Imagine a world where a child who is both deaf and blind can thrive in a mainstream school, surrounded by peers who understand and embrace his unique needs. This is no longer just a dream—it’s a reality for four-year-old Ari Bennett, thanks to the relentless advocacy of his mother, Jamie. But here’s where it gets controversial: it took two years of fighting with the education system to make this happen. And this is the part most people miss: Ari’s story isn’t just a victory for him—it’s a blueprint for thousands of other children with disabilities who are still struggling to be included.
Ari’s world is one of touch. He feels his mother’s kiss on his cheek during school drop-off, explores books through raised pictures, and learns through tactile sign language—a teacher’s hands moving gently on his palms and body. This sensory journey is only possible because Jamie spent two years battling to secure him a place at Tenambit Primary School in regional New South Wales. Her mission? To ensure Ari wasn’t just included, but fully supported to reach his potential. ‘I didn’t want him to be limited,’ she said. ‘I wanted him to have the same opportunities as any other child.’
To participate in class, Ari needs a learning support officer by his side and a teacher fluent in tactile sign language. This level of support wasn’t available—until now. In a groundbreaking move, the NSW Department of Education created Australia’s first Deafblind class within a mainstream public school. Jamie admits she cried when she heard the news. ‘It was a mix of relief, pride, and exhaustion,’ she recalled. ‘But it was worth every moment.’
The journey wasn’t easy. Ari’s first weeks at school were bittersweet for Jamie. ‘He’s thriving, but I realized he doesn’t need me as much as I thought,’ she said with a mix of joy and wistfulness. Tenambit Primary was her top choice because it already had a class for children who use sign language, but even then, the system resisted. Despite policies promising inclusive education, the department initially refused to fund one-on-one support for Ari in a hearing class, citing bureaucratic hurdles. ‘It didn’t make sense,’ Jamie said. ‘Everyone agreed he needed it, but no one knew how to make it happen.’
Here’s the bold truth: advocacy for children with disabilities shouldn’t be a full-time job. Skye Kakoschke-Moore, CEO of Children and Young People with Disability Australia, calls it inexcusable. ‘If fighting for your child’s rights becomes your entire life, the system is failing you,’ she said. Yet, thousands of families are in this exact position, battling for their children’s right to education.
Tenambit Primary’s response is a beacon of hope. Principal Deanne Brown describes the process as ‘a little bit of time and a lot of collaboration.’ The school hired a learning support officer and a Deaf teacher, ensuring Ari could access lessons through tactile sign language. They also upgraded the campus with ramps, tactile markers, and a new drop-off zone—changes that benefit not just Ari, but all students.
But here’s the question that sparks debate: Why does it take so much effort to create an inclusive environment? While Ari’s story is inspiring, it’s also a stark reminder of how far we have to go. Inclusion isn’t just about physical adjustments—it’s about changing mindsets. As Jamie puts it, ‘Being around disability as a normal part of life makes people more inclusive.’ But how many families have the energy or resources to fight this hard?
Ari’s success is a testament to what’s possible when systems listen and act. But it’s also a call to action. What do you think? Is the education system doing enough for children with disabilities? Or is it time for a radical rethink? Let’s keep the conversation going—because every child deserves a chance to thrive.
