On a June morning in Kumu Village, Kangmar County, the dawn light drapes over the Himalayan foothills like gossamer. Along the winding village path, women sit spinning wool, their rhythmic whispers intertwining with proud chatter about children who've ventured far beyond these highlands. "My granddaughter teaches in Lhasa," says one. "My son found work right after graduation," beams another.
Sixty years ago, this would have been unimaginable. In the 1960s, 95% of Kumu's residents were illiterate. Today, this 85-family village counts 102 civil servants contributing across Xizang, plus 30+ university students nationwide. From "Why bother with school?" to "Education lifts families," Kumu's transformation epitomizes Xizang's educational leap over six decades.
At the heart of this change lies the story of 60-year-old Badro and his wife Tsering:Ordinary Tibetan farmers who dedicated their lives to sending all four children beyond the mountains. Their journey mirrors Kumu's educational renaissance.
Tsering's signature: The scars of illiteracy
Badro's mind drifts to 40 years ago. "I first held a textbook at age ten," he recalls, remembering treacherous predawn hikes to a makeshift schoolhouse. In those early days of Xizang's modern education, dirt-floored classrooms and intermittent lessons made dropout rates high. As for his wife Tsering, she never entered a schoolroom.
Now, Tsering extends work-worn hands to display her shaky signature. "I could only use thumbprints at banks," she says wryly. This bitter regret became their driving force.
Badro's plow: Tilling hope amid hardship
By the time their children reached school age, policies like the "Three Guarantees" (free meals, lodging, and tuition) had taken root. Yet fieldwork remained grueling. "Harvests took a month of backbreaking labor," Badro murmurs. "We almost kept our eldest two home to help."
But watching their children study by lamplight, the couple persevered. "However hard, we couldn't cut off their future," says Tsering. Season after season, they plowed literal and metaphorical fields for their children's dreams.
Kumu's revolution: Where schools outshine homes
Dobgye, the village chief born in 1976, has witnessed the seismic shift. "Back then, few could write their names," he says, gesturing to the sparkling kindergarten. "Now every family has college graduates."
Gone are the days when herding trumped homework. "With state support ensuring livelihoods, who'd want their kids left behind?" Dobgye notes. Today, Kumu's finest buildings are its schools, equipped with smartboards, heating, and balanced meals—"Nothing less than city kids get."
Educational incentives—like ¥10,000 ($1,400) awards for university entrants—steadily propel students toward broader horizons.
Two generations' legacy: Lighter plows, deeper ink
"I bore illiteracy's burden, so my children wouldn't," says Badro. Now retired with pension benefits, he marvels at harvests completed in three days by machinery rather than a month by hand.
Where calloused fists once gripped plows, they now cradle butter tea cups. Their children, armed with knowledge, script lives unrecognizable to their parents' generation.
As morning light bathes Kumu, children's voices ripple from the kindergarten—a symphony of promise. The footprints of Badro's family and Kumu's 102 civil servants are etched deep into this once-barren land. Seeds of education, nourished by generations of sweat and faith, now stretch skyward as mighty trees—pillars of Xizang's tomorrow.