We write because we read
a reflection on what it means to be literate
My maternal grandmother (paati in Tamil), whose name was Kamala, was illiterate.
I’m not exactly sure when I realized this. It must have been around the time I was six years old, visiting her and my extended family in and around Chennai. I figured out then, or maybe I was told, that she couldn’t read or write. This being the norm for many Indian women of her era.
Kamala Paati was nonetheless a force of nature.
At the age of 16, she married my grandfather – he a widower with three young kids and aging parents. Paati took care of all of them. Over the course of her life, she had 10 children of her own, only four of whom survived those tough times when child mortality rates in India (and elsewhere) were astoundingly high.
Despite (and surely also because of) these trials, Kamala Paati had an indomitable strength. She was our beloved matriarch, plying us with seconds of sambhar, kootu and poriyal even when we said we were full – feeding us being the most visible manifestation of her love and care for us.
Kamala Paati passed away in 2001, setting off in me a desire to do something to contribute to ensuring that the current generation of girls and young women - as well as the many children I used to see in the streets, train stations, markets and rice fields during my trips back to India – would be able to access education. And thinking about Paati, I figured that the most fundamental part of this is surely being able to read.
Because reading is, first and foremost, an act of power.
Oddly enough, this realization is coming full circle for me only now.
This despite having spent the last almost 25 years doing work that’s been in line with that commitment that I made to myself back in 2001. More specifically, work with international organizations to ensure access to quality education for children around the globe. It’s been a privilege, this work. And it has also been very much of a learning journey on my part.
In the very early days (circa 2002), I was doing a fellowship program (similar to the Peace Corps) and working in Malawi, in a small town on the southern shores of the lake. My work with Save the Children was fascinating, but as always, life was more of a teacher.
I shared a small house with a British volunteer, in a village within the town. Across the path from us was a 9-year old girl named Hanifa.
Hanifa lived with her mother and a bevvy of younger sisters, and it was rumored that the mother had AIDS and that Hanifa thus had to drop out of school to help around the house and mind her younger siblings. This was at the height of the HIV and AIDS epidemic in Southern Africa. Malawi had a 13% - yes you read that correctly – prevalence rate.
Hanifa was quiet and stoic but at some point, she started showing up at our house after we would get home from work. I’d brought along some coloring books and markers which I gave her, but it became quicky clear that she was very bright and looking for more.
At work one day, I Googled “How do you teach a 9-year old to read?” on the only computer in the office with an Internet connection, jotting down some very basic information about phonics, letter sounds and sight words. I also borrowed some early primary readers and a notebook from the Save the Children project on which I was working and put together a curriculum of sorts.
In the two weeks or so that Hanifa and I worked together on my porch at dusk, swatting mosquitoes and eating peanuts while we did so, I realized that learning to read is not easy. While she had an easy grasp on the letters and some of their sounds, moving from that to basic words just didn’t happen. Surely the time was too short. The fact that we were doing this in English – a language not spoken in her home – didn’t help either. And the circumstances of Hanifa’s life – poverty, hunger, overwhelming caregiving and domestic responsibilities – were also not on our side.
She eventually stopped coming around, and a few weeks later her mother passed away.
Over the course of the almost quarter century since then, I’ve been consistently reminded of the lesson that I learned with Hanifa. That learning to read is a privilege and one that we should not take lightly.
I recall it every time I encounter an elder at an airport who asks for my help to fill out an immigration form because they can’t read it. Or the time that I met someone in Jamaica who wanted to keep in touch via What’s App but asked me to send audio messages only, because he “couldn’t read too good.”
In my work, I’ve seen it in schools and classrooms in places as varied as Sierra Leone, Cambodia and India. In many of these places, children struggle with reading despite having attended school for years. It’s the reason that we estimate that 70% of 10-year old children in low- and middle-income countries around the globe cannot read and understand a simple paragraph. In Sub-Saharan Africa, this figure is 90%.[1]
Just let that sink in.
But in letting it sink in, I hope that we can also engage in more reflection and conversation on what it means to be literate in the first place. And I think that this is all the more incumbent on those of us who write or consume writing, because the fundamental truth is this:
We write because we read.
And reading is everything. It’s being able to understand the instructions on a bottle of medicine and ensure that we administer it correctly on our child and to help said child with their homework. It’s being able to decipher a political pamphlet and make an informed choice in voting. It’s being able to enter into a basic contract (for goods, services, a job) and understand the terms and conditions. It’s being able to access opportunities.
In short, reading is power. And having power is the first prerequisite of freedom.
I’d argue that freedom also hinges on a sense of possibility. And here too, reading is everything. Because regardless of who and where we are, books and the written word expand our horizons and introduce us to worlds and ideas that we haven’t previously considered. They offer us solace, companionship, the realization that we’re not alone after all. And most importantly, the vague notion that maybe there’s more to this life than what our present circumstances suggest. Or in the words of Victor Hugo:
“To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is spelled out is a spark.”
Most of us probably can’t recall the exact moment in our lives when lines and dots became letters which became words which became sentences and eventually paragraphs. I certainly can’t, but I had the good fortune of watching this unfold with my son Rohan: one of the unforeseen positives of virtual school during the Covid era. And given the nature of my work, the topic is obviously front of mind.
But I hope that all of us – particularly those among us who love reading, writing and words – can acknowledge our privilege in being literate and contribute in whatever small way we can to building a more literate community. Maybe it’s the simple act of reading to the children in your life. Bringing books as gifts to the places you travel. Supporting your local library. Volunteering or getting involved in activities around International Literacy Day, which is commemorated every September 8. There are countless things we can do.
Talking about it matters too. So I’d love to hear from you: When and how did you learn to read? What do you recall of that experience? What does being literate mean to you? Is (or was) there anyone in your life who cannot read? How has this impacted them?
Thank you for being here and for reading – it truly means everything.
This is such a beautiful and profound reflection. Every time I visit a school or see children who aren't at school I often feel sad that a lot of them they will never know the joy of reading a book or being lost in different worlds that books and reading can open up. My paternal grandmom was fully illiterate too and used signs to remember how many clothes she gave for ironing is what my grandad once told me. That story always made me sad as a child. I am always overwhelmed by how lucky we are to be born in a generation where going to school was not necessarily optional. Truly enjoying reading your thoughtful and profound words and the way your string together your thoughts so beautifully and powerfully!
This is a beautiful reflection. I lived in Nepal for a period of time and did language lessons while I was there, and I vividly remember the moment the dots connected and I could suddenly read Nepali! It made me realize that I don't remember learning how to read in English, and it was a moment infused with wonder for me. I taught high school to students who were learning English as a second language for 4 years, and the combo of life circumstances and the way the American school system is overburdened meant that there was always a handful of my students who couldn't really read at all (in English or in their first language), and quite a few more who were reading significantly below what we deem to be a high school level. It deeply impacted their school experiences and the opportunities they had for the future. I became disabled by COVID and had to leave teaching, but as I regained a little energy last year, I started volunteering with a program that pairs volunteers with elementary kids to read together. It was a good option for my schedule, but I also wanted to do something to increase literacy at a younger age so less students had to face high school without the ability to read. I've been on the fence about returning next school year due to my limited energy, but this feels like a nudge to do it again if I'm able to. So often we take reading as a for granted skill here in America, and I think it's important to remember that it is a privilege, and not one that everyone has access to. Thanks for sharing!