Why higher education remains out of reach for Bangladesh’s Santal community

Fifteen-year-old Sonali Murmu is in Class Eight. When asked whether she hopes to attend university in the future, a vacant look clouded her eyes. What is a university? — that seemed to be the unspoken question on her face. And it was not rhetorical.

Of course, it is hardly fair to blame Sonali; after all, she has never seen anyone from her community go to university. No one in her family, nor in her neighbourhood, has ever worn a convocation gown or walked the halls of a higher education institution. To her, university is not just unreachable — it is unimaginable.

This is not just Sonali's story — it reflects a widespread reality for the Santal community across Bangladesh, highlighting a deeply entrenched structural gap in the educational landscape for the country's indigenous communities, particularly the Santals. 

Despite being one of the country's largest ethnic minority groups, numbering around 129,000, when it comes to education, especially higher education, they remain overwhelmingly absent.

According to the latest data, 10% of the Santal population is illiterate, and 54% never reach the Higher Secondary Certificate (HSC) level. Among ethnic minority groups in Bangladesh, Santal students are notably underrepresented in colleges and universities. While other minority communities have begun to make inroads into higher education, spotting a Santal student at a university remains almost extraordinary.

Despite a decent level of participation in primary education, Santal children begin dropping out at an alarming rate from the secondary level onwards. This drop-off is driven by a matrix of socioeconomic, cultural, and structural barriers that block the path forward.

Poverty, language and lost potential

For many Santal families, just getting by consumes every ounce of energy and income. Education, though universally acknowledged as valuable, often feels like a luxury when meals and medicine are uncertain. The cost of school supplies, transportation, uniforms, and exam fees quickly adds up.

"Most of us are fighting just to make ends meet. So the extra cost of school becomes too much," explains Jonathan Murmu, who had to drop out just before completing his undergraduate degree in management. "I failed two courses in my final exams—math-based subjects. I didn't understand them on my own, and our classes didn't cover everything. I couldn't afford a private tutor because of my financial situation. So I couldn't finish."

Jonathan's experience is emblematic of a broader systemic problem. The lack of tailored academic support and resource scarcity leads many promising Santal students to abandon higher education mid-way.

Another profound challenge is language. Santal children grow up speaking Santali, but all schooling is conducted in Bangla — a language they often do not speak fluently when they start school. This results in a critical learning disconnect from the very beginning.

"From day one, we feel like outsiders in the classroom," says Edward Murmu, a Santal student at the University of Rajshahi. "The language of the textbooks isn't our own. We're expected to learn like everyone else, but we're starting from behind. Many kids lose confidence early on."

A culture that encourages the shortcut

Even when students manage to finish school, cultural and community attitudes present another set of challenges.

"The low level of participation in university comes from a lack of support within the community," says Nirmal Tudu, also from the University of Rajshahi. "Many families want their children to start earning as soon as possible. University takes time, and the benefits are not immediate. So they see it as impractical."

This mindset has evolved from generations of marginalisation, where survival came first and long-term planning seemed like a privilege for others. Over time, it has become ingrained: work is real; education is abstract.

"Out of 100 Santal families, maybe 10 are financially stable," adds Edward. "The rest struggle. So, kids try to balance work and study, but eventually they choose work. Who can blame them?"

This pragmatic shift away from education becomes more common after SSC (Secondary School Certificate) exams. While many Santal boys continue up to this point, the transition to college proves too steep. For many, the pull of immediate income wins out.

Football, alcohol and distractions

Some drop out for reasons unique to their social context.

"Football is one of the reasons," says dropout Markony Hemrom. "Many boys start playing 'khep' football — local paid tournaments. They get quick money, community attention, and excitement. Gradually, studies lose priority."

Then there's alcohol. "Alcohol is part of our culture," he says. "It's easily available, and many boys start drinking early. That too becomes a distraction that derails studies."

Perhaps the most unusual — but culturally significant — reason is dangsogoy, the practice of crashing weddings.

"In our community, weddings don't always involve formal invitations. So boys gather in groups and go from one wedding to another. It's fun, it's festive — but it becomes a habit. Week after week, party after party — and eventually, studies are forgotten," explains Nirmal.

These may sound trivial to outsiders, but within the Santal context, they represent a subtle yet strong pull away from the academic path. With little community pressure to prioritise education, distractions easily become the main narrative.

Photo: TBS

Girls face a different set of hurdles

For Santal girls, the struggle is even more layered.

Early marriage, domestic duties, and entrenched gender roles often end their education prematurely. Families expect girls to support the home or marry young. The idea of a girl going to university — especially one far from home — remains alien to many households.

However, there is a small but hopeful trend emerging.

"We've started seeing more Santal girls enrolling in nursing after college," Jonathan notes. "It's considered respectable and more achievable than university. Parents support it, and girls see it as a way to gain status."

This shift points to a promising space where community attitudes can evolve — if guided and supported.

'Change must come from within the community'

So, what is the way forward?

According to students like Markony and Edward, change must begin from within the community but needs institutional support to be sustainable.

"We need awareness campaigns — village-level and upazila-level seminars — to help parents understand what education can offer," says Markony. "Families must see that this is not just for individual success but for the whole community."

Nirmal stresses the role of Santal families who have 'made it'. "Those who are financially stable should sponsor poorer students. Help them buy books, pay tuition fees, or even just encourage them. Sometimes, that makes all the difference."

Role models are another key.

"We need to brand our achievers," Nirmal adds. "Those who succeeded through education should be visible. Let younger kids look up to them and believe that they can do it too."

Government intervention is crucial. Language-inclusive curricula, scholarship programmes for indigenous students, and culturally sensitive academic counselling can dramatically shift outcomes.

More than numbers: A question of dignity

The Santal struggle with education is not just about enrolment or graduation rates. It is about dignity, visibility, and belonging.

Jonathan remarks, "For too long, this community has been excluded from the decisions that shape their lives. Limited education means limited voices in policy, employment, land rights, and political representation. The cost of their exclusion is not just borne by them — but by the nation as a whole."

There is no shortage of intelligence or ambition in the Santal community. There is, however, a shortage of access, of understanding, and of support. If children like Sonali are to grow up not just asking 'What is a university?' but confidently answering questions in one, the system must change. So must the narrative.

Only then can higher education become not a distant dream, but a reachable reality.