As I am writing this, we are sitting in an airplane somewhere between Jaipur and Chennai, eager to get home and get started with Act 2. We are flying through a monsoon-active corridor, and the airplane is shaking as if it were riding a bumpy road… The short time-out was good for both of us.

Stepping away from campus life from time to time helps us recharge and stay energized. The conference we attended was organized by Ravi Santlani, the founder of ScooNews, whose genuine passion for inclusive learning for all was evident in every detail!
The event showcased educational enterprises, publishing houses, and creators of hands-on learning tools. It made me realize just how vast the education industry has become.

paul and I were invited as speakers, along with about 30 other changemakers, all working in the field of inclusive education. I was impressed by the genuine interest of the visitors, principals and headteachers. Many of them run private schools or colleges and were eager to open their schools to people with disabilities. Many did not see this simply as a service, but as an opportunity for both students with and without disabilities. Despite the enthusiasm of parents, teachers, and current and former students who had experienced inclusive education, I made some observations.
Every time a person with a disability spoke, it felt as if they had an urge to tell everyone how much they had achieved in life. They were all toppers in school, had passed their examinations with flying colors, met celebrities or even the prime minister, and/or received multiple awards.

Of course, it was refreshing, for a change, to meet people who didn’t focus on how much they had suffered because of being blind or physically disabled, but instead on what they wanted to achieve. But it also made me sad to hear that they all seemed to feel this pressing need to tell the world how “normal” they are.
One bright blind boy, 15 years old, spoke. He had a wonderful, mischievous character, and he spoke well about his dream. He wanted to become an IAS officer and make a difference in his community. I just hope it was his dream, and not a dream that was whispered in his ears by his parents.
He spoke about attending a school for the blind before experiencing an inclusive setting. In the school for the blind, he scored between 70 and 80 percent, which, he said quite clearly, was enough. But his parents told him that he should not compete with those other blind kids; he should compete with sighted students. The audience cheered.

But did they hear what the boy had said? The parents had apparently decided that “those other blind kids” were beneath their son intellectually. They were a ‘lower class’. And the audience cheered?
He attended a regular school for only a year or two before his parents withdrew him and encouraged him to pursue online learning instead, a format he apparently enjoys.
His mother sat in the front row, filming everything. She was clearly proud, like many of the mothers and fathers in the audience. Still, I found the relationships between the parents and their children a bit claustrophobic: some parents seemed to derive a great deal of meaning from their role as caregivers. And this brings me back to George and his project.

George wanted to empower the parents of children with disabilities by training them to become better caregivers. But I asked him whether he also trains the parents to give their children a little freedom or space. Parents and their disabled children, this was more than obvious at the conference, often seem to have a very strong interdependence. Therefore, I suggested to George that he additionally think about a one-day-a-week “Swap the Parents” programme.

The idea is simple: parents swap their disabled children for one full day. They spend this time with another family and learn from a different disabled child, while their own child experiences life with another parent.

The idea is not to treat children like parcels being exchanged, of course. It is about breaking the bubble of dependency and giving both parents and children a little breathing space. It can also give the child the feeling that the world is bigger than their own family, and that other families may have different expectations, different ways of handling challenges, different strengths and solutions.
George was excited and started talking to his beneficiaries about it almost immediately.
They tried it out last weekend, and the results were quite promising.
I would have loved to talk about George’s experiences and this new approach with the parents of children with disabilities at the conference.
However, due to the full schedule, there was not sufficient time to go in depth.
Maybe this could be an opportunity for future conferences, having less speakers and more time for personal interaction and exchange.

Real inclusion isn’t about applause or awards; it’s about everyday courage to loosen dependency, give children (disabled or not) some space, and create real freedom for children and parents alike.

It was great to attend the conference; there is always a lot to learn, and it provided plenty of food for thought. We are looking forward to being back on campus to get started on a fruitful Act 2!

More information about George’s organisation Foundation for Tomorrow (F4T) www.foundationfortomorrow.co.ke

The post Blog – From Applause to Freedom: George’s ‘Swap the Parents’ approach for Real Inclusion first appeared on kanthari.

The word politics comes from the ancient Greek word polis, meaning “city” or “community.” Originally, politics simply referred to the affairs of the people living together in a community. Today, however, the word is often understood much more narrowly. When someone says a person is political, many immediately assume they are active in a political party. But being political is much broader than that. It simply means engaging in matters of public interest.

Since 2025, we have shaped our fictional country (which is part of the kanthari experiential learning) in such a way that participants have no choice but to engage with issues that concern everyone.
One third serves in the government, representing different ministries and making decisions. Another third sits on the Control Committee, keeping a close eye on the government’s actions and making sure money is spent fairly and transparently. The remaining third forms the opposition. Their role is to question decisions critically, challenge policies, and, when necessary, protest during debates, and sometimes even during coffee breaks.
Whenever I hear participants wanting to “chicken out” of political debates, I ask myself: Is that possible?
Can someone be a changemaker, advocate for the rights of marginalized people, and still claim not to be political? Isn’t almost everything changemakers do a matter of public interest? Why then choose the easy way out by saying, “I’m not political”? In our simulated country, freedom of speech exists, and a culture of open debate is there.

And then there comes the “but.”
“But in our country…” Yes. Most of our participants are right.
What can be done in our simulated country, with the worst possible consequence being that you might end up in the newspaper, can have far more serious consequences in many of their home countries. I grew up believing, almost taking it for granted, that the world would gradually become more progressive, more equal, fairer, and more just.
Today, the reality differs quite a bit.

Rights that were fought for and won during the 1970s and 1980s in many countries are slowly evaporating. They are melting away before our eyes. What often remains is an indistinguishable mush of accepted opinions that nobody is supposed to question. And whoever does question them is quickly labelled as ‘anti’, ‘anti-this’, ‘anti-that’ rather than being listened to.

I grew up in a time when joining demonstrations was considered almost a civic duty.
The first protest I attended was about women’s rights. I must have been around ten years old. Two feminist university students took my brother and me along. It was quite a sight: people singing, shouting, occupying streets, demanding an end to violence against women.

Then there were the protests in the Hofgarten, the public park behind our university. I think I was about eleven when Heinrich Böll spoke there and encouraged people to link arms and form human chains. Later came the peace demonstrations. One of the biggest was a star march in Bonn. At that time, I was attending boarding school in Marburg. Three friends and I asked our teachers whether we could participate. They happily agreed and even gave us money for the bus tickets. When other students complained that they also wanted a day off, our teachers answered very clearly:
“They don’t have a day off. They have a day of public protest.”

During my university years, I helped organize several demonstrations. One attracted more than 5,000 participants. Another focused on the sensitive issue of the Kurdish people’s struggle for freedom. That protest later became an example of successful cooperation between protesters and the police. Despite the emotionally charged topic, the entire event remained peaceful and was managed with mutual respect by everyone involved.

During our first years in Lhasa, the national government was constantly suspicious of us, seeming to believe we were somehow involved in anti-national activities. Our reply was always the same: “We are not involved in local politics. We are blind politically.” Eventually, they understood what we meant, though to make sure, they kept a close eye on us.

Everything that influences our lives, from being blind to caring about environmental protection, education, peace, or human rights, is political. Nowadays, wherever we go, these topics have become increasingly sensitive.
Why am I writing about this? Because India was boiling. Many young people, especially Generation Z, simply had enough. Enough of being pushed through an education system that measures degrees rather than talents. Enough of collecting certificates only to discover there are no jobs. Enough of being looked down upon. Enough of unfair treatment. Enough of examination papers being leaked before the exams even begin.
So here is my question: Can we actually afford not to be political? All of these are matters of public interest. And we cannot afford not to care.

Yes, there are limits to what can be said in public. Speaking out can cost organizations their licenses. It can cost individuals their freedom. In some countries, it can even cost lives. These realities cannot be ignored.

Some of our participants can practice taking a political stand here. But will they be able to do so once they return home? And if they can, how will they balance speaking up and remaining safe?

Well, let me end with one final word about our fictional country.
When we first created it in 2009, it often felt like a nightmare to live and work there.
Today, without changing very much, I sometimes have the feeling that the real world has overtaken us.
And suddenly our fictitious country appears more liberal than many countries I know, including my own.

Read more blog posts here
Learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Blog – Can we afford not to be political? first appeared on kanthari.

I know fewer things for sure than when I arrived. But that is progress as it comes in mysterious forms. The biggest learning for me, the change in the unit through which I observe the world.

One of the recurring themes throughout the year was that outcomes often emerge without intention. Nobody set out to create inequality during simulations, yet inequality emerged across carefully chosen global changemakers. Nobody deliberately excludes people from systems, yet systems quietly privilege some while constraining others. I have become less interested in asking who is responsible and more interested in asking what conditions made a particular outcome predictable.

The same applies to social change, I believe. I arrived believing that changing reality meant designing better interventions. Increasingly, I think the harder task is understanding the reality that already exists. Most failed interventions are not failures of execution; they are failures of perception, perhaps. We solve the reality we imagine instead of the one people actually live.

Perhaps this is why we at kanthari spend so much time unsettling assumptions. Every meaningful conversation this year seemed to begin by removing certainty rather than adding knowledge. That process is uncomfortable because it forces us to admit that many of our strongest convictions are inherited rather than examined.

I suspect this has been my greatest learning.
Not fundraising. Not on how to take engaging sessions.
Simply learning to delay conclusions. To observe a little longer.
To ask one more question before proposing an answer.

It turns out that changing the way we see reality may be the first act of changing reality itself. I have to sit down over the weekend to recollect what else I have learnt last year, and that would be a wonderful exercise in itself.

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Learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Blog – A year of Unlearning first appeared on kanthari.

In fact, we began with something that every very young child does effortlessly: the ability to transform concepts, seamlessly switching back and forth between reality and fantasy. Once a toddler learns the word cup, it immediately recognizes cups everywhere, regardless of their colour, shape, size, or material. But when the child becomes bored or simply playful, the cup suddenly turns into a hut, a boat, or a racing car. At the same time, a closed hand, a curled-up leaf, or even the shell of a nut might also become “a cup.”

Every year we use this exercise with our adult participants, and every year it is astonishing to witness how firmly each of us has become attached to a single concept: a cup is an object used for drinking liquids. Then we want to apply the same concept to the project ideas of our participants.
In quite a few cases they react with: “Oh no… why do you do this to us?”

Because freeing ourselves from rigid concepts means becoming capable of questioning the status quo. And that is exactly the job of a changemaker. To do this, we must learn to unlearn. We need to question many of the concepts we have absorbed throughout our lives, from our parents, teachers, schools, churches, religious leaders, and the societies we grew up in.

Questioning does not mean distancing ourselves from everything we know. It does not mean that change is automatically better. Nor does it mean looking at existing ideas with negativity. Questioning simply means remaining open to rethink, to explore, and, if necessary, to transform a concept. But this ability requires practice.

Natural questioners are children before they enter school. Yet once they become part of formal education, many gradually lose that wonderful ability to turn a cup into a boat.

During Act 1, we try to bring our participants back to that stage of curiosity. And there is hardly a better classroom than our lake. Working in groups of five or six, participants gather around a boat and fill it with invasive floating water plants and some discarded plastic bottles. While their hands are busy and their minds are gently distracted, seemingly impossible questions suddenly become playful exercises. Questions that remained unanswered in the classroom suddenly find surprisingly thoughtful responses in the cool breeze, under refreshing rain, or while watching a pink-and-turquoise sunset over the lake.
Among the questions they explored were:
• What is great about being a street child?
• What did waste teach you when you were a rag picker?
• How can silence be transformed into freedom?
After so many questions floating around, one final question remained:
When do we need to transform a concept?
The answers became obvious.
We need to transform concepts:
• when conventional solutions no longer solve old problems;
• when the parameters have changed and entirely new challenges emerge;
• when our ventures must evolve in order to survive;
• and when we want to remain flexible, dynamic, and capable of
discovering new possibilities.

Sometimes I cannot help thinking that these exercises should also be done with those
who hold the power to make decisions, CEOs, judges, politicians, and policymakers.
Let’s put them all around a boat in a lake, with a task to clean it together.

I have a strong feeling that many of today’s complex problems would suddenly receive much more thoughtful, creative, and valuable answers.

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Learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Blog – How We Learned to Unlearn first appeared on kanthari.

Just a few days ago, during a session in the auditorium:
“Who loves a good, long phone call with a friend?”
A chorus of approval filled the room.
“And who enjoys calling a potential donor?”
An even louder and very collective, “No!”

Over the years, we have learned that asking participants to raise their hands is rather pointless. We constantly encourage them to react loudly, to disagree, laugh, argue, and think out loud. It creates energy, and it gives me a much better sense of what is happening in the room.

“Wouldn’t you actually prefer meeting a donor face to face?”
“Yes!”
“But think about the advantages of a phone call,” I argued. “You don’t have to worry about body language or gestures. You can concentrate entirely on your voice and on the quality of your pitch. People often listen more carefully. You receive immediate feedback. And, perhaps most importantly, you can wear whatever you like.”
They laughed.

Yet despite all these advantages, one phone call, the one that could change the future of their project, still feels incredibly heavy. It is one of those tasks we postpone, overthink, and quietly hope will somehow disappear, which, of course, makes it the perfect opportunity to push people a little beyond their comfort zone.

Right on cue, Ravi, our media catalyst, walked into the auditorium carrying my phone.
“There’s a call from Germany,” he announced. “Someone wants to speak to one of the participants to learn more about their project.”
I hesitated. After all, our auditorium is a phone-free zone.
But Ravi insisted.

Although everyone knew this was probably another one of our unexpected learning surprises, something remarkable happened. The relaxed atmosphere vanished within seconds. The room became silent. You could almost feel everyone’s heartbeat accelerating.

One participant, usually among the more confident in the group, later confessed while we were in the lake:
“I was shivering. My mind went completely blank. For a moment I didn’t even know what my own project was anymore.”
That is precisely the moment when learning begins.
The surprise call was only the beginning. Later, participants faced a series of mock phone conversations with increasingly challenging “donors.”
One barely responded, forcing the participant to talk herself into deeper and deeper trouble. Another was impatient and constantly interrupted. The selected participant, who normally appears almost overconfident, started to stutter and even apologized for making the phone call. A third mock donor, a civil servant from the Child Welfare Department, sounded cold and dismissive. And this despite the sparkling charm of the selected participant, who tried everything to lighten the atmosphere, but to no avail.

Finally came the wealthy friend of a friend, a donor who had very little interest in the actual project but was fascinated by taking glamorous Instagram photos. “Oh, I just love those sparkling eyes of children,” the caller enthused. “Let’s organize a photo shoot! We’ll make them famous!”
The participant, normally someone with very clear boundaries, was caught completely off guard. Little by little, she agreed to every suggestion. Without even noticing it, she had traded the dignity and privacy of her beneficiaries for a narcissistic photographer’s social media content.

Afterwards she laughed, partly from relief, partly with embarrassment. “I’m so grateful this happened here and not in real life. Now I know I need to prepare. This will never happen to me again.” That sentence captures the essence of experiential learning.

It is the emotional roller coaster, surprise, adrenaline, confusion, embarrassment, relief, reflection, and finally determination that transforms an exercise into lasting learning. The lessons are no longer theoretical. They become personal.

Of course, creating such a learning environment requires a very special group of participants. People who join kanthari know they are stepping into an intensive year. They should be prepared for moments that challenge them, surprise them, and occasionally leave them speechless. The world they are preparing to work in does not arrive wearing velvet shoes. Running a social or environmental project can be demanding, unpredictable, and unforgiving.
kanthari has adopted experiential learning for most topics.
People rarely change because someone explains something well. They change because they experience something deeply.

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Learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Blog – The Lasting Power of experiential learning first appeared on kanthari.

But back to INANI.
The goal was simple: observe a problem, identify a need, and in a very short time transform that observation into a product that could become part of a solution.
Back in 2020, when our campus was closed, we developed the Hyacinth Diaper, the only diaper that, after use, increased in value! How that works can be read in the blog post of back then: https://www.kanthari.org/corona-blog-04-09-2020/

The participants of 2021 came up with fascinating products: plastic made from tapioca, spicy dried snacks from overripe fruits (not the biggest success, as they still tasted slightly off, even after drying), and a mobile chicken coop that could have been revolutionary if it hadn’t fallen apart every time it was moved. Some products, however, stood the test of time. The banana-fiber coasters produced that year are still faithfully serving our office today.

The following year, one group created dog food from leftover biryani chicken bones and feathers, while another group produced paint from lake mud. Unfortunately, they never managed to expand their color palette beyond brown, brown, and brown. 😊
All these products were originally developed over three months.
This year, participants had only one week.
How? Well, time is relative.

I learned that at university. Whenever we had months to write a paper, we spent months doing absolutely nothing. Then, one week before the deadline, panic would set in.
The first three days were usually manageable. With enough coffee, we could transform mediocre thoughts into something resembling academic work.
Then disaster struck.
The computer crashed.
The printer toner ran out.
The paper was finished.
The shops were closed.

Another sleepless night followed, involving a desperate journey across the city in search of paper and toner, only to submit the assignment ten minutes before the deadline.
Yet somehow, when we only had two weeks from the beginning, everything felt different. We worked immediately. We ate. We slept. We remained surprisingly fresh.
So, for this year’s INANI Fair, we were not primarily looking for perfection.
We wanted speed and sellable items despite enormous time pressure.
What problem do I have?
What problem do my peers have?
What problems or challenges exist on campus?
Can I transform that problem into a product?
And who would buy it?

To simulate a marketplace, we added another layer to the game. We injected the equivalent of 300 Euros into the system. Every participant received 1,000 Rupees in coded cheque books. Every staff member received 550 Rupees, which could be topped with personal funds if desired. I knew some participants had not slept the previous night. Again, I was reminded of my university days.
But the outcome was astonishing.

The auditorium had magically transformed into a bustling fairground. Colorful cloth decorated carefully designed stalls displaying a wide range of products.
There was jewelry made from recycled paper and plastic.
Paper made from water hyacinth.
CashewPan, snacks made from grounded cashews, inspired by one group member who is a Kenyan cashew farmer.
Several games in which products could be won.
Organic mosquito repellent with pleasant fragrances.
And much more.

One group developed an online game designed to teach children political awareness and critical thinking. They couldn’t really sell a finished product, but they made profit charging a small fee for demonstrations and encouraged several to invest in their ideas.
Perhaps the most impressive feature of the entire fair was the work of the organizers: Ravi, Rohin, and Surji.
They connected all stalls through a visible digital graphic system that, in real time showed which stall sold the most products, who purchased the most items, and which products were becoming market favorites.
At times it felt like standing on a stock exchange floor or at an auction.
Tyrone, acting as master of ceremonies, regularly announced the latest standings, adding even more excitement to the atmosphere.

Since every cheque was customer coded, we could analyze trends. How many women between 30 and 40 bought mosquito repellent? Who preferred educational games? Who kept returning to the cup game stall? And all this against a backdrop of relaxed jazz music.
The adrenaline, the energy, the enthusiasm, it all felt surprisingly real.
What felt different, however, was the absence of fierce competition. All participants applauded for the stall with most sold items.
But of course, everyone had the same purchasing power and due to the code on the cheque book, it was not possible to buy their own products.

We expected participants to try to find loop wholes to get funding by cross donating, bargain aggressively, or trying to outsmart one another by overspending.
They didn’t. They stayed truthful and fair.
And the fair felt more like a celebration of creativity than a competition.
In just one week, problems didn’t just become products, they became proof of what’s possible when purpose meets pressure.

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learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Blog – The inani Effect first appeared on kanthari.

For this weekly review, I want to focus on my experience with fundraising. When the centre becomes very busy, there is a high likelihood of putting fundraising aside or treating it like “any other business.” To avoid this, I usually set aside Wednesdays strictly for donor database updates or fundraising activities.

This structure helps me remain intentional. Emotionally, fundraising can be heavy. Waking up to rejection emails is never easy, and this week was one of those weeks. I received two rejections. Sometimes I wonder whether I just happen to read them very early in the morning or whether they are actually sent that early. Both foundations declined our proposals. Surprisingly, I did not feel as bad as I expected. Thanks to the “10 Rejections Challenge” I borrowed from Sabriye and some 2025 mentees; I reminded myself that I still had eight more applications to write.

Within the same week, I also received a motivating email from another foundation, with whom I had previously conducted an interview. This was a positive development, although we are required to attend a two-day physical training next week before qualifying to submit our proposal. I am willing to give it a try. The proposed project is to set up a pilot camping tent for Twajali Resort. Let’s see how it unfolds.

Interestingly, this project is beginning to attract potential investors. We were honoured to host Lucieta from the Kenya Tourism Fund, whom I had met during a training last year where I had expressed my unconventional perspective on the future of hospitality. I did not know whether that controversial conversation would later become the fuel that made her want to visit and see what we actually do.

She arrived while we were conducting our treasure hunt, themed around understanding Twajali’s history and orientation, counting our trees, identifying the first staffroom, and locating the cornerstone. I could tell from her eyes that this was not what she expected. With her strong hospitality background, I could only imagine what was going through her mind. I invited her to sit in our humble office since I was the game master and had a role to perform, but she preferred to sit outside with me. The treasure hunt involved mixed puzzles designed to measure teamwork, a copy left from the kanthari curriculum. Her words shifted from “this is challenging” to “this is amazing, what an experience.”
It was already late by the time we finished, so I accompanied her back to the city as we continued our discussion. Her main interest was the resort concept. While seated at a restaurant on our way back, she asked, “Mary, what if we got some investors to invest in the resort setup? I know a few networks who may be willing.”

The word investors usually creates a mental block for me. I paused, looked down at my plate, and chose my words carefully. I asked her what their take-home interest would be. Without hesitation, she answered, “Profits, of course.” That confirmed my concern. I explained that my challenge with investors is that they prioritize profit, while I prioritize impact; the order of priorities differs. That is why, for us, grants and donations often feel more aligned than investments.

Lucieta is witty, strategic, and very assertive. I knew my answer would lead to a deeper question. She referenced two leading hospitality schools in Kenya: The Boma International Hospitality College and Kenya Utalii College. Both have hotels attached to them. The Boma Hotel is high-end and sophisticated, and later gave birth to its own school, which is now thriving. Utalii, on the other hand, sometimes struggles with supplies due to government bureaucracy.

She asked what prevents Twajali from operating like Boma School. Her question was valid, and for a moment I fumbled for words. Eventually I responded that Twajali’s model is reversed; the “school” is intended to give birth to the resort, meaning the hotel will serve the interests of the school, not the other way around. After exploring this and other topics, she promised to introduce me to some of her networks and to return with one or two colleagues.

Before we concluded, she asked a final question that caught me off balance: how we handle Ministry of Health compliance when some of our classes and rooms have no floors. It was a legitimate concern. My response was reflective; I asked what the government does for rural areas where children learn under trees. Is it better to wait for perfect infrastructure before starting, or to begin changing lives while gradually improving facilities? When the authorities come, we will have a conversation.

My meeting with Lucieta felt like an eagle meeting a frog, yet it ended well. I believe a wise frog should be willing to borrow the eagle’s eyes to see far, and the eagle should be willing to come down to the frog’s level to experience the heat. As I prepare for another “eagle and frog” meeting with the Vice Chancellor of Meru University of Science and Technology today regarding collaboration on WASH, I remain hopeful.

Learn more about Mary’s work on twajali
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learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post An impact journey – Mary Mutua first appeared on kanthari.

She is remarkably skilled at turning one tough situation after another into a feeling of having won the lottery. While many people, even those who are much younger, would have given up at the first or second obstacle, or never dared to begin such a journey at all, she seemed to find genuine joy in every challenge that came her way.
Reading her story reminded me of our Talking Circle, in which everything that could go wrong is transformed into a high jump.

Here is just one example of my mother’s journey.
It was already late at night when she wanted to enter her hotel room, but the key that had worked perfectly an hour earlier no longer worked. No one was around. No guests, no hosts. It was one of those hotels that are remotely managed from somebody’s home.

Instead of worrying about her safety, becoming angry that the lovely room with its comfortable bed remained unreachable behind a locked door, or panicking about where she would spend the night, she looked around, and concluded that the staircase was nearly perfect for sleeping. After all, it had a decent carpeted floor.
What more could one ask for?
Well, as I already mentioned, my mother has always been exceptionally good at turning setbacks into something beautiful.

And this is exactly a quality that social change-makers also need to master.
We practice this transformation in our problem definition workshop using a tool named the Talking Circle.
Each participant draws a chit with an emotion written on it: jealousy, sadness, loneliness, anger, helplessness, or exclusion. They then tell a personal story in which this emotion played a major role.
Others ask questions, and at times, while responding to these deeply personal reflections, participants begin to realize that experiences which once troubled them can, in hindsight, be understood as valuable.

Jealousy often turns into: “Well, it opened my eyes to this crook and gave me the freedom to tell myself to get the hell out of this prison-like relationship!”
Loneliness transforms into: “I discovered that I didn’t need others to give me self-worth. I already had a strong personality to rely on.”
And exclusion becomes: “How wonderful that I found out who my true friends are, and who I should avoid in the future.”

What we should not do, however, is downplay the problem itself. That would not do it justice.
There is nothing good we can extract from war, poverty, violence against marginalized people, environmental destruction, or the loss of beloved friends or family members.
The Talking Circle is not about glorifying or ignoring suffering. It is about dealing with emotions.

The emotion is there and, in most cases, it is entirely justified. After all, it is our personal experience and our genuine feeling. But emotions can trigger different kinds of reactions and actions. We can despair. We could get stuck, or we can reflect, learn, and eventually overcome it.

The past week brought several emotional ups and downs.
In memory of David Olendo, our 2025 participant who passed away on 18 June last year, we all stood silently while our Kenyan participants planted a coconut tree in his honour. It was a wish expressed by his daughter, who remains in touch with Mary and Paul.

As we watched, we listened to the birds and to Faith’s Swahili song about strength and overcoming pain. It reminded me of last year, when we sat together on the roof terrace, sharing the pain of losing a very kind and deeply respected participant, and promising each other that we would integrate a piece of David’s dream, protecting nature, into all our individual projects.

And, as if fate likes to bundle all sorrows together, we were shaken by news from the family of one of this year’s participants, who had lost beloved family members due to a fatal medical decision. For the sister and for her twins, we planted three mango trees next to David’s coconut palm. And perhaps, a few years from now, all those who wish to remember them can sit in the cool shade of these trees and reflect on life, both before and after the loss.

As sad as we all were, we also felt unity, solidarity, and care.

Closing this piece on a lighter note, and returning to my mother’s adventure, you may be wondering whether she actually spent the night in an empty staircase.
No, she didn’t.
She made one final attempt to find someone who couldn’t speak her language, but who could help her solve the riddle of the key that didn’t fit. Together, they discovered that she was simply on the wrong floor.
After going up one more staircase, the key magically unlocked the door and opened the entrance to a now even more welcoming room with large windows overlooking all the sites she could visit after a good night’s sleep.

Sometimes, perhaps, we are not locked out at all.
Sometimes, we simply stand on the wrong floor.

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learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/

The post Sometimes we are simply on the wrong floor first appeared on kanthari.

For those who are new to kanthari, participants deliver three Dream Speeches during the course. The first one is presented shortly after arrival, the second after Act Two, when their concepts have taken shape, and the third and final speech is delivered during the kanthari TALKS in December.
While the kanthari TALKS are presented to a global audience and live-streamed around the world, the first speech happens right here on campus. Yet there is a catch.
Participants never know whether they will be first, second, third, or last. They simply have to be ready.

The music, composed by Richard Strauss and made famous worldwide through Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, has become part of a kanthari ritual. Seventeen generations of participants have heard it, and many alumni still report an immediate surge of adrenaline whenever those first notes begin to play.

Did you know that public speaking is consistently ranked among humanity’s greatest fears? In many studies, it scores alongside the fear of serious illness or losing loved ones.
But why? Are people really afraid of speaking itself? Of forgetting their words? Of going blank? Or are we afraid of something much deeper?
Perhaps we fear being judged. Embarrassing ourselves. Being rejected by our community because we express something that others may not agree with.

Against this backdrop, it becomes easier to understand what we ask of our newly arrived participants. After just one week on campus, they are expected to stand on a stage in front of an audience they barely know. A video camera records every word. A group of catalysts sits in front of them, typing observations into their laptops while participants essentially turn themselves inside out. And that brings us to the topic of this first speech.
The assignment is simple, at least on paper:
Speak for ten minutes about the problem you want to solve, your personal story, and the solution you envision.

Phew! That is a lot to ask. None of these topics are easy.

I have written before about how difficult it is to define a problem clearly. Describing a solution that has not yet been fully developed is a challenge in itself. But speaking about one’s own life? About painful memories, turning points, disappointments, fears, and experiences that may have been carefully locked away for years? And then sharing all of this with people you hardly know? Isn’t that asking too much at such an early stage?

Looking at the speeches presented this week, I have to say: no.
We asked a lot, but we asked it from exactly the right people.
One after another stepped onto the stage. Some were more nervous than others, some more structured, and some better prepared.
But every single one of them accomplished one of the most courageous acts a person can undertake: speaking publicly while remaining true to themselves.

They spoke freely from their hearts. They entrusted us with their deepest vulnerabilities, their physical and psychological wounds, without drifting into self-pity. They stood there calm, factual, confident, and powerful. Many shared their personal stories for the very first time. Stories of neglect, homelessness, exclusion, discrimination, violence, and persecution. And yet, within every story there was something remarkable: Hope.

There was always a way forward. A refusal to see themselves as victims. A determination to transform hardship into a broader goal.
Among this year’s participants are survivors of rape, violence, loneliness, societal pressure, poverty, war, discrimination, and the devastating effects of climate change. Yet none of them chose to remain defined by what happened to them. Instead, they drew strength from their struggles and transformed painful experiences into ideas for change.

Watching them speak so openly during their very first Dream Speech, I am reminded of my own first public appearances, speeches, readings, and television interviews during the early days of our Braille Without Borders time in Tibet. I still remember how painful it was to speak about difficult moments: the discrimination from classmates after I lost my sight, the challenges of building our school for the blind, or not being taken seriously by German officials.
These were challenging experiences that had to be told because they shaped who we are today.
But only with time and practice was I able to detach myself from reliving the pain while speaking. It took hundreds of speeches before I could talk about these experiences without being overwhelmed by feelings of anger, hurt, or embarrassment, while still telling the story in a way that made it feel as immediate as if it had happened only yesterday.

Their speeches gave a promising first impression, and I am already looking forward to the kanthari TALKS in December. (11 & 12 Dec 2026)

learn more about kanthari TALKS on https://kantharitalks.org/
Read more blog posts here

The post kanthari – Courage to Speak first appeared on kanthari.

Students around the world are given strict policies. They become remarkably skilled at bending rules, tweaking regulations, and turning loophole-hunting into an Olympic sport. But here is the catch: participants at kanthari are not here to become better students. They are here because they want to build and run their own organisations one day. And founders face very different challenges.
Students operate within systems. Founders create them, maintain them, and deal with the consequences when those systems break down. This difference becomes particularly visible whenever we discuss campus rules, usually during the first phase.
We can spend hours explaining why a rule exists. We can provide examples, scenarios, consequences, and examples from earlier years. Everyone nods. Everyone understands.
And then, in the past, sometimes even on the very same evening, some participants started brainstorming how to get around the very rule they just agreed was perfectly reasonable.

One recurring example, and a source of mild headaches for the team, is food delivery.
The kanthari kitchen prepares meals that are healthy, nutritious, and often surprisingly adventurous. Most participants appreciate the effort, the fresh ingredients, and the wonderful blend of Kerala and international flavours.
But homesickness occasionally strikes.
Someone misses ugali.
Someone dreams of fufu.
Someone longs for zaza.
And someone suddenly develops a deep emotional attachment to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The moment dinner arrives without the desired comfort food, stomachs begin to panic, and perhaps as a lingering post-COVID reflex, fingers start twitching nervously toward the nearest food delivery app.
You may think: what’s the harm? Let them enjoy their favourite meal. Wish them “Bon Appétit” and move on.
Fair enough! In fact, participants are completely free to go out for dinner whenever they wish.

The challenge begins when food is delivered to campus.
Because every takeaway meal arrives with an invisible side dish: WASTE!
Pizza boxes covered in melted cheese and tomato sauce.
Containers coated with sticky gravies…
Chicken bones dripping grease…
Plastic wrappers decorated with chocolate cream…
Paper bags filled with soggy French fries.
Disposable dirty cutlery.
Basically, all leftovers of convenience.

In some countries, people throw this waste away and they magically disappear.
Here, reality works differently.
We do not live inside a sophisticated waste-management vacuum.

Every improperly disposed piece of waste launches a festival of decomposers.
First come the ants. Their highway system is highly effective and usually leads directly to the room of the culprit. Then the cockroaches start organising themselves.
The geckos arrive to hunt the cockroaches. The rats follow everyone.
And because we happen to live in the tropics, where there are rats, there is good chance for rat snakes to peak around the corner as well…
At this point, the pizza that seemed like such a brilliant idea has evolved into a small ecological hazard.
To be fair, the ants, geckos, rats, and snakes are all simply doing their jobs.
The only species in this chain that occasionally struggles to connect actions with consequences is the human, and in this case, the founder(s)-in-training.

Which brings us back to the question: Why do rules exist?
Not because kanthari enjoyed creating them.
Not because we want to deny participants their beloved KFC.
But because every action creates consequences, and we believe future founders must learn to think beyond their immediate desires.

I remember a crisis meeting years ago in Tibet with our blind students. The children, aged six to twelve, were protesting against washing dishes. Fortunately, even back then, paul and I already believed in experiential learning. So, we agreed. No more dishwashing!
The first two days went surprisingly well, however then the stock of clean plates and cups ran out… The powerful Tibetan sun began warming the dirty plates scattered around the courtyard. A rather noticeable smell emerged which attracted a squadron of flies..

After preparing meals for the students, Paul and I decided to invite our house parents to enjoy some street food, outside the school. But at night we all started hearing high pitched squeaking sounds. Tibetan rats are considerably larger than their Indian relatives, and because they face relatively few dangers, they can become remarkably confident, and occasionally quite aggressive.
After enjoying the buffet in our courtyard, they began exploring the children’s dormitories in search of further entertainment. And by the third day, the children unanimously declared the experiment finished.
From that day forward, all dishes, pots and pans, cups and cutlery were cleaned with great passion!

Yes, we could try the same experiment here. But for some reason, most participants do not seem particularly eager to cuddle up with a snake in their bedroom.

So instead, we try to activate their imagination. Perhaps that is why one of the most important lessons at kanthari is not about social entrepreneurship at all.
It is learning the difference between a student and a founder.
Students ask themselves:
“How can I get around this rule?”
Founders ask: “Why does this rule exist, and what would happen if everyone ignored it?”

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The post Mind the Bumps: Entering Founder Territory first appeared on kanthari.