“To Kill a Tiger,” which has been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature, has been acquired by Netflix, which will launch the film worldwide. Priyanka Chopra Jonas has also joined the project from director Nisha Pahuja as an executive producer.
The feature film tells the story of a 13-year-old survivor of sexual assault. The movie explores masculinity in India as a father, Ranjit, struggles to get justice for his daughter through his nation’s legal system. Conviction rates for rape in India are below 30% and Ranjit’s support for his daughter is unusual in the society.
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Chopra Jonas has been an advocate for the film since it debuted at the Toronto Film Festival in 2022, according to a statement announcing her coming on to the project. The documentary is set in the same Indian state that Chopra Jonas was born in.

Pahuja was previously Emmy-nominated for her 2014 documentary “The World Before Her.” This is her first Oscar nomination.The movie was released theatrically, following its festival circuit run, on Oct. 20, 2023. It was also rereleased following its Oscar nomination on Feb. 9.

​“India is not a culture that is founded on [serving] the individual. It’s a culture that’s very much based in community, family,” Pahuja previously told TheWrap Magazine. “So that’s why it was considered a viable option, to maintain the harmony and the peace, to marry her to one of her rapists. I’m not saying that’s an attitude that’s prevalent in [all of] India. But in that particular community, that was the solution.”

The film’s executive producers also include Dev Patel, Mindy Kaling, Rupi Kaur, Andy Cohen, Anita Lee, Atul Gawande, Andrew Dragoumis, Shivani Rawat, Mona Sinha (Equality Now), Mala Gaonkar (Surgo Foundation), Regina Scully, Anita Bhatia, Niraj Bhatia, Deepa Mehta and others.

“To Kill a Tiger” is a Notice Pictures Production in co-production with The National Film Board of Canada, with the participation of Telefilm Canada and the Rogers Group of Funds through the Theatrical Documentary Program.

Bobby Lee, 20, doesn’t want a job bagging groceries or folding napkins in the back of a restaurant. But in a traditional job-training program for people with disabilities, that’s likely what he would get. 
Instead, Lee is learning carpentry at a school in Englewood that helps teenagers and young adults with autism figure out what they’re good at — fixing cars, welding, electrical work, cyber security or using laser cutters and 3D printers. 
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Lee hopes to get a job crafting furniture. Already, he’s helped build dozens of wooden desks that TACT — Teaching the Autism Community Trades — sold to a school. Lee, who said he has learned far more in the carpentry program than he ever learned in high school, in particular loves working with a tape measure. “You get the most information out of it,” he explained.

In a giant warehouse in an industrial district just off Santa Fe Drive, students are rewriting the conventional list of opportunities available to people with autism after they leave the public school system. More than 83% of students get jobs when they graduate from TACT, with an average salary of almost $20 per hour.
So far, 68 companies — including car dealerships, construction companies and household product producers — have hired graduates from the program. Graduates have gone to Jiffy Lube, Sturgeon Electric, Colorado Floor Company, Ball Aerospace, Groove Toyota and SNS IronWorks.

And as several autism providers have closed up operations in Colorado the past few years, the wait list at TACT is growing. It has climbed from about 20 people a few years ago to more than 100. 
On a recent day in the 18,000-square-foot warehouse, one student was learning to operate an auto lift holding up a Toyota RAV4. “Clear!” he shouted, before moving the lever. His first few attempts were rocky, with the SUV getting off balance as it began to descend lopsided.
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The lift was donated by an auto company, as were some of the engines in the warehouse, including those from a Lexus and a Toyota. The school also has every component of a Tesla engine laid out on a cart so students can practice taking them apart and putting them back together.

In another room, sparks are flying as Kate Sneddon, 20, uses a welding machine to smooth out a piece of metal pipe. Sneddon is considering a career in welding and has plans to help turn a hunk of metal into a giant ground sloth for the Morrison Natural History Museum, where she is a volunteer.
Sneddon is one of the few female students at the school, a reflection of the fact that four times as many boys as girls are diagnosed with autism. 
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Whatever her future job, Sneddon said, she doesn’t want it to involve customer service. While welding, she puts in earplugs and covers her eyes with goggles, concentrating in solitude. Lee loves carpentry for similar reasons, and said he will not take a job working outside — only inside, because he has “terrible vision.”
The students at TACT work on their own timelines. Some are there for a few months; others have been there a couple of years. Each begins their enrollment by trying out whatever skills in the warehouse interest them, before setting on a program.

When Danny Combs founded the school in 2016, it was the first trade school in the nation specifically for young people with autism. Combs was inspired by his son, who was diagnosed with autism at age 2 and, now as a 14-year-old, loves working on cars. Combs and his son are currently restoring a 1977 Mercedes that he bought for $800. 
“The way his brain works is pretty amazing,” Combs said. “There are so many stereotypes about autism. They have so much talent.” 
Combs left a career as a Grammy-winning songwriter to start the trade school after realizing that the jobs programs available to his son and other kids with autism were not based on helping them discover or use their talents. Typical programs for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities partner with grocery stores and restaurants, sending young people to wash dishes or sort laundry.
The state Medicaid program offers “supported employment,” in which clients work alongside a job coach. But for those with the ability — and autism comes with a wide range — there were few options, not just for jobs but for schools that prepare them to function in a job setting.
Many teens and young adults with autism are attending special schools where the state and federal safety rules are so strict that they are not allowed access to dish soap. 

“The hardest thing for us is that what we’re doing is so unique it doesn’t fit into the traditional box,” Combs said. “The agencies that would regulate organizations like ours would come in and look and see, ‘Oh my God, there’s a table saw! There’s an auto lift!’ We’re trying to help them experience what a job is really going to be like so they’re more successful.”



TACT operates mainly on philanthropy and partnerships with industries that want to hire its graduates. It also gets support through Medicaid, the state Division of Vocational Rehabilitation, and Colorado’s Community Centered Boards, which provide funding and programs for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. 
The school attempts to put together a scholarship package for each student, based on donations and the services for which they qualify. Students typically can qualify for funding from Community Centered Boards if they have an IQ of 70 or below. They also take the Vineland test, which measures their ability to learn practical and conceptual skills. 
Some students have an IQ below 70, but excel at following step-by-step tasks without distraction or frustration. Others are the opposite. 
The son of the school’s chief executive, for example, “has a 160 IQ, can do orbital mechanics and math,” Combs said. “His mind is brilliant, but he will not put a shirt on the right way in the morning.”
Tuition is about $6,000 per trimester. About 80 students are enrolled in trade skills courses, with six students per class. High school juniors through adults up to age 30 are eligible. 
The school moved in January from a 5,000-square-foot building near Empower Field to its cavernous space in Englewood, which was acquired through the Urban Land Conservancy. Private donors, businesses and families funded the $1.5 million renovation to turn the warehouse from a syringe tube factory into a trade school. 

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​​BY SYDNEY REYNDERS, SCB, CONTRIBUTOR, AND NICOLE BAUMER, MD, MED, CONTRIBUTOR

Editor's note: Second in a two-part series on friendship and neurodiversity. Click here for part 1 .

We all are different. We all are unique. This is cause to celebrate.

Yet for many children and families, the current landscape of friendships and social spaces can feel unwelcoming. Flexibility and inclusivity are often lacking, leaving little room for children who are neurodiverse, such as those who are on the autism spectrum or who have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder or intellectual disability.

There are many tools and organizations to help children with neurodevelopmental differences practice friendship-building skills and connect through social opportunities. But a larger community effort is needed, as well.

Below are some ways to welcome those who are neurodiverse into your social circle and activities. Friendship is a two-way street, of course, and all of us stand to gain in creating wider, more inclusive circles of friends. Everyone can be a friend; everyone deserves to have friends.

Start here: Understanding neurodiversity

Understanding neurodiversity — the different ways that people think, communicate, learn, and interact with their environment — is a crucial first step.

Becoming aware and accepting of these differences creates room for people who are neurodiverse to participate in social spaces just as they are. By making room for differing abilities, we demonstrate that we value authenticity and diversity.
It may help to know that:

• Many children who are neurodiverse engage in self-stimulatory behaviors like rocking back and forth, hand movements, or pacing. This may be a helpful way for them to self-soothe, or might satisfy sensory needs such as feeling too much stimulation or not enough stimulation.
• As with all children, behavior is communication and expresses desires, wants, needs, and dislikes.
• And as is true with many children, some behaviors, like silly noises or loud remarks, can also be ways of obtaining attention or communicating what is wanted, or not wanted, in a given situation.
  
  

What does it mean to be inclusive?
There is more to inclusion than being together.

Inclusion is the practice of making someone part of a group. It ensures that those who might otherwise be excluded, such as people with disabilities or members of marginalized groups, have the same rights, choices, and access to opportunities as others in the community.

Being in the presence of others opens the door to new friendships and social opportunities. But this alone is not true inclusion and does not promote belonging. Children with diverse abilities are often still stuck on the sidelines.

Sitting next to someone new at lunch or inviting someone to join a game or activity on the playground helps others feel invited and included. Parents, teachers, and other adults can help by modeling or encouraging warm, inclusive actions like these — and not just on the playground or at school.

Expanding from inclusion to belonging

Belonging goes one step further by ensuring that people feel valued and fully
​a part of their community. For children, cultivating belonging could mean

• going the extra mile after inviting a new friend to join a game of soccer at the park by making sure to pass them the ball.
• at the lunch table or at a birthday party, including a child with neurodiverse abilities into the conversation and creating the space for them to participate.

Actions like these help us recognize the value we each have to share. And, of course, it's not only children who can hold out a hand. Together, by prioritizing genuine connections with people who are neurodiverse, learning and understanding one another's needs, we can create a social landscape where everyone can belong.

How to be a good friend

Openness and kindness can foster a meaningful connection. Whether you're a child or an adult, you can help through:

• Clear communication
  • Use clear and concise language and repeat information as needed.
  • Be open to different ways of connecting, such as through text messaging, online gaming, social media, or structured activities based on shared interests.
  • Outline plans in advance and be open to when a particular event, activity, or social interaction might need to be cut short.
• Awareness and openness
  • Be aware of sensory sensitivities and needs. Adjustments to lighting, noise, and seating can help create a more sensory-friendly environment.
  • Sometimes a consistent social space is most comfortable for people who are neurodiverse. Learn the types of socializing and social gestures your friend appreciates best.
  • Be welcoming to different ways of communicating, whether through signs, gestures, pictures, devices, or other equipment.
  • Focus on connection and shared interests rather than social convention.
• Listen and learn
  • Listen and learn how to support people who are neurodiverse — don't assume!
  • Ask questions to understand social preferences and needs. Figure out together what fosters connection and comfort in your friendship.
  • Make space for people with diverse abilities to be themselves and be comfortable.
  • Be patient. Be flexible.
    
    

Make a commitment to wholeness

An inclusive community is one that values all people, and becomes whole by embracing its diversity and making all people feel like they belong. Schools, recreational programs, and community organizations all have a role in fostering inclusive social spaces and opportunities for people who are neurodiverse. And so do each of us.

​This year, our family came across The Village — a pilot project of Cornerstone Housing, a nonprofit that creates and operates housing in Los Angeles for residents who have developmental differences.

Mothers want the world for their children. We want them to be able to get an education, secure a fulfilling job, and nurture a loving family. When we learn that our children will be born with intellectual and developmental differences, or IDD, the picture in our mind of what their life will look like may shift, but we never stop dreaming about a bright future. 

At the same time, we never stop holding our breath about the path ahead for them.

My 15-year-old daughter Anya was diagnosed with a rare disease, tuberous sclerosis complex (TSC), at eight weeks old. TSC is a multi-system genetic disease that causes non-cancerous (benign) tumors to grow in the brain and other vital organs such as the kidneys, heart, eyes, lungs, and skin. For the first year-and-a-half of Anya’s life, she had 20-30 seizures a day due to a cluster of tumors on her brain. After trying a variety of medications, some that were not yet FDA approved, a few worked, and others did not. However, the only viable option was to have Anya assessed for brain surgery. This decision to move forward with brain surgery was not easy, but was one of the only real solutions to give her a better quality of life. Due to the placement of her tumors, she luckily was a candidate, and at 18 months she had a right temporal lobectomy at UCLA Mattel Children’s Hospital. Over the next few years, Anya’s seizures were controlled, but this is only one aspect of TSC. Anya is also on the autism spectrum, often deals with behavior and anxiety issues, has learning challenges and needs consistent medical monitoring for the various tumors on her kidneys, eyes and skin.  

Anya is currently a thriving sophomore at Santa Monica High School. Still, I’ve continued to witness up close the devastating results of a system that perpetually underserves, if not outright ignores, people like my daughter. I’ll never forget the heartbreak I felt when groups of kids were having sleepovers or birthday parties and my daughter was rarely invited. Or the time when she politely asked another middle-schooler to ride the Santa Monica Pier Ferris Wheel with her and the girl responded, “No. You can ride with your people.” The realities of her developmental differences meant I was constantly living in fear for her future. How would she be able to make friends? Could she manage college? A job? Her living situation? These worries have been a permanent source of stress for me and my family. It could be difficult at times to see a way through. 

The support structures for adults with IDD are even more limited than those for children. The infrastructure to provide them with meaningful employment, housing, and social opportunities is mostly non-existent. This community must reckon with the reality of skyrocketing housing prices in metropolitan centers like Los Angeles. Housing in L.A.’s core that does not discriminate against adults with IDD and provides on-site support is exceedingly rare, which renders independent living mostly impossible for adults with IDD.

This leaves adults with IDD in a precarious position. Only 11% of adults with IDD in the United States are able to live on their own. Little more than 20% of working-age Americans with disabilities are employed. And 40% of adults with disabilities report feeling lonely or socially isolated, which can have profound effects on their physical and mental health. 
This year, our family came across The Village — a pilot project of Cornerstone Housing, a nonprofit that creates and operates housing in Los Angeles for residents who have developmental differences.

For the first time since my daughter was born, I felt like I could exhale. 

The Village, which broke ground earlier this month, will transform a commercial property in Pico-Robertson into a state-of-the-art residential and retail site that empowers adults with IDD to live active, independent lives. It will be open to residents of all backgrounds who can live independently, with a portion of units allocated for low-income individuals. It will be staffed by a professional team that will be onsite 24 hours a day. It will even offer job training and placement, internship and apprenticeship opportunities, and post-secondary education assistance.

The Village combines nonprofit expertise, government support, and philanthropic vision to house adults with IDD in a city where building new properties is notoriously difficult. 

The Village is more than a housing property. It also represents a new model that can be replicated nationwide. The Village combines nonprofit expertise, government support, and philanthropic vision to house adults with IDD in a city where building new properties is notoriously difficult. This development should serve as a shining example to nonprofits and philanthropists from coast to coast that, with the right vision, new housing with wrap-around services can be erected in city centers to empower America’s nearly 7 million people with IDD to live independently.

For too long, individuals with IDD have been excluded from public consciousness, leaving families to suffer alone. I know because I’ve lived this.

It can’t come soon enough. For too long, individuals with IDD have been excluded from public consciousness, leaving families to suffer alone. I know because I’ve lived this.

Our family foundation has sought to help children and adults with IDD pursue their highest ambitions. We are committed to funding programs and initiatives that empower these individuals to pursue education, employment, and independent living and to claim their places as valued members of their communities. When we learned about The Village, we knew that we had found a project that would make a lasting difference in the lives of people with IDD and their families. 
​
The Village made me think, for the first time since my daughter was born, that maybe there is a chance for her to live independently in a community that inspires and uplifts her, a chance for families like mine to connect and feel included, and a chance to fulfill that dream of a joyous, abundant life every parent has for their child.

Anita Bhatia, MHA, is Executive Director of the Ramesh and Kalpana Bhatia Family Foundation.