A Small Desk, a Big Step: Sofaida’s Return to School in Cox’s Bazar

“I walked in and my heart beat fast” — Sofaida’s first day back

“I kept my books close to my chest like a secret,” I say, remembering the first morning I returned to class. The tented roofs of the learning centre smelled of chalk and boiled tea. For months I had sat at home, watching younger children walk to makeshift schools and wondering if I would ever learn again. That morning I found a small plastic desk with my name carved into the edge. I sat down and cried—not from fear, but from relief.

My name is Sofaida. I am a Rohingya girl living in Cox’s Bazar. I had to stop school after my family fled. Here, the days are crowded and noisy, but inside that classroom I felt space to breathe. The teacher greeted me like a friend. The lesson began with letters, then numbers, then stories about health and safety. It was not perfect. The benches creaked and the light came through canvas. But it was a room where I could learn again, and that changed everything.

In the centre: the rhythm of learning under canvas

The community learning centres rise up like small islands across the settlement. Walk past the lines of makeshift homes and you’ll find low tents or simple bamboo rooms. Some centres are shaded by trees, others sit on raised wooden platforms to keep the dust at bay. Inside, classes run in shifts. Younger children come early; adolescent girls and boys often meet in the afternoon.

Teachers are mostly women from the refugee community, though a few are local hires. Many are young and have only basic formal training. They arrive with a soft pile of worksheets, chalk, and a handful of teaching aids—often homemade flashcards or drawings pinned to the walls. The routine is simple: a warm-up song, a short lesson, group work, and time to read. What stands out is the care. Teachers check on students who miss class. They remind girls to keep practicing at home and make time for questions about things beyond the curriculum, like nutrition or how to report abuse.

Classroom dynamics mix urgency with a kind of fragile normality. Children whisper about their families. Teenagers trade stories about chores and food queues. Laughter breaks the lessons sometimes—an accidental answer, a shared joke. That laughter is important. It signals that these places are not just about tests and lessons; they are spaces where young people can be children again, even for a few hours each day.

How the program works: partners, model and on-the-ground logistics

The return to learning did not happen by chance. The Education Without Delay initiative, working alongside Save the Children, local community leaders and other humanitarian groups, focuses on quickly reopening pathways to learning after crisis. The idea is straightforward: set up community learning centres that are flexible, low-cost and tuned to local needs so children and adolescents can catch up without waiting for formal school systems to be rebuilt.

On the ground, that means a few practical choices. Centres use short, focused lessons that build basic literacy and numeracy, and modules on health, safety, and life skills. Classes run in shifts so centres can serve more students with limited space. Teachers come from the community and receive rapid training and on-the-job support. Learning materials are simple and portable. Funding and supplies arrive in parcels from international donors and non-governmental partners, then move through local coordination networks to reach each site.

This model prioritizes speed and access. It is not a finished version of formal schooling. Instead, it is a bridge—designed to restore routine, teach the basics, and keep adolescents engaged while longer-term education plans are negotiated with authorities and donors.

What is changing: voices and early signs of progress

For students like me, the change is both practical and emotional. I used to be too anxious to speak up. Now I volunteer answers during class. I read aloud to younger children during free time. My mother says I come home with a new calm in my voice.

Teachers report similar shifts. One teacher told me that children who began in the first months could now read short paragraphs and solve basic sums. Parents have noticed improved behaviour and more confidence. A mother said her daughter no longer spends the afternoon idle; she now helps with chores, then studies and teaches her siblings. These are small but real shifts that ripple through families.

Beyond households, the centres create safety spaces where girls meet in single-sex groups, learn about rights, and discuss sensitive topics they might avoid at home. That social support matters. Many adolescents say the centres give them reasons to look ahead rather than just survive the day.

Obstacles ahead: money, security and the question of scale

None of this is easy or guaranteed. The centres run on fragile funding cycles and short-term grants. Donor priorities can shift, and when budgets tighten, education is often one of the first areas to feel the squeeze. That instability makes long-term planning difficult. Teachers worry about pay and continuity. Families worry about whether the programme will be there next term.

Security and policy also matter. Movement restrictions, camp regulations and broader political pressures shape what programs can do and where they can operate. Cultural barriers remain a hurdle, too. In some households, families still hesitate to send adolescent girls to mixed settings. Programs respond by creating girls-only shifts and integrating community leaders into outreach, but those steps take time and persistent engagement.

Finally, scale is a tough problem. The model works well in small centres where staff know every child. Scaling that intimacy across a sprawling settlement means more trained teachers, more materials, and more coordination with local authorities. That costs money and needs political will.

Still, a single desk can change the shape of a girl’s day. When I sit at mine, I understand that learning is not just about facts. It is about hope, routine and the quiet work of rebuilding a future. The challenge now is to turn the emergency response into something steady enough to carry these students from the first letters to a life with choices. If funders, agencies and communities hold that line, these small classrooms could be the start of something much bigger.

Sources

• prnewswire.com