Good News: The Whimsical Floating Schools of Kashmir | Proof That Change Is Possible

Each weekday morning, as mist lifts off Dal Lake, a quiet movement begins. Wooden boats set out from houseboats and island homes carrying children dressed in school uniforms, their backpacks tucked between oars and lunch pails. Some row themselves, others are ferried by family. In this part of Kashmir, the school day begins not with a bell, but with the rhythm of water and paddles.

Their destination: Kashmir’s floating schools — classrooms anchored on the lake in this Himalayan region of the Indian subcontinent that has been claimed by both India and Pakistan, and scarred by decades of conflict. What started as a modest local effort is now inspiring more lakes and more lives, offering a hopeful lesson for other places where education is hard to reach.

It isn’t just geography that separates these children from education, but also poverty, uncertainty and the absence of government planning. In times of political shutdown or security lockdown, movement across the water becomes risky, or even restricted altogether. The result is that many children have missed months, even years, of formal schooling, and some families stopped sending their kids to school altogether, unsure if the journey was worth the trouble.

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Undeterred, parents, volunteer teachers and local organizers have stepped in, creating floating schools and rowing children to class to ensure that their education does not sink beneath circumstance.

In the early light, children like 11-year-old Mahira begin their school day with a boat ride that lasts nearly 40 minutes. Her family lives on a patch of floating land tucked far out upon the western side of the lake. Her older brother rows the boat each morning, navigating a narrow waterway lined with lilies and algae. They pass neighbors carrying vegetables to the city and elders on their way to the mosque, all part of the lake’s daily rhythm. Most days the journey is calm, but when it rains or the current swells, children arrive drenched, their notebooks wrapped in plastic to stay dry. Still, very few children in Kashmir’s lake communities miss school by choice.

The first floating school appeared in 2020, when the pandemic closed classrooms across the valley and families on Dal Lake decided to act. They cleared space on floating land, set up benches and a blackboard, and began teaching. Today, the school’s three teachers share lessons in English, Urdu, math, science, history and geography, and while the school is small and not yet affiliated with any official board, it pulses with ambition. There are now also a handful of similar schools scattered across the lake’s small island communities.

Teachers give more individual attention, classes are smaller and parents remain closely involved in their children’s progress, Habibullah says. As a result, even children who once lagged behind are now confidently ahead of their peers.

Fees are kept low, just enough to cover notebooks, chalk and repairs. Much of the income comes from the lake itself: Families sell vegetables from floating gardens, or row shikaras (small wooden boats) for tourists. One group even runs a boat serving kahwe, the region’s traditional saffron-infused green tea, and sets aside part of the earnings for school supplies.

The curriculum, developed with help from local volunteers and NGOs, reflects the world around the students. Geography classes trace the canals they row through each morning, and science lessons explain the freezing of the lake in winter, or the plants that grow beneath the water. At one of the floating schools currently in operation, plans are underway to add a computer corner, powered by solar panels, so children here can learn digital skills too. “We don’t just teach them how to pass exams,” Adil, one of the school’s teachers, says. “We teach them how to survive here, how to think ahead.”

For the students, these schools are not just classrooms but spaces of belonging. And despite minimal funds, teachers on the lake say these schools have improved attendance and engagement — especially for girls. Mahira says her favorite subject is English because “it feels like opening another world.” Her younger brother prefers science, especially when it helps him understand the fish and plants of the lake.

When schools have to temporarily shut down, whether for snow, unrest, or lockdowns, teachers don’t stop showing up. They change tack. Some row out with bags laden with storybooks; others host lessons on verandas, inside small shikaras, or in the sunlit corners of wooden homes.

Parents, even those with little formal education themselves, take turns to ensure no child is left behind. “The school bell doesn’t ring; it echoes across water,” one jokes.

Across South Asia’s floodplains and wetlands, schools often close when waters rise. Now, educators in Nepal’s Terai region and NGOs in Bangladesh’s char islands are looking to Kashmir’s lake schools for inspiration.

As she winds down for the day, Mahira is already packing her things into the boat for tomorrow. Her uniform is neatly folded, and her books are double-wrapped in plastic, just in case it rains. “Someday, I’ll row my own boat,” she says, eyes scanning the water. “But I’ll keep going to school — even if it rains, even if it snows.”

Scrolling photos courtesy of Aqib Nazir for Reasons to be Cheerful, Khadijah98 / Shutterstock and Idrees.Abbas / Shutterstock.