40 years after Bhopal gas tragedy, Barefoot school ‘offers hope’ poverty and development

Bhopal, India – Triveni Sonani starts her work day at 9 a.m. when she opens the doors of Oriya Basti School and welcomes neighborhood children to class for another day of learning.

On this sunny December morning, she begins by seating the children in their places, instructing them to open their books as she prepares to teach them multiplication.

The only classroom is an ordinary place – a badly corroded tin roof and walls that are half-painted and partly unplastered. Most of the students sit on a few old wooden benches mounted on the walls, while a few sit on thin mats on the concrete floor, their notebooks spread out in front of them, as sunlight streams in through the gaps in the ceiling. Next door is a small but basic library – called the “Anand Library” – which children can use.

As the lesson progresses, the sounds of motorbikes revving, stray cows mooing and vendors calling out their wares fill the room, mixed with the hum of children reading aloud.

“They love this part of the day,” says Sonani, the school’s only teacher. Her gaze shifts to the children and a mural they have painted on a crumbling wall – a rising sun, its rays helping those struggling with hardships. She seems to be a symbol of hope in the community.

For decades, the Oriya settlement has struggled in the shadow of the Bhopal gas tragedy, with little done to improve the lives of its people.

December marks the 40th anniversary of the world’s deadliest industrial disaster, which forever changed the lives of thousands of people in this community. Just 4 km (2.5 mi) from Oriya Basti, a small community in Bhopal, lies the now-abandoned Union Carbide factory, where more than 25,000 people died when methyl isocyanate gas leaked on the night of December 2 to December 3, 1984. And went away. At least half a million suffer from chronic health problems.

Four decades after the disaster, justice remains elusive. No senior company official of the American chemical company has been held accountable. In 2010, seven Indian managers, including Keshub Mahindra, then chairman of the company’s Indian branch, were found guilty of causing death by negligence. They were fined the equivalent of $2,100 each and sentenced to two years in prison. Boo, he was immediately released on bail and never served time.

The local communities most affected by the tragedy have since been largely left to fend for themselves.

In the Oriya settlement, the streets are still full of potholes, which turn into mud during the rains. The houses are made of flimsy tin sheets and old bricks, their walls cracked and damp.

Open drains flow along the roads, providing little protection from diseases that the already weak healthcare system in the area cannot handle.

Power cuts are frequent, and clean water is a rare luxury, often arriving in tanker trucks, with families seen struggling to fill their buckets.

The Oriya Basti School – also known as the “barefoot school” because many of the children here study without slippers or shoes, as their families cannot afford them – is a glimpse of what might be coming out of the disaster.

“Oriya Basti School was established with a vision to empower the underprivileged. It played an important role in ensuring that the children of the survivors of the gas tragedy did not become another victim of the disaster,” says Sonani.

Currently, about 30 children aged 6 to 14 participate. The school was established in 2000 by the Sambhavna Trust, a charity established in 1995 to assist gas leak survivors. Over the years, the school has educated approximately 300 children.

The school is supported primarily through royalties from Dominique Lapierre’s book about the disaster, Five Past Midnight in Bhopal, as well as donations from individuals.

‘Fight for air’

The Bhopal gas leak disaster left the entire family struggling, with survivors suffering from long-term breathing difficulties, vision loss and genetic problems they say have been passed on to their children and grandchildren.

“Growing up, I saw how the gas leak affected my parents and grandparents,” says Jayshree Pradhan, a 23-year-old nursing graduate and alumnus of the People’s College of Nursing and Research Centre, part of the People’s University Bhopal. Barefoot school.

She recalls how her grandparents struggled with a constant cough and shortness of breath as if they were always “fighting for air”. “I remember him waking up in the morning, rubbing his eyes, trying to get rid of the blurry vision that would last for hours. “It was like everything was out of focus, and no matter what they did, they couldn’t clear it up,” says Pradhan. “Seeing them suffer like that inspired me to become a nurse. Found.”

For many people in Oriya slums, finding steady work is extremely difficult. Most adults work as labourers, ragpickers or roadside vendors, earning just enough to survive.

“My parents are daily wage labourers,” says Sujit Bagh. “I never wanted to be like them, so I decided to study. But I didn’t know, I was also affected by the gas leak.

Now 24-year-old Sujit – an alumnus of Barefoot School – is studying for an MA in History, with hopes of doing a PhD and becoming a professor. Even though he was born after the tragedy, Sujeet says he has always struggled with concentration, and he constantly suffers from headaches and fatigue. He believes that these problems are a result of the long-term health effects of the gas leak survivors. “It’s hard,” he says, “but I keep going, because education is the only way out.”

Dr Anwari Shali, an 80-year-old physician who lives in Qazi Camp, a few kilometers from the Union Carbide factory, was among the first doctors to set up a clinic in the area after the 1984 tragedy. Speaking about the persistent health challenges the community has faced over the years, she says: “Children here are immunocompromised, but the long-term generational impacts of the disaster on their health are unclear. Menstrual disorders are also common among young women aged 19 to 28, mainly due to poor sanitation and inadequate nutrition in these slums.

Education is what, for the past 13 years, Triveni Sonani has been trying to provide to Oriya slum children, despite earning only 3,700 rupees ($44) per month and receiving only limited funds.

“We have no electricity, no proper library, no blackboard and barely any seating space for the students,” she explains.

Nevertheless, parents of survivors of the gas tragedy hold the school in high regard for what it provides to the community.

Many people here live alone and struggle to afford basic needs like food, clothing and medicine. Even a simple pair of shoes for their children is beyond their reach.

“The tragedy took away almost everything from us – basic needs became a struggle and education seemed like a luxury,” says Neelam Pradhan, Jayshree’s mother. “The school became a beacon of hope, giving children a safe place to learn and rebuild their lives.”

He is proud that this school has produced youth who now have good jobs in companies and hospitals. However, despite their success, “no one wants to live in the community – they all dream of moving out,” says Pradhanam.

When the fight for survival is with bureaucracy

Rinki Sonani, a 22-year-old mechanical engineering student at Bhopal’s Bansal College and an alumnus of the school, recalls her childhood.

“I remember the torn edges of our uniforms, the patches on our school bags and the worn-out shoes we used to make do with,” she says. “Some of our notebooks were dog-eared, their covers barely hanging on, and some of us had to use old scraps of paper.”

Rinki has been lucky – dreams of higher education are still out of reach for most people here. Some students manage to get student loans from banks and move on, but they are the exception. Most find themselves at a standstill, their potential overshadowed by circumstances beyond their control.

For 19-year-old Ashtami Thackeray, her dream of becoming a lawyer was inspired by her family’s struggle against a system she believes failed them.

When his father, a railway employee with whom Ashtami is no longer in touch, fell ill due to drug addiction and lost his job in 2009, survival became a battle with bureaucracy. Months of fruitless visits to government offices for financial assistance were to no avail, as he was repeatedly told that his paperwork was incomplete.

Authorities issuing benefits often require documentation as old as 50 years, and many families of this community, originally migrating from Odisha to Madhya Pradesh, require proof of lineage, including records of their parents or grandparents. Struggle to provide.

A crucial piece of documentation, a caste certificate proving that her father was a “Scheduled Tribe” or a caste eligible for certain benefits – including income support and educational scholarships – could not be found. As was the case with many, it was lost or destroyed after the tragedy. Ashtami doesn’t know what happened to it.

Even her lawyer, whom Ashtami’s family says was “dismissive and helpful”, left them feeling powerless. Amidst the frustration, Ashtami’s mother’s words became her resolve: “Become a lawyer. Make sure no one else has to go through this.”

Sonani says it is this determination and common purpose that compels her to continue school.

“I want this school to have a fresh start,” she says as she closes the gates at 4 p.m. “We desperately need new infrastructure. Children deserve classrooms where they can learn and grow without any disruption. We also need expert teachers for different subjects. Right now, I’m the only one covering everything and that’s not enough for the future they deserve.”

His vision for the school goes beyond simply fixing the physical space; She wants to create an environment where children can reach their full potential. “Children these days are smart,” says Sonani. “They ask me to teach with projectors and laptops, but I have to remind them that we don’t have the funds for that right now. “We can only give them hope – hope for a better tomorrow.”

Despite these shortcomings, Sonani says she feels a sense of pride when she sees the children she once taught grow up and flourish, stepping into leadership roles of their own. But beneath his arrogance there remains a quiet concern. If they almost all leave the township in search of better opportunities, who will be left to uplift the community they have left?

He hopes the future will see more decisions like Ashtami, which help neighbors navigate complex forms and applications, translating official jargon into something they can understand. “It feels good to help,” Ashtami says, her face turning into a smile. “I see a lot of people like us getting lost in the system. They just need someone to stand with them.”