分类： society

In August, a 47-year-old widow from Maharashtra, western India, achieved something extraordinary that captured the attention of millions across the country: Ramabai Ranveer won her first-ever 3km community sprint – and she did it barefoot, with no formal training and not even a pair of proper running shoes. Her story, which quickly went viral on social media and in national press, is far more than a simple tale of athletic victory; it lays bare the deeply personal sacrifices that millions of low-income Indian families make to secure an education for their children, while igniting a long-simmering debate about gaps in India’s public education support systems.

Ramabai’s motivation to enter the race grew out of quiet desperation. Since her husband’s passing in 2012, she has been the sole breadwinner for her family, taking on whatever casual manual labor she could find – from harvesting soybeans and chickpeas on local farms to processing and selling turmeric. Today, she works as a cook at a coaching center where one of her daughters prepares for a competitive police recruitment exam. She dropped out of school at age 13, and she has spent every year since determined to give her two daughters the educational opportunities that were denied to her.

The immediate catalyst for her race entry came when her younger daughter, Arati, who lives in Nanded, was unable to afford required textbooks. Ramabai could not scrape together the funds to help her, and the stress of that left the pair not speaking for eight days. When Ramabai’s elder daughter, Pooja, mentioned the local 3km run with cash prizes earmarked for education expenses, Ramabai made the split-second decision to compete. During the race, her flip-flops kept slipping off her feet, so she removed them entirely, gathered up her sari, and ran the rest of the way barefoot. She crossed the finish line first in the women’s 30-60 age category, taking home a 3,000-rupee prize (equivalent to roughly $31 USD or £23 GBP) that went directly to buying Arati’s books. Pooja also placed second in her own age group, but she has said her mother’s courage outshines any prize she won.

While the prize money covered the immediate cost of books, it barely makes a dent in the long-term expenses Ramabai faces. Both of her daughters are studying for competitive government recruitment exams – one for police service, the other for civil service – which are widely seen as the only path to stable, secure employment and social status in India. Preparing for these exams requires years of costly coaching classes and study materials, expenses that push many low-income families to the breaking point.

Videos of Ramabai’s barefoot run spread across Indian social media within days, striking a powerful chord at a moment when India’s education system is already facing intense public scrutiny. Millions of Indian families share Ramabai’s belief that education is the only way out of intergenerational poverty, but the system is plagued by growing frustration: repeated allegations of exam question paper leaks, administrative irregularities, and uneven access to affordable coaching and study materials have eroded public trust, sparking large student-led protests demanding systemic reform.

Public attention to Ramabai’s story has not only highlighted these broader systemic issues, it has also led to tangible support. Earlier this month, India’s Chief Justice Surya Kant ordered local authorities to provide Ramabai with one-time financial assistance of 50,000 rupees to cover her daughters’ educational expenses. But experts warn that one-off assistance cannot fix deeper structural gaps in government education outreach. Sukhadeo Thorat, former chairman of India’s University Grants Commission, argues that Ramabai’s struggle is a clear sign that existing government education support schemes are failing to reach the families that need them most. “Both the central and state governments run a variety of schemes. The problem is that implementation remains weak,” Thorat explained.

For Ramabai, however, the broader national debate is secondary. Her only priority remains ensuring her daughters never have to endure the same hardships she faced growing up and working to support her family. “I don’t want them to struggle through mud or travel under the scorching sun and rain,” she said. “Whatever I have suffered, I don’t want my daughters to suffer the same.”

For decades, allegations of sexual abuse in Indonesia’s Islamic boarding schools have been shrouded in silence, pressured into darkness by institutional loyalty, social stigma, and systemic cover-ups. But a small group of brave former students from Lombok’s Abu Barokat school have risked everything to pull these allegations into the open, sparking a national reckoning with a crisis that activists call a national emergency.

The story begins with two former star pupils, Ziadatur Rahmah (known to friends as Zia) and Yusron Azzahidi, who reconnected years after graduating while studying at university—Yusron in Jakarta, Zia in Cairo. During a late-night conversation about their old school days, Zia shared a devastating secret she had carried for years: when she was 16, their highly respected head teacher Ahmad Imanuddin Sumar, known affectionately to students as “Abah” (father), sexually assaulted her.

Zia recalled that Abah intercepted her on school grounds when she left class to use the toilet, convinced her to follow him to his on-campus home, and assaulted her there. She only escaped when one of Abah’s children knocked on the locked front door, forcing Abah to let her slip out the back. The trauma left Zia feeling “dirty, ruined, and lost.”

Yusron, who had long revered Abah and been taught the school’s core motto “We hear, and we obey,” struggled with the revelation. But he could not shake Zia’s story, and suggested they work with two other former classmates to gather corroborating evidence from other potential victims. As they reached out to old school friends via encrypted messaging, more accounts of abuse began to surface.

One of the most alarming accounts came from 17-year-old Sukma Rohana, who was still a student at the school at the time. She told the group that Abah had lured her to his home for New Year’s prayers, then attempted to rape her. She only escaped after mustering the strength to kick him in the stomach and flee.

Slowly, the group built a seven-page document outlining allegations of abuse against six students, including Zia, Sukma, and four others. The group arranged a meeting with leaders of Nahdlatul Wathan Diniyah Islamiyah (NWDI), the powerful organization that runs Abu Barokat and hundreds of other Islamic schools across Indonesia, to present their evidence. NWDI representatives initially promised to help the group take the case to police.

But weeks later, Yusron received an urgent text from his sister asking him to call her immediately. When he did, it was not his sister on the line—it was Abah, who was in Yusron’s family home after NWDI had shared the group’s evidence document with him. What followed was a brazen attempt to force the students into silence.

Abah pleaded with Yusron to cover up the allegations, sobbing “Cover the shame of your teacher. Everyone makes mistakes, my child,” and warning that if the story leaked to the press, he would be destroyed. He pressured Yusron to retract his evidence and lie for him, then called Zia to exert the same pressure. Unbeknownst to Abah, both Yusron and Zia recorded every word of these calls.

The pressure did not end there. Sukma was summoned to Abah’s home, where she found two police officers and an NWDI lawyer waiting. They forced her to sign a document retracting all her allegations, a confrontation she also secretly recorded. When she later challenged Abah’s wife Hurmiati about the retraction, Hurmiati was captured on tape telling Sukma to respect the “agreement” that nothing happened, warning her that the allegations would “haunt you for the rest of your life” and ruin her chances of getting married.

Abah even pressured Yusron’s parents to travel from Lombok to Jakarta to find Yusron at his university. Yusron hid in a hotel to avoid them, but the ordeal left his mother so stressed that she begged Yusron to drop the investigation. Reluctantly, he agreed, putting his pursuit of justice on hold.

Throughout this ordeal, the friendship between Zia and Yusron had grown into a long-distance romance, but the trauma of the investigation left Zia struggling emotionally. Eight months after Yusron paused the probe, they learned of a grassroots advocacy group raising awareness of sexual abuse in Islamic schools, founded by a young activist named Ayu Masruroh, who had helped another survivor secure justice after an assault by a teacher at a different school. Ayu’s public calls for survivors to speak out inspired Zia to post a call for other survivors to contact her on Instagram.

What she discovered confirmed their worst fears: even after Abah had begged Zia and Yusron for silence and promised to change his ways, he had allegedly abused another student at the school just a year later. This revelation convinced the pair that Abah had never intended to stop, and that their work for justice could not wait any longer.

Yusron’s parents finally agreed to let the pair continue their quest, and this time they worked with Ayu to connect with an experienced lawyer who specialized in representing sexual abuse survivors. He advised them to move forward with Sukma’s case, which he deemed the strongest for prosecution. Sukma filed a formal police complaint against Abah in February of last year. To date, police have taken no action, and Abah remains in his post as head teacher.

When the BBC reached out to Abah and his wife for comment on the allegations, they declined to respond. NWDI has stated that it is conducting an internal investigation and denies any attempt to cover up abuse claims, saying it has a “duty to safeguard the organisation from being tarnished by the alleged actions of individuals.”

Indonesia’s National Commission on Violence Against Women has labeled sexual abuse in Islamic boarding schools a national emergency. Legal experts note that the vast majority of cases never reach court, as victims are pressured to withdraw their allegations or stay silent entirely. Joko Jumadi, the lawyer representing Zia, Yusron, and Sukma, has handled 20 such cases in West Nusa Tenggara province over the past three years, and says the known cases are “just the tip of the iceberg.” He credits the students with exceptional courage, noting that their secret recordings of pressure to stay silent—including admissions of abuse from Abah himself—are invaluable evidence that will help cut through the culture of silence.

For Zia and Yusron, the shared struggle for justice has forged an unbreakable bond. Earlier this year, three years after they began working together, Yusron moved to Cairo to be with Zia, and the couple married last month. “I was exhausted. Jakarta had been intense, because I was dealing with the police case the whole time. So when I saw Zia… it was like medicine,” Yusron says. Zia adds, “He came all the way to Egypt for me. I trust him. That’s why I’m with him.”

For Sukma, the fight continues. “I don’t want what happened to me, to happen to any other students. I want justice,” she says. Her courage, and the courage of Zia and Yusron, has opened a national conversation about a long-ignored crisis, giving hope to hundreds of other survivors who have remained silent for far too long.

Nestled between rolling mountains just a short distance from Seoul’s bustling city center, the quiet residential neighborhood of Buam-dong has long been a haven for visitors and locals alike. Restricted urban development, a result of its proximity to the Blue House presidential residence, has preserved the area’s quaint, charming character, dotted with independent art galleries, cozy neighborhood cafes, and pockets of lush, mature greenery. For more than a century, one ginkgo tree standing sentinel along a residential sidewalk has stood as a unifying, beloved landmark for the Buam-dong community — a tree locals have affectionately called “Grandpa Ginkgo.”

Unlike most ginkgos in Seoul that grow tucked away in private gardens or wild forested areas, this hardy, centuries-old tree belongs to everyone in the neighborhood. Jung, a local resident who requested anonymity (and is referred to here by a pseudonym) who moved to Buam-dong just four years ago, formed an immediate, deep bond with the tree. “I pass this tree whenever I come home. I would say, ‘Grandpa, I’m home.’ Or ‘Grandpa, I’m heading out now,’” she explained. For 74-year-old lifelong resident Park Jeon-hee, the ginkgo is his oldest friend. Even 10-year-old Kim On, who walks past the tree every school day, feels its loss acutely: “It has stood since before I was born. Thinking it might fall down makes me sad.”

It was Jung who first noticed something was terribly wrong in the summer of 2026, when Seoul’s normally lush summer foliage turned the city deep green. While other trees thrived under the humid skies, “Grandpa Ginkgo” was visibly ailing. Healthy green fan-shaped leaves were dropping to the ground en masse, an abnormality that should not occur during peak growing season. Within weeks, the base of the tree was blanketed in a rotting carpet of fallen leaves, and its branches began to thin and turn brown.

Jung’s initial quiet curiosity quickly bloomed into urgent concern, and she rallied neighbors who had also noticed the tree’s decline to form an informal group of amateur investigators to uncover what was ailing their hardy community landmark. The mystery captured national attention across South Korea, making front-page national headlines — a level of scrutiny that left Jung uncomfortable, prompting her request for anonymity. She compares the experience to watching a beloved family member fade: “Imagine a grandfather who silently embraces you every day, listens to you, and has always been strong and full of life. Suddenly, he begins to die. How heartbreaking would that be?”

As the community dug into the mystery, they spotted 10 white plastic funnels protruding from the soil just behind the tree’s trunk. Jung initially assumed the devices were installed to deliver nutrients to the tree, but soon began to suspect foul play. The group obtained access to nearby home security camera footage, which captured two men in white gloves crouching at the tree’s base with a power drill on an April morning. Though the footage did not definitively show the men installing the funnels, it aligned with a detail local officials had previously shared: the Whanki Museum, located steps from the ginkgo’s trunk, had previously requested permission from local landowners to remove the tree entirely. The museum claimed the ginkgo’s expanding roots were damaging its outer brick perimeter wall.

Arborists called in to inspect the tree echoed the community’s worst fears: the funnels were almost certainly being used to inject herbicide to slowly kill the 100-year-old tree, and residents placed the blame squarely on the Whanki Museum. A group of residents accompanied by police confronted museum staff shortly after the discovery, and locals allege a museum employee essentially confirmed the institution’s involvement. The museum has never issued a public confirmation or denial of the herbicide claims, and declined repeated requests for comment from the BBC. In a brief May statement, the museum said its outer wall was collapsing due to the ginkgo’s roots, that it had contacted more than 40 local property owners to request a solution, and that after receiving no responses, its staff “attempted to resolve the situation” — offering no further details on what actions were taken. Local council officials, however, told the BBC a 2025 inspection found “no meaningful connection” between the ginkgo’s roots and the claimed wall damage, adding that any legitimate structural issue would have prompted official intervention and public notification.

The irony of the accusation is not lost on angry local residents, as the Whanki Museum was founded in 1992 to honor the legacy of Kim Whanki, one of South Korea’s most celebrated pioneering abstract artists, often called the “Picasso of Korea.” The museum’s architect designed the space to harmonize with the natural landscape that was central to Kim’s work, and Kim himself wrote nature-focused essays under the pen name Su-wha, which translates to “conversation with trees.” “Treating life that way is ignorance and there was never any apology,” Jung said.

Residents have adopted Kim’s pen name for their ailing tree, and partnered with local environmental activists to launch a national petition calling for the creation of an official urban tree guardian program to protect landmark community trees. Activist Choi Jin-woo, who joined the campaign, said he initially could not believe the allegations: “When I first heard that a tree next to a museum had been poisoned with herbicide and was dying, I simply couldn’t believe it. But when I saw the ginkgo shrivelling, I realised something this horrific could actually happen in our society.” Residents have filed a formal police complaint against the museum’s director, and authorities confirm an investigation is ongoing, though they have declined to release further details. They are demanding the museum reveal what substance was injected into the tree so arborists can begin targeted treatment to save it.

Despite the grim prognosis — one arborist concluded the tree is 90% dead — the fight to save “Grandpa Ginkgo” has yielded an unexpected silver lining: it has united the Buam-dong community in a way no other event has. As Jung spent days organizing support and gathering information, neighbors left home-cooked meals on her doorstep, and she in turn shared homegrown vegetable soup with neighbors she had never met before. For Jung herself, who had struggled with mobility issues and depression after a serious illness last winter, the campaign pulled her back into community life: “I felt so depressed and hopeless but those feelings disappeared. I entered a tree-like state. The tree helped bring me back out into life again. Ironically, it was because the tree became sick.”

For weeks, roughly 20 residents gathered daily at the tree’s base to pray for its recovery: some read aloud Kim Whanki’s own essays about nature, a local shaman led a traditional healing ritual, and the group joined hands for an “elm dance,” a ceremonial practice some ecological activists believe promotes healing for ailing trees. Notes of support and well wishes are tied to the ginkgo’s trunk, fluttering in the mountain breeze.

As autumn settles over Seoul, turning the city’s deciduous trees into vibrant shades of gold and yellow, Buam-dong’s most famous tree still stands with mostly crispy, brown, bare branches. Jung says the tree’s fate is now “in the hands of heaven,” and all the community can do is stay by its side and hope for a miracle. For Buam-dong, the tree is far more than just greenery along a sidewalk: it is a centurylong companion, a community landmark, and an irreplaceable part of the neighborhood’s identity. Residents cannot imagine an autumn without pausing to admire “Grandpa Ginkgo” in his full, golden, feathery glory — and they are not ready to let him go.