha, many children speak Ho. It's the language of morning conversations, forest stories, festival songs and the sound of home. But until recently, it was the sound of school.
For years, Savitri sat in a classroom where books were spoken in the Odia language that felt unknown, distant, and impossible. She couldn't read the words. Couldn't raise her hand. Couldn't ask why or how or what comes next. School became a place where she learned to be quiet, not curious.
Her mother, Aarti, worried. A widow raising a daughter alone, she wanted Savitri to have the education she never did. But every morning, she watched her child walk to school with fear in her eyes instead of excitement.
Across Odisha's tribal belt, this story has played out in thousands of classrooms. Children arrive at school fluent in Ho, Desia, Kui, Didayi, Bhuyan, Bhunjia, Gutab, Koya, Juang, Oraon, Bonda, Saora, Kisan, Kuvi, Binjhal, Khadia, Gondi, and Sadri.
They're bright, curious, and full of questions. But the moment they open a textbook and listen to an incomprehensible classroom transaction, especially in the Odia language, in early grades.
The problem isn't the children. It's the distance between what they know and what they're being asked to learn. When the learning environment doesn't speak your language, it doesn't matter how smart you are. You're locked out.
Padmalochan Sahay, headmaster of Government Primary School in Kumbhitangari, had watched this for years. "Children would come to school afraid," he says. "They couldn't understand the books. They couldn't participate. Slowly, they stopped trying. Many stopped coming to classes.
The statistics told the same story: low attendance, high dropout rates, weak learning outcomes. But behind every number was a child who believed they weren't smart enough, when really, they just weren't being taught in a language they could understand.
When UNICEF reinforced its partnership with the district Samagra Shiksha, Government of Odisha, to strengthen Mother tongue-based multilingual education.
The goal was simple but inspiring to let children learn in the language they think aligns with the National Education Policy (NEP) recommendations.
It started with books. Not just any books, but textbooks that spoke two languages at once. On the same page, children would see a word written in their mother tongue—Ho, Santali, Kudmi—right next to its Odia equivalent. A tree became both "daru" and "gachha."
The script remained Odia, creating a bridge. Children could recognize the written form while understanding the meaning in their own words. It was literacy that didn't ask them to leave their identity at the classroom door.
But it went deeper than vocabulary. The stories themselves changed. Instead of reading about cities they'd never seen, children now encountered tales set in their own villages. Stories about forests they walked through, festivals they celebrated, animals they knew. The curriculum became a mirror, reflecting their lives.
UNICEF's support extended beyond books. Teachers received specialized training in multilingual pedagogy. Teaching-learning materials were developed with cultural context in mind.
The Nua Arunima handbooks for 3- 6 years were adapted for children at Anganwadi Centers in 21 tribal languages, aligning with the National Education Policy 2020's vision of mother tongue-based education.
Community members were invited to participate in the process, contributing to traditional knowledge and cultural practices that enriched the learning experience.
For Savitri, the change was immediate. She picked up a bilingual book and recognized the words. Not just read them—recognized them. They were her words, the ones she used at home, now printed on a page she could hold.
Her hand went up in class for the first time. Then again. And again. The fear dissolved. In its place: questions, observations, the natural curiosity of a child who finally had to learn the tools.
"Now Savitri goes to school happily," Aarti says, her voice thick with emotion. "She comes home and teaches me. She tells me the plate is round. She explains why farmers tie bells around bulls' necks. Learning from my own daughter—it feels wonderful."
The transformation rippled through the school. Mr. Sahay noticed children arriving early, staying engaged, and participating without hesitation. Books with bright pictures and familiar stories became prized possessions. Dropout rates fell. Learning outcomes improved.
But perhaps most importantly, something shifted in how children saw themselves. They were no longer struggling with students in a system not built for them. They were learners whose language, culture, and knowledge had value.
The programme didn't just change what happened inside classrooms. It changed the relationship between schools and communities.
Every month, Mr Sahay holds meetings where parents see the mother tongue-based materials their children use.
When mothers and fathers flip through pages and find their own language honoured in print, when they see illustrations of village life and recognize their own stories, something powerful happens.
Pride replaces uncertainty. Parents who couldn't help with homework in Odia can now support learning in their mother tongue. Teachers make home visits to discuss the importance of multilingual education, strengthening the bridge between school and family.
For communities that have historically been marginalized, seeing their languages and knowledge systems validated in formal education is more than practical; it's dignifying. It says: " Your language matters. Your culture has value. You belong here.
The science behind mother tongue-based education is clear: children learn best in their mother tongue, especially in the early years. It strengthens cognitive development, builds stronger foundational literacy and numeracy skills, and creates a secure base for learning additional languages later.
The Government of Odisha's Mother Tongue-Based Multilingual Education programme, supported by UNICEF, is aligned with both the National Education Policy 2020 and the NIPUN Odisha Foundational Learning Mission.
It's not about keeping children in their mother tongue forever; it's about using that linguistic foundation to build bridges to Odia, English, and beyond.
The approach is systematic: policy advocacy and framework development, teacher training on multilingual pedagogy, culturally contextualized teaching materials, and community participation at every level.
UNICEF's investment in co-designing policy advocacy briefs, guidelines, and ensuring sustainability beyond any single programme or timeline.
Back in Kumbhitangari, Savitri is thriving. She's no longer a quiet child, afraid of books. She's confident, engaged, and learning. Her dreams are bigger now because education no longer feels impossible.
Her story is multiplying across Odisha. In every village where mother tongue-based multilingual education reaches, children are discovering that their language—their first language, the language of home and heart—is a strength, not a barrier.
The programme has shown that when education speaks a child's language, everything changes. Fear turns to confidence. Silence becomes participation. Struggle becomes achievement.
Most importantly, it has proven something that should never have been in doubt: tribal children are as capable as any children anywhere. They just needed an education system that met them where they were, honoured who they are, and gave them the tools to soar.
When Aarti watches her daughter read now, she sees more than a child with a book. She sees possibility. She sees a future that education once denied but now promises. She sees what happens when learning finally speaks the language of belonging.
Because in the end, this is what the Government of Odisha and UNICEF's partnership in multilingual education understands: a child's mother tongue isn't just a way of communicating. It's a way of thinking, feeling, and making sense of the world.
And when education honours that, when it builds on that foundation instead of dismissing it, children don't just learn to read and write.
They learn to believe in themselves.
