The invisible student
In most classrooms across Nepal, you won’t see children with diverse learning needs not because they don’t exist, but because they’ve been made invisible. Undiagnosed, unsupported, and excluded, these children are left behind long before the first lesson begins.
I first glimpsed this invisibility as a child myself. At around ten years old, I was once waiting for results at an inter-school dance competition when a group of children from a school for the intellectually challenged performed. One of the girls left the stage and walked directly up to me, her face just inches from mine, and asked my name.
I wasn’t wary of her. I was scared of doing the wrong thing. Of saying something hurtful. Of not knowing how to respond. No one had ever talked to me about intellectual disability. No one had prepared me for what to do or how to simply be with someone who moved, spoke, or behaved differently. So I stood there, paralyzed.
Today, as a school leader trying to build inclusive classrooms in a deeply non-inclusive system, I understand that moment differently. It wasn’t just my discomfort, it was society’s silence. Our schools, our homes, and our media had never acknowledged children like her. That silence has hardened into systemic neglect.
More and more children with diverse learning needs are entering our classrooms. But they are still misunderstood, often mislabeled as lazy, disruptive, or incapable. The lucky few who are identified are either nudged out of mainstream schools or left unsupported within them, trapped in a system never designed to recognize their potential.
Globally, around 10-15 percent of children are estimated to have specific learning disabilities such as dyslexia, dysgraphia, or dyscalculia. Neurodevelopmental conditions like ADHD and autism affect an additional 4-10 percent. UNICEF reports that 12.5 percent of children aged 5-17 worldwide have moderate to severe disabilities that impact their access to learning. In Nepal, the numbers are even more stark. A national study found that over 35 percent of children aged 3-4 showed signs of developmental delay, particularly in areas of literacy and social-emotional development. While official disability data remains limited and often under-reported (ranging from 1.6 percent to 14 percent depending on the source), these figures highlight the widespread and urgent need for support systems that go far beyond current efforts.
Nepal’s Constitution, in Article 31, guarantees every citizen the right to education, explicitly committing to equitable access. It calls for education to be brought “within reach of all” and to create “equal opportunities for all.” Building on this, the Inclusive Education Policy of 2016 affirms that every child has the right to study in an inclusive, dignified environment. The policy assigns clear responsibilities to national bodies like the Curriculum Development Center and the National Examination Board, mandating the development of accessible curricula, resources, and assessment systems.
These are commendable commitments. But for educators on the ground, these policies often feel disconnected from reality. Ambiguity persists: Which needs are officially recognized? How are schools operationalizing inclusive education? Who ensures that teachers, counselors, and systems are ready to support this transformation?
Among the most visible barriers is Nepal’s standardized examination system. The Basic Level Examination (BLE) in Grade 8, the Secondary Education Examination (SEE) in Grade 10, and the School Leaving Certificate (SLC) in Grade 12 are all high-stakes assessments with rigid structures. Crucially, passing these exams is mandatory to move forward in the education system. But what about students who cannot pass, not due to lack of effort, but because of intellectual disabilities, neurodevelopmental conditions, or specific learning needs? These students are left without an option. The system treats academic performance as the sole indicator of worth and readiness, erasing the potential of those who learn differently.
The rigidity of these exams sits atop a shaky foundation. Schools lack access to trained professionals who can assess students, provide formal diagnoses, and participate in Individualized Education Plan (IEP) teams. In the absence of such expertise, educators are forced to make judgment calls they are neither trained nor authorized to make. To move forward, Nepal must invest in long-term solutions: teacher training programs focused on inclusive education, specialized university degrees in diverse learning needs and counseling, and ongoing parent education initiatives.
There is also an urgent need for both national and local support systems staffed with experts in assessment, therapy, teacher and parent support, and school-based implementation to guide and empower schools.These systems must also include financial support for schools and families to access essential therapies, hire specialized teachers, and sustain meaningful inclusion. Without this comprehensive backing, inclusion remains aspirational rather than actionable.
Even when students are identified and supported in school, challenges remain in securing examination accommodations. The current policy requires requests to be submitted two months before the exam, yet in practice, schools often receive approval (or even information about the option) only a week before. This last-minute uncertainty discourages innovation and risks putting students in pedagogically unsound positions. Instead, the government should allow accommodations and modifications to be formally registered and approved as soon as a student’s needs are identified. This would allow schools to support the student throughout the year, not just in exams but in daily learning. Inclusion cannot be reactionary. It must be sustained and authentic.
Inclusion also requires flexibility in curriculum structure and certification. Some students could thrive with reduced subject loads. I currently work with a student with a language-based learning difficulty, for whom taking one language instead of multiple would make a world of difference. Yet the system doesn’t allow for this. We need an alternative School Leaving Certificate for such students that maintains the integrity of the curriculum but allows reduced subject requirements. Additionally, there must be a second type of certificate for students who require modified content entirely, for those whose cognitive development differs significantly from their biological age.
Crucially, these alternative certificates must carry the same procedural and social value as traditional ones. They must lead to further education and employment opportunities. Without this equivalency, these students remain excluded, their achievements undermined, and their futures jeopardized.
Beyond Grade 10, there must be guaranteed continuity of accommodations through Grade 12 and higher. And for those unable to pursue academic pathways, vocational programs must be introduced, not as a last resort, but as a dignified, valuable alternative. Every student must have a path to self-reliance and social inclusion.
Inclusion is not charity. It is not a favor. It is a right. If Nepal is sincere about its promise of equitable education, it must recognize that inclusive education is not about bringing children into the system as it exists but about reshaping the system itself. This means rethinking policies, retraining professionals, redesigning exams, funding resources, and most of all, re-framing our understanding of human potential.
The invisible students of our nation are not invisible by nature; they are made invisible by our inaction. And how we choose to respond today will define the kind of nation we become tomorrow.
