Insider Story: When being counted changes everything

Above: Walk with me through Allipalem — where families are becoming visible for the first time.

In India, I did not grow up feeling excluded. But I grew up noticing differences.

In school, some children spoke more confidently. They asked questions without fear.

Others stayed quiet.

Even when we sat in the same classroom, we were not starting from the same place.

Some came from families where education was discussed regularly at home. Others were figuring everything out on their own.

I remember observing how background shaped behaviour — how language, social environment, and parental education influenced who felt “at ease” in classrooms and who did not. At that time, I did not have the vocabulary to call it exclusion. I only sensed that systems feel natural for some people and intimidating for others. That early awareness stayed with me. It made me more attentive to who speaks up — and who remains silent.

During the 2018 floods, my family lost many important documents — identity cards, certificates, records.

At first, we thought we would just apply again.

But when we visited the government offices, nothing was simple.

For almost six months, I felt like we were nobody.

Help was available, but access depended on papers we no longer had.

It made me think: If this is so hard for me, what about families who don’t have the confidence, education, or awareness to follow up?

When I began working in Allipalem, this memory came back with full force.

I understood it.

What it means to feel invisible to a system.

Above:The classroom is often moved outside into the shade.

My first journey into Allipalem

The last six kilometres into Allipalem are through forest — on an uneven mud road that becomes slippery in the rain.

There is no regular transport. No mobile signal. No easy way in.

When I arrived at the village on my first visit, I saw small huts made of temporary materials. There were no concrete houses then. The internal road was not proper. Electricity was limited. Children were playing outside, many without footwear. Many of them looked undernourished. Families told us about frequent illness, because the nearest health facility was far.

Something else worried me even more:
Very young girls were already married. Some were already mothers.
Many children were not enrolled in school — or attended irregularly.

And when we spoke with parents about documentation processes — where to go, which form to fill, how to follow up — they didn’t know where to begin.

Less than 40 percent of families had  basic ID.

Many adults and children were not registered at birth.
Few had proof of ID (an Aadhaar).
And some did not have ration cards or voter IDs.

Experiencing this, I remember the floods. The only difference was that our family’s struggle lasted a few months. For this community, the situation had existed for generations.

What it means to live outside the system

Living “outside the system” doesn’t mean people don’t belong.

It means nothing is simple.

Seeing a doctor.
Enrolling a child in school.
Getting support.

All of it becomes harder – or impossible.

In Allipalem, many births happen at home because hospitals are far and transport is limited. When births take place at home, families must go to government offices later to register — but many do not know how.

When parents are unfamiliar with procedures or feel nervous about approaching offices, they often avoid them. Over time, this hesitation becomes normal. Children grow up watching it – and inherit it.

So, by the time a child reaches school age, they are already starting from a different point — not because of ability, but because of access. This is what I saw in Allipalem. And this is why documentation matters so much.

Above: Speaking with a young boy in Allipalem, Jins understands what it means to navigate the difficult process to attain government documents.

Recognition and my own story

Recognition is deeply personal to me.

Losing our family documents in the floods showed me something clearly:
how quickly recognition can disappear.

It is not just a paper.

It is opportunity, access, and a future.

I had education and awareness to reapply, follow up, and navigate the system. But many families do not have that support. That realisation made me connect my own journey with my work.

My education helped me find confidence, speak up, pursue higher studies, and build a career. But all of this was possible because I was recognised by the system — because my name existed in records.

When I work with children in Allipalem, I see how much their future depends on that same first step.

Recognition is not only about fairness. It is about potential.

Taking the first step: Documentation

Our work began with something basic:
helping families understand why documents are important.

We sat with them. Explained.

Answered questions.

• What is this document for?
• Why does a birth certificate matter?
• How does Aadhaar help you access services?
• What do you need to apply for a ration card?
• How can these documents help your child go to school, get food, or access care?

Some were shy. Some were confused.
But slowly, trust built.

We conducted documentation camps in collaboration with government officials. Families brought old papers wrapped in plastic — some torn, incomplete, or mismatched.

We checked details, corrected spellings, matched names, ensured dates were correct, helped with forms, and followed up — again and again.

Today, documentation coverage has reached nearly 90%.
That changed everything.

When the village became visible

When documentation improved, 29 families became eligible for government housing.

Houses started being built — replacing fragile huts.

Electricity reached the village.
Children began studying at night.
Water is now just a few steps away.

A 5,000‑litre overhead tank was installed, with nine taps for the village. Earlier, women and girls spent hours walking to the forest to collect water. The internal road was widened. For the first time, vehicles and government officers could reach the village directly.

The village is no longer invisible.

Even when progress feels slow, I remind myself that every completed document, every school enrolment, every house under construction represents a shift in a family’s future. That belief — that small, steady steps can change a family’s future — is what keeps me committed to this work.

Above: The beginnings of a new “home” for a family in Allipalem.

A moment that hurt my heart

One of the saddest moments I experienced in Allipalem was when a thatched house caught fire. Thankfully, no one was injured. But the family lost everything.

When I visited early in the morning, they were building a temporary hut.

Until it was rebuilt, they slept under a tree.

It is hard to forget.

It reminded me how fragile living conditions still are for some families. It also reinforced why housing, electricity, and documentation are not small improvements.

They are about stability and protection.

This is why our work is so important.

The change you can see — and the change you cannot

Something else changed too — confidence.

Earlier, parents were unsure when approaching offices. Now they ask questions. They follow up on applications. They speak to officials without fear.

Children also changed.

They come regularly to the early childhood development centre. They sit together, participate in learning, sing songs, and play games. They take care of the Nutri‑Garden, watering plants and showing them proudly.

Parents discuss teacher quality, ask about school attendance, and show interest in their children’s learning.

This confidence is difficult to measure — but it is the biggest sign of progress.

Still more work ahead

Progress is real. But it is not complete.

Some families are still missing documents.

Until they finish, they cannot receive housing or electricity benefits.

Other Chenchu habitations in the district still face similar challenges: partial documentation, early marriage, irregular school attendance, limited health access.

Change takes time. It requires patience, follow‑up, coordination, and trust.

Above: Cooking outside is a common site in the village.

Seeing is believing…

If you walk with me in Allipalem, you will understand.

You will see the long forest road that keeps people isolated.

But when you arrive, you’ll also see water flowing and houses built where there was none.

You’ll see children learning and attending school regularly.

You’ll hear parents discussing their children’s education, and talking to officials with confidence.

You’ll see change.

Why recognition matters

When I think back to the floods, I remember what it felt like to be invisible.

For my family, it lasted months.
For families in Allipalem, it lasted generations.

But now, things are changing.

Children are being registered at birth.
Families are being seen.

And for the first time, this generation is starting with recognition —
not invisibility.

And when that changes, everything that comes after changes too.