A call to transform schools from shelters of safety into sanctuaries of solidarity

Sri Lanka has faced one of the most devastating natural disasters in its post-independence history. Cyclone Ditwah, with its torrential rains, landslides, flash floods, and widespread displacement, has left an imprint on the nation that will be remembered for decades. While rescue teams continue to work tirelessly and communities rush to rebuild shattered homes and infrastructure, the nation’s disaster assessment is evolving by the day. Funds from government channels, private donations, and the Sri Lankan diaspora are being mobilised and monitored with care. Humanitarian assistance—from the tri-forces and police to religious institutions and village communities—has surged with extraordinary compassion, but as in every disaster, the challenge ahead is not only about restoring physical structures; it is also about restoring the social and emotional fabric of our people for a sustainable future.

Schools on the Frontline of Recovery

The Ministry of Education is now faced with a difficult but essential question: When and how should schools reopen? The complexity of the problem is daunting. Hundreds of schools are either partially submerged, structurally damaged, or being used as temporary shelters, bridges and access roads have collapsed, and teachers and students in highly affected districts have lost family members, homes, and belongings. And yet, not all regions have suffered to the same degree. Some schools remain fully functional, while others will require weeks of rehabilitation.

The country has navigated a similar challenge before. In 2005, following the tsunami that hit mainly the coastal areas of the island, the education system faced a monumental recovery phase, requiring temporary learning spaces, psychosocial support units, and curriculum adjustments. During the COVID-19 pandemic, schools reopened in staggered phases with special protocols. International schools and private educational institutions, with greater autonomy, are likely to restart their academic calendar earlier. Regardless of whether a school belongs to the national, provincial, Pirivena, or international sector, however, education must restart sooner rather than later. The reopening of schools is not merely an administrative decision; it is a symbolic and structural step toward national healing and a restorative future for the country.

Disasters Do Not Discriminate — Neither Should Education

Just like the tsunami of 2004, the major floods of 2016, the landslides of Aranayake (2016), Meeriyabedda (2014), and Badulla (2022), and the Covid-19 pandemic (2021), the cyclone Ditwah has once again exposed the fragile but deeply profound truth that natural phenomena do not recognize distinctions created by humans. Floodwaters do not differentiate between provinces, school systems, or social classes; landslides do not check national exam results before destroying a home; and suffering does not pause to ask whether a child is from a rural Mahaweli village or an elite urban suburb.

In this context, educational institutions have a responsibility that goes far beyond exams and syllabi. This aligns profoundly with an often-cited principle of Jesuit education articulated in 2000 by Fr. Peter-Hans Kolvenbach, S.J., the former Superior General of the Society of Jesus:

Tomorrow’s whole person cannot be whole without an educated awareness of society and culture, with which to contribute socially, generously, in the real world. Tomorrow’s “whole person” must have, in brief, a well-educated solidarity… learned through “contact” rather than “concepts.” When the heart is touched by direct experience, the mind may be challenged to change. Personal involvement with innocent suffering, with the injustice others suffer, is the catalyst for solidarity which then gives rise to intellectual inquiry and moral reflection.”

In this sense, schools must guide children to process what they have witnessed—directly or indirectly—and transform these experiences into moral resilience, empathy, environmental consciousness, and collective responsibility. In doing so, one should bear in mind that every child in Sri Lanka has experienced Cyclone Ditwah in some way:

Children Who Faced the Disaster Directly:

Some children lived through the cyclone in the most harrowing ways—watching floodwaters creep into their homes, escaping rising torrents, or fleeing as landslides tore through familiar ground. Their memories are filled with the sound of rushing water, collapsing earth, and the frantic efforts of parents and neighbours, losing their family members, and trying to keep everyone safe.

Children Who Supported Frontline Families:

Others experienced the crisis through the lens of responsibility. They watched fathers, mothers, siblings, or relatives join rescue teams, distribute supplies, or help evacuate neighbours. These children carried a different kind of fear—waiting in silence, praying that their loved ones would return safely from dangerous missions.

Children Who Witnessed the Disaster Through Media:

Many encountered the cyclone from within their homes or shelters, glued to phones, televisions, and social media feeds. They saw images of villages underwater, families stranded on rooftops, frantic cries for help, boats battling fierce currents, and choppers airlifting stranded people. Even from a distance, these scenes left deep emotional imprints.

Children Who Internalised the Atmosphere of Fear:

Some were not exposed directly to images or destruction, but absorbed the tension in their households—whispered conversations, worried faces, disrupted routines, and sleepless nights. Their experience was shaped by the emotional climate around them: the uncertainty, the stress, and the unspoken fear shared by the adults they depend on.

Children Who Got Involved in Relief Efforts:

Across Sri Lanka, countless children became active participants in relief efforts—some spontaneously, others through families, schools, churches, temples, mosques, and youth groups. Individually, they helped neighbors carry belongings, comfort younger children who were frightened, fetch water and dry rations, and assist the elderly in evacuation centers. Within families, many helped prepare meals for displaced people, sorted clothing donations, packed dry-food parcels, and joined parents in visiting affected households. Through organizations, such as temples, churches, mosques, charity foundations, school associations, clubs, scout groups, Girl Guides, Sunday school units, youth groups, and student unions, children coordinated collection drives, raised funds, gathered books and uniforms for those who are affected, and volunteered at distribution points. These acts, small and large, are beacons of the nation’s hope, revealing that even a crisis as destructive as Cyclone Ditwah, Sri Lankan children were not only making meaning of suffering, but also cultivating compassion, solidarity, and shared responsibility.

In one way or another, Sri Lanka’s children have been touched by the experience. Their hearts are stirred. Their minds are open. While not all trauma comes from direct contact, indirect exposure can be equally jarring, especially for younger children; their psychological, emotional, and social well-being must be handled with sensitivity and foresight. This moment, therefore, is an educational opportunity of rare depth—if we have the courage and creativity to embrace it.

A National Post-Cyclone Reflection Period (NPCRP)?

Once schools reopen, no child should simply return to the classroom as if nothing happened. A top-down insistence on “catching up” academically without addressing emotional wounds will only store up psychological problems for the future. Instead, schools should designate an initial period for reflection, storytelling, sharing, healing, and meaning-making. Hence, a mandatory National Post-Cyclone Reflection Period (NPCRP) is not merely a “feel-good” recommendation. It draws from post-tsunami educational reforms both in Sri Lanka (2004) and in Japan (2011), WHO frameworks for psychosocial healing in schools, UNICEF guidelines on post-disaster learning environments, and our own cultural traditions of collective mourning and remembrance in Sri Lanka. In Sri Lanka, villages often come together after a death for almsgivings, month-mind ceremonies, etc. Our religions—Buddhism, Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism—each emphasize compassion, reflective mourning, and community healing. Why should schools not embody these cultural strengths after a catastrophe that has impacted an entire nation?

(To be concluded)

(Dr. Rashmi M. Fernando, S.J., is a Jesuit priest, educator, and special assistant to the provost at Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles, California, USA.).

by Dr. Rashmi M. Fernando, S.J.