Madiha

My name is Madiha Ali.

In 2014, I arrived in Indonesia with my family.

Like many refugee families, we arrived with uncertainty, limited rights and no access to formal education. Months passed, and then more months. There was no clear pathway forward, and we knew that if resettlement came at all, it could take years.

For my father, this was particularly difficult. Education had always been central to our family. Watching his children—and other refugee children—sit at home for months without access to school was painful.

It wasn't just about missing classes. It was about losing routine, purpose and hope.

One day, a small group of refugees, including my father, came together and asked a simple question:

If our children cannot access education, what can we do about it?

That question became the beginning of Refugee Learning Center.

Starting with 18 students

We started small.

There were 18 students, a handful of volunteer teachers and no certainty about how long the centre would survive. But we had commitment, energy and a shared belief that education was something we could not afford to postpone.

The centre was refugee-led from the beginning. We made decisions together, for our own community.

Many of our first teachers were women who had had few opportunities to work or take on leadership roles since becoming refugees. Teaching gave them something that was difficult to find during those years of waiting: responsibility, purpose and a chance to contribute.

For the students, it meant having somewhere to go and something to look forward to. They could learn, make friends and maintain a sense of normality while their futures remained uncertain.

For the teachers, it became something more too.

They were developing skills, gaining confidence and discovering that even while waiting for their own lives to move forward, they could make a difference in the lives of others.

More than a school

Looking back, I realise that Refugee Learning Center was about much more than education.

For many people, it was a place to belong.

Displacement can be incredibly isolating. Refugees can spend years waiting for decisions that are completely outside their control, while living in communities where they may have limited opportunities to participate or contribute.

The learning centre gave people a reason to get up in the morning. It gave teachers a role and students a routine. It created friendships and a sense of community.

And it showed us something important: even when so much of our lives was outside our control, there were things we could still create together.

What stayed with us

Over time, many of the students and teachers moved on to new chapters of their lives, including resettlement in other countries.

For some of the women who taught at the centre, the experience became part of their professional journey. They left Indonesia with experience in teaching, communication, leadership and management—skills they could carry with them into their new lives.

But what stays with me most is not a particular number or achievement.

It is the memory of what happened when a group of people who were waiting for their lives to begin decided that they could still do something meaningful in the meantime.

We saw a gap in our community, and we decided to do something about it ourselves.

That is how Refugee Learning Center began.

And for me, that is what refugee leadership looks like: people coming together, seeing what their community needs, and deciding that they can be part of the solution.