Whenever a new child arrives – frightened, sometimes orphaned – it is often the children who reach out first. They share their food, their pencils, their space, instinctively recognising the fear they once carried themselves.
“The children have this inner sense … they know that the child needs love and care. There’s a lot of love between them,” Gerad Anselem, who helps run the centre with a group of Chin refugees, shared with FMT Lifestyle.
This bond helps fill a painful gap. Most of their parents work at plantations in Cameron Highlands, and can only visit once or twice a year.
Having fled the harsh realities of their homeland and grown up away from their parents, the children know they only have one another.
Established in 2020, the centre houses 24 refugee children and has become more than a school – a place where fear softens and courage takes root, like the young boy who once hid under tables.
“We used to wonder why he was under the table. Slowly we spoke to him and we found out in Myanmar, when the place was being bombed by grenades, he lost two sisters right in front of him,” Anselem, 64, recalled.
“That’s why he was always under the table and even the sound of a pencil box frightens him.” Today, he no longer does this, thanks to the care and love he has found at the centre.
When Anselem joined four years ago, there was no breakfast at the centre, lunch was rice and soup, and there was no dinner, snacks, Christmas celebrations or outings.
But Anselam changed that. Today the children have three daily meals, and he has taken on the role of administrator.
Most days begin at 9am with breakfast at the boys’ and girls’ quarters, housed in the same shoplot complex as the centre.
Here, the children say their prayers before attending English, maths, science and Myanmar language classes, taught by a Nigerian and their Myanmar caretaker, Om Naing.
Evenings are for play at a nearby playground, followed by dinner and night prayers.
But the centre’s quiet resilience is not sustained by routine alone. It depends heavily on the kindness of strangers – people who respond to messages, sometimes unexpectedly.
Running the centre costs nearly RM15,000 a month – most of it just to keep the children fed.
“Once they see the children – so loving and caring, having so little but so much joy in their hearts – they respond,” said Anselem, a former banker.
Others arrive carrying pots of cooked food, groceries, or medicine. Arguably, for children who spend most of the year separated from their parents, these gestures matter deeply.
The caretakers also try to keep family ties alive. Parents are encouraged to video call daily.
On weekends, Anselem and his wife take small groups of children out for simple meals, rotating them so everyone gets a turn. “It’s nothing expensive,” he said. “Just food they’ve never tasted before.”
As the year edges towards Christmas, those small acts of kindness take on a festive shape.
Initially, there were no Christmas parties or dinner. Today, the children help decorate a Christmas tree, make cards, wrap their own gifts, and even join a local Catholic church’s Christmas celebration. “There’s more joy now,” he said.
Yet what lingers most at CEAM Vabawk is not any single celebration, but the sense of family the children have built for themselves.
A few years ago, during the Christmas period, that bond was tested when a young girl from the centre was hospitalised in the ICU. Doctors warned her chances of survival were slim.
The children gathered together and prayed because she was one of their own. When she eventually recovered and returned, it felt like a small miracle.
“That year, Christmas was very meaningful for us,” Anselem concluded.
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CEAM Vabawk Learning Centre
36M, Jalan Perdana 6/8,
Pandan Perdana,
55300 Kuala Lumpur.
Contact: 013-396 9324 (Gerad Anselem)