If I Could Change Sri Lanka for the Better
If I had the power to change Sri Lanka for the better, I would begin by making sure every child, no matter where they live or what their background is, has access to good education. Too many children drop out of school because their families cannot afford books, transport, or even meals. I believe free, equal, and modern education should be the foundation of our country’s future. When children learn together, without barriers, we grow into citizens who understand and respect one another.
Next, I would focus on protecting our environment. Sri Lanka is called the “pearl of the Indian Ocean,” but we are slowly losing our beauty to pollution, deforestation, and climate change. I would encourage recycling in every home, plant more trees, and reduce the use of plastic. If children are taught to care for nature from a young age, our island will remain green and safe for generations.
Another change I dream of is unity. Today, people are often divided by religion, language, or community. I wish Sri Lanka could be a place where every child grows up learning that we are all one family. We may speak different languages or follow different traditions, but our hearts all beat for the same home. If I could change something, I would teach people to celebrate our differences instead of fighting over them.
Finally, I want Sri Lanka to be a place where children feel safe and free to dream. Too many children live with fear, violence, or poverty. A better Sri Lanka is one where every child has the chance to play, laugh, and chase their goals without worrying about tomorrow.
Sri Lanka has so much potential. If we put education, the environment, unity, and safety first, we can build a country where children not only survive but truly thrive. That is the change I would like to see.
Why Can’t I Just Be a Child?
I am fifteen years old. But sometimes, I wonder if I’m really allowed to be a child. People see me, but they don’t always see me. They see my mother, strong, kind, carrying more pain than she lets show. They see my sister, who became like a second mother when our real mother was out there fighting for peace we’ve never really had. My sister fought our father, she stood up when she wasn’t old enough to stand. She was brave when no one else was. She looked pain in the eye so I wouldn’t have to. She made sure I wouldn’t live the same life she did. She protected me, even when no one protected her.
Then there’s my brother. He means well, but he tells me I need to be more religious, more disciplined, as if I’m supposed to be someone I’m not, a priest or a teacher of faith, when I’m still just a kid. “Be better. Be more pure,” he says. But I’m still growing. I’m still in my fun zone. I’m not ready to carry the weight of perfection and purity when I’m still trying to figure out who I am. Let me grow, not kneel. Let me play, not preach.
My father? He’s not here anymore. Not really. He left silence behind. More questions than answers. More wounds than words. His absence echoes in everything, in our home, in my heart, in the way my sister fights to keep us safe.
At school, I’m known. People say I’m popular because of my dancing. When I dance, I feel alive. I shine. But even shining comes with shadows. They don’t see me as a friend or just a student. They see me as “the teacher’s daughter,” the one who will say everything to her mother, the one who’s supposed to be a spy. Because of that, some people don’t see me. They judge my dancing like it’s wrong, like I’m breaking some sacred rule. But my mother is a dance teacher. She gave me this gift. So why do they turn it into a curse?
I’m not invisible, but I’m not fully seen either.
At school, they laugh at the kids who can’t study. They humiliate those who fall behind, like their grades decide their whole future. But who knows? Maybe the quiet kid in the back of the class will build the next world. Maybe the girl who fails math will write poetry that saves lives. But no one gives us that chance. They only see failure, not potential.
At the same time, I feel trapped between worlds. My mother is Buddhist. My father was Muslim. And me? People look at me like I don’t belong anywhere, like I’m incomplete. When I dance, the thing I truly love, I walk into class not with joy, but with fear. Fear of what others will say. Fear of what the Islamic teachers might think. But I’m not a woman trying to break rules. I’m just a child trying to feel alive. Trying to be free. And somehow, even that feels wrong.
They say, “Be strong.” But they never teach me how. They say, “Don’t cry.” So, I stop. Until one day, I can’t cry even when I want to.
And that’s the day I lose something I never get back, my softness. We become emotionally dead, not because we don’t feel, but because we’re told our feelings are shameful.
H. M. C. Kimaya Herath. Age: 10 years. School: Wp/ Jp/ Wijayaghosha Primary School Pannipitiya.
They say, “You’re too fat. Too chubby. Eat less.” But I’m a child. Children love to eat. Why do you hate my joy? Why do you shame my hunger? When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a body. I see a battle, a war between who I am and who they want me to be.
And still, I try. Every day. I carry the weight of grown-up problems, fighting at home, judgment in school, expectations from everyone. And then they say, “You’re too young to understand.” But I do understand. I feel everything. Even if I don’t have the words, so I dance. I cry. I stay silent. And no one notices.
Sometimes I’m the one holding the adults together. I make my mother smile when she’s breaking. I stay quiet when my father yells, even in his absence, his echo lives in our walls. I become the fixer. The listener. The peacekeeper. But all I want is to be held. To be a child. Why can’t I just be a child? Not a soldier. Not a priest. Not a perfect daughter. Not someone with all the answers. Just a child.
Let me dance without shame.
Let me cry without being told I’m weak.
Let me eat without being called fat.
Let me believe in love before I’m taught to fear it.
Let me speak without the fear of breaking everything.
Let me grow without being molded into something I’m not.
And here is my promise:
The pain, the shame, the fear, the silence, will end with me.
Yet I won’t pass it on.
I won’t let another girl feel dirty for dancing.
I won’t let another boy be told to “man up” when he just wants to cry.
I won’t let another child be humiliated for struggling.
I won’t let joy be a crime.
I believe in a future where childhood is not something to survive, but something to live and celebrate.
So, I ask one last time:
Why can’t I just be a child?
If you listened a little closer, you’d hear what every child is trying to say:
“Please… don’t take away my light before I learn.” how to shine.”
T. Hamsaraj | Age 14 | Apple International School, Colombo A 15-Year-Old
M. A. F Zehna. Age. 11 years. Grade Six. School: Mt/Annoor Muslim Maha Vidyalayam, Warakamura, Ukuwela.
Dinara Yumangee Lelwala Lokuge. Age: 9 years.
