A story revealed in a time of crisis

Surah Yusuf was revealed during one of the most difficult phases in the life of the last Prophet, often referred to as the Year of Sorrow. He had lost his beloved wife Khadijah (RA) and his protector Abu Talib, and was facing intense rejection, mockery, and isolation. In this context, Allah revealed the story of Prophet Yusuf – a narrative of loss, betrayal, patience, and eventual triumph. This historical backdrop itself underscores an important lesson: divine guidance often arrives when human endurance is stretched to its limits. In much the same way, contemporary societies are experiencing collective crises—mental health struggles, breakdown of family systems, ethical decline, and leadership failures—that demand guidance rooted not only in intellect but in wisdom.

Jealousy, competition, and social fragmentation

One of the earliest challenges highlighted in Surah Yusuf is jealousy, a destructive emotion that corrodes relationships and moral judgment. Yusuf’s brothers, driven by insecurity and perceived favoritism, allowed envy to turn into cruelty. Today, jealousy manifests in new forms—academic competition, workplace rivalry, social media comparison, and economic inequality. The constant exposure to curated success stories has intensified feelings of inadequacy and resentment, particularly among youth.

Surah Yusuf teaches that jealousy, when left unchecked, leads to injustice and long-term regret. The brothers’ momentary satisfaction turned into years of guilt and loss. The Surah thus calls for emotional awareness, fairness in relationships, and gratitude—values urgently needed in a world increasingly divided by comparison and competition.

Betrayal, family breakdown, and emotional trauma

Family, traditionally seen as a source of safety and belonging, has become for many a space of conflict, misunderstanding, and emotional distance. Yusuf  was betrayed not by strangers, but by his own brothers. Thrown into a well, separated from his father, and sold into slavery, he experienced profound abandonment and trauma.

Contemporary individuals, especially children and adolescents, often experience similar emotional wounds through neglect, broken families, or lack of emotional support. Surah Yusuf acknowledges this pain without trivializing it. At the same time, it presents resilience rooted in faith as a pathway to healing. Yusuf’s strength did not emerge from denial of pain, but from trust that suffering has meaning within Allah’s larger plan. This message is particularly relevant in addressing modern mental health challenges, where despair often arises from a perceived lack of purpose.

Moral integrity in an age of temptation

Perhaps one of the most powerful episodes in the Surah is Yusuf’s resistance to temptation in the house of the Aziz. At a time when he was young, alone, vulnerable, and under authority, he was confronted with an invitation to immorality. Yet he chose dignity over desire, prison over sin, and Allah’s pleasure over worldly comfort.

In the contemporary world, moral boundaries are increasingly blurred. The normalization of unethical relationships, misuse of power, and instant gratification has created an environment where integrity is often seen as weakness. Surah Yusuf challenges this narrative by presenting moral courage as true strength. Yusuf’s refusal did not immediately bring reward; it brought imprisonment. Yet, in the long run, it elevated his character and destiny. This teaches a crucial lesson for modern society: ethical choices may be costly in the short term, but they are liberating in the long run.

False accusations and character assassination

Yusuf’s imprisonment was not the result of wrongdoing, but of false accusation. His silence in the face of injustice reflects a profound level of trust in divine justice. Today, character assassination has become easier and more widespread, particularly through digital platforms. Reputations are damaged instantly, often without evidence, and the psychological toll can be devastating.

Surah Yusuf provides a framework for responding to such situations with dignity rather than bitterness. Yusuf did not allow injustice to turn him into a resentful or cynical person. Instead, he remained steadfast, productive, and spiritually connected even within prison. This resilience is a vital lesson for a world where public shaming and misinformation have become common tools of power.

Mental health, grief, and the language of hope

Another deeply human dimension of Surah Yusuf is the grief of Prophet Yaqub. His sorrow over the loss of Yusuf was so intense that it affected his eyesight. Yet, the Qur’an portrays his grief not as weakness, but as an expression of deep love and faith. He famously declares, “I complain of my sorrow and grief only to Allah.”

In an era where mental health challenges are rising, Surah Yusuf offers a balanced perspective: acknowledging pain while discouraging despair. It legitimizes emotional suffering and presents spiritual expression as a form of healing. Rather than suppressing grief or being consumed by it, Yaqub models a faith-centered approach to emotional resilience—one that modern psychology increasingly recognizes as essential.

Economic planning and responsible governance

One of the most striking contemporary parallels in Surah Yusuf is its treatment of economic foresight and crisis management. Yusuf’s interpretation of the king’s dream led to a comprehensive plan: saving during years of abundance to survive years of famine. This approach ensured not only Egypt’s survival but also regional stability.

In today’s world, marked by economic uncertainty, inflation, food insecurity, and poor governance, Yusuf’s model stands as a timeless lesson in ethical leadership and sustainable planning. His appointment to authority was not driven by ambition, but by competence and responsibility. He offered his services openly, emphasizing trustworthiness and knowledge—qualities often missing in modern leadership.

Leadership, power, and accountability

Surah Yusuf presents leadership not as privilege, but as trust (amanah). Yusuf, despite his past suffering, did not become vengeful or authoritarian when he attained power. Instead, he governed with justice, humility, and service. His leadership was marked by transparency and concern for public welfare.

Contemporary leadership crises—corruption, abuse of authority, and lack of accountability—highlight the relevance of this model. Surah Yusuf asserts that true leadership is grounded in character, not charisma, and in service, not self-interest. This message is particularly relevant for educators, administrators, and policymakers shaping future generations.

Forgiveness in a culture of revenge

One of the most emotionally powerful moments in Surah Yusuf is the reunion with his brothers. Standing before those who once tried to destroy him, Yusuf had full authority to punish them. Instead, he chose forgiveness, declaring, “No blame upon you.”

In a world where grudges are normalized and revenge is often glorified, this act of forgiveness is revolutionary. It demonstrates that forgiveness is not weakness, but moral elevation. It heals not only relationships, but the soul of the forgiver. For societies torn apart by conflict—whether familial, communal, or political—Surah Yusuf offers reconciliation as a path to peace.

Trust in divine wisdom amid uncertainty

Perhaps the most overarching lesson of Surah Yusuf is trust in Allah’s plan. Events that appeared disastrous—the well, slavery, prison—were all stepping stones toward fulfillment. The Surah repeatedly reminds readers that human perception is limited, while divine wisdom is complete.

Modern life, with its unpredictability and pressure for immediate results, often leaves individuals anxious about the future. Surah Yusuf invites believers to adopt a long-term, faith-based perspective, recognizing that setbacks may be redirections rather than failures.

Conclusion

Surah Yusuf is not confined to history; it is a mirror held up to every generation. Its themes—jealousy and forgiveness, temptation and integrity, grief and hope, power and justice—are as relevant today as they were centuries ago. In addressing contemporary challenges, Surah Yusuf does not offer simplistic solutions, but profound principles: patience without passivity, faith without escapism, and morality without compromise.

In a fractured world searching for meaning, Surah Yusuf stands as a reminder that the Qur’an speaks not only to the soul, but to society. By engaging with its lessons, individuals and communities can find guidance that is both spiritually enriching and practically transformative.

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance & Online Education

The post Insights from divine text appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Observation 1: Mathematics is often taught as procedure, not meaning

In most classrooms observed, mathematics lessons begin with the teacher demonstrating a method on the blackboard. Students are expected to reproduce them. Rarely is time spent discussing why a method works. Understanding is assumed if answers are correct. This procedural emphasis limits conceptual clarity and reduces mathematics to rule-following rather than sense-making.

Observation 2: Silence is mistaken for discipline

A common feature across classrooms is prolonged silence during mathematics periods. While this is often interpreted as discipline, closer observation suggests compliance rather than engagement. Students focus on finishing work quickly, avoiding questions, and minimizing interaction. Silence here signals fear of error, not deep concentration.

Observation 3: A few voices dominate the classroom

In almost every classroom, a small group of students answers most questions. These students are labeled as “good in math” and receive frequent attention. Meanwhile, the majority remain invisible. Over time, this pattern reinforces fixed roles, where confidence and participation become privileges of a few.

Observation 4: Fear of mistakes shapes student behaviour

Many students hesitate to attempt problems publicly. Classroom interactions reveal that mistakes are often corrected abruptly, sometimes without explanation. As a result, students associate mathematics with embarrassment and failure. The fear of being wrong overshadows the desire to learn.

Observation 5: Early experiences cast long shadows

Students’ responses to mathematics are deeply influenced by earlier classroom histories. Learners who struggled in lower grades often carry labels such as “weak” or “slow.” These identities persist, regardless of current ability, affecting participation and self-belief.

Observation 6: Abstract symbols are introduced too early

In several classrooms, abstract symbols and algorithms are introduced without sufficient concrete or visual grounding. Students manipulate numbers on paper but struggle to explain what those numbers represent. This gap between symbol and meaning creates confusion and disengagement.

Observation 7: Limited use of teaching–learning materials

Despite curriculum recommendations, the use of manipulatives, models, and visual aids is minimal. When teaching–learning materials are used, even briefly, student attention and participation increase noticeably. Their absence deprives learners of sensory and experiential understanding.

Observation 8: Mathematics is treated as a time-bound subject

Teachers often rush through lessons due to syllabus pressure. Questions are deferred, discussions curtailed, and exploration sacrificed. Mathematics becomes a race against time, leaving little room for curiosity or reflection.

Observation 9: Assessment drives teaching practices

Classroom practices are heavily influenced by examination patterns. Teachers focus on question types likely to appear in tests, encouraging memorization and repetition. This assessment-driven approach narrows the scope of learning and discourages creative thinking.

Observation 10: Peer interaction is rare

Most mathematics classrooms follow an individualistic model of learning. Students work alone, even when struggling. Opportunities for peer discussion, collaborative problem-solving, or group reasoning are limited, despite evidence that social interaction enhances understanding.

Observation 11: Teacher talk dominates classroom time

Teacher talk occupies a large portion of the lesson. Instructions, explanations, and corrections flow in one direction. Students are rarely invited to explain their thinking or justify answers. This limits the development of mathematical communication skills.

Observation 12: Emotional climate matters more than content

Classrooms with supportive, patient teachers show noticeably higher engagement, even when content difficulty is similar. Students in such classrooms take risks, ask questions, and recover from mistakes. This highlights the role of emotional safety in learning mathematics.

Observation 13: Inclusion remains a silent challenge

Students with learning difficulties often remain on the margins of mathematics classrooms. Lessons are rarely adapted to diverse learning needs. Without differentiated instruction, these students disengage quietly, reinforcing inequity.

Observation 14: Teachers’ own math histories influence practice

Informal conversations reveal that many teachers carry unresolved anxieties about mathematics from their own schooling. These experiences shape their reliance on textbooks, fixed methods, and avoidance of open-ended tasks. Teacher confidence directly impacts classroom practice.

Observation 15: Small pedagogical shifts create big changes

When teachers experiment with stories, games, real-life contexts, or manipulatives, classroom dynamics shift noticeably. Students previously disengaged begin to participate. These moments demonstrate that transformation is possible without drastic structural change—only reflective practice.

Ultimately, what happens inside mathematics classrooms determines not only academic outcomes but how learners perceive themselves as thinkers. Observing these spaces closely is the first step toward transforming them.

Observation 16: Language acts as a hidden barrier in mathematics learning

In several classrooms, students struggled not with mathematical ideas but with the language used to present them. Word problems, in particular, became sites of confusion. During one observation, students could perform addition accurately when numbers were written, but froze when the same task was embedded in a sentence. Classroom history revealed that many learners came from homes where the language of instruction was not spoken fluently. Mathematics, instead of being a universal language, became doubly inaccessible—first through numbers, then through words. This linguistic gap often went unnoticed, with students being labelled inattentive rather than unsupported.

Observation 17: Mathematics learning stops at the blackboard

A recurring pattern observed was that mathematics remained confined to the blackboard and notebook. Rarely were students encouraged to look for mathematics in their surroundings. In one classroom, when asked where they used math outside school, most students responded, “Only in exams.” This detachment from real life weakened relevance and interest. Case histories showed that students who engaged in household activities involving money, measurement, or counting performed better when such contexts were acknowledged in class. When mathematics was disconnected from lived experience, motivation declined.

Observation 18: Overemphasis on speed undermines understanding

In many classrooms, speed was equated with intelligence. Teachers praised students who finished first, while slower learners internalized a sense of inadequacy. During a timed worksheet activity, several students rushed through problems, making avoidable errors. Post-activity interaction revealed that they understood the concepts but feared being judged for working slowly. Classroom histories of these students indicated increasing anxiety over time. The culture of speed discouraged thoughtful engagement and deep learning.

Observation 19: Gendered participation patterns remain subtle but present

While not overt, gendered patterns in participation were noticeable. In mixed classrooms, boys were more likely to answer aloud, even when unsure, while girls often waited for confirmation before responding. In one observed class, a girl who consistently scored well hesitated to explain her solution until the teacher explicitly invited her. Case histories suggested that encouragement patterns differed subtly, influencing confidence. These dynamics, though quiet, shape long-term attitudes toward mathematics.

Observation 20: Reflection is rare, yet transformative when practiced

Most classrooms moved from explanation to practice to correction, with little time for reflection. However, in one classroom where the teacher asked students to talk about how they solved a problem, engagement increased significantly. Students compared strategies, corrected each other, and expressed ideas freely. Classroom records showed improved conceptual understanding over time. This case highlights that reflection—by students and teachers alike—is a missing but powerful component of mathematics classrooms.

Conclusion

Taken together, these twenty classroom observations reveal that what unfolds inside mathematics classrooms is far more complex than the teaching of numbers and procedures. Mathematics classrooms emerge as social and emotional spaces where learners’ confidence, fear, curiosity, and self-worth are continuously shaped. The widespread disengagement observed is not a reflection of students’ inability to learn mathematics, but a consequence of classroom practices that privilege speed over understanding, silence over dialogue, and correctness over exploration.

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance & Online education, University of Kashmir

The post What unfolds inside Mathematics classrooms appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Prof. Dost Mohammad’s journey spanned decades of service in the University of Kashmir, where he held several key positions—Head of the Department of Economics, Dean Social Sciences, Dean Colleges, and Chairman of the Centre for Distance and Online Education (CDOE). Yet those who knew him insist that it was never the chair he occupied that mattered; it was the character of the man who sat on it. His former colleague Prof. G.M. Bhat describes his presence in the Department of Economics as “the golden age of collegiality and dignity”. He built the department brick by brick. His sweat and dedication laid its foundation. Students adored him, colleagues respected him, and everyone who interacted with him walked away with a sense of comfort and trust. In classrooms, he was unmatched in clarity and depth.

A former student, Ibrahim, still remembers the precision with which he taught International Trade.

“We used to call him the ‘Surgeon of Trade’ and the ‘J.S. Mill of Economics’,” he says. “He dissected economic theory with such ease that even the most complex concepts seemed simple.”

Prof. Shahid Rasool, remembers: “In 1990, when Prof. Dost Mohammad was the officiating Coordinator of AVRC (now EMMRC), and also the Dean Social Sciences, his encouragement and support helped the Electronic Multi-Media Research Centre grow during its most fragile infancy. But his greatest strength lay in the quiet courage with which he defended and uplifted others—especially the teachers of the university. As an active office bearer of the Kashmir University Teachers Association (KUTA), Prof. Dost Mohammad spoke with principled conviction, never with intimidation. Prof. Rafiuddin remembers that he never hesitated to voice a genuine concern. “He was fearless and principled. To him, teachers were not just colleagues—they were family. Their dignity, their welfare, their rights mattered to him more than anything.”

I shall narrate here one incident: A teacher in the university found his increments withheld due to bureaucratic complications. At the same time, he was dealing with a severe domestic medical emergency and was confused. Prof Dost Mohammad personally took charge of the case—walking from office to office, collecting documents, clarifying rules, speaking to officials, and removing every administrative hurdle. Within days, the withheld increments were released, and the teacher was able to meet his medical expenses in time. Without him, that colleague would have lost years of service benefits. A young teacher in the university had been struggling for years to secure his due promotion. His file had moved back and forth between committees, repeatedly delayed for reasons that were neither academic nor procedural. The teacher was growing disheartened and had almost resigned himself to the belief that the system had forgotten him. It was then that Prof. Dost Mohammad stepped in. He called the teacher to his office, listened patiently to the entire ordeal, and reassured him with his characteristic warmth: “When something is right, it must not be allowed to sink in files.” What followed was classic Dost Mohammad. He did not raise his voice, he did not accuse anyone, and he did not make a spectacle. Instead, he meticulously traced the file’s journey—through sections, desks, and committees—identifying the exact points where it had stalled. He spoke to the concerned officers, clarified doubts, corrected discrepancies, and ensured that due academic merit was acknowledged without bias or delay. Within a short span, the long-pending promotion was finally granted. The teacher expressed his gratitude. But Prof. Dost Mohammad only smiled and said: “Your work earned this. I only helped it reach where it belonged.” Years later, that same teacher still recounts this moment with emotion, saying, “He restored my faith—not just in the system, but in humanity.”

Such acts were not exceptions—they were the essence of who he was. Even when he sat at the highest tables of authority, he lived with unmatched humility. During his tenure as Dean Colleges, a casual employee began exhibiting disruptive behaviour. Many recommended disciplinary action, even dismissal. Soon after, news reached that the employee’s mother had passed away. Prof. Dost Mohammad quietly went to his home, without protocol or publicity, offered condolences, supported him emotionally and financially, and simply listened. That one unannounced visit changed the man’s life. He reformed completely, becoming one of the most dutiful staff members. When news of the Professor’s death reached him, he wept and said, “When all others remained silent, it was he who stood by me.” His compassion extended beyond the University of Kashmir. At Baba Ghulam Shah Badshah University, Rajouri, his contributions were foundational. Hon’ble Vice Chancellor Prof. Jawaid Iqbal described him as “an exceptional teacher and a visionary mentor whose influence shaped the academic culture of the university.” Hon’ble Vice Chancellor of the University of Kashmir, Prof. Nilofer Khan, echoed this sentiment: “He was a committed academician who witnessed the university grow from a sapling into a mighty chinar.”

His administrative legacy at Centre for Distance Education is unparalleled. At a time when technology was limited and distance learning was in its infancy, he brought clarity and structure through meticulous planning. His Training Manual for Liaison Officers became the first professional guide for stakeholders in distance education. His celebrated document, “From the Chairman’s Desk,” typed with almost calligraphic care, became a beacon for new learners.

As Coordinator for launching Economics in Distance Mode, he ensured thousands of working professionals gained access to higher education. But none of these achievements capture the essence of the man. It was his gentleness, his sincerity, his ability to listen without judgment, and his instinct to help without hesitation that defined him. Dr. Mohammad Ayub Saudagar, one of his scholars, sums up the emotional truth behind his personality: “He treated me like a family. At moments when my confidence broke, he held my hand and helped me cross the most difficult academic thresholds.” In an era when authority often distances individuals from those they lead, Prof. Dost Mohammad lived the opposite reality—he drew people closer. His humility softened administrative corridors. His ethics strengthened institutional culture. His compassion became the invisible backbone of those around him.

Today, as we remember Prof. Dost Mohammad, we honor a life lived with dignity and purpose.

A life committed to education, to justice, to humanity. A life that shaped institutions, nurtured students, empowered teachers, and brought warmth to every space he entered.

May Almighty Allah (SWT) grant him the highest place in Jannat-ul-Firdous, illuminate his grave with Divine mercy, and give strength to his family and all those who mourn this irreplaceable loss.

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Associate Professor, Centre for Distance and Online Education, University of Kashmir

The post Prof. Dost Mohammad: Ever-Green Chinar of KU’s Academic Landscape appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

However, inclusion in practice often diverges from inclusion in policy. Schools—especially in under-resourced regions—struggle with inadequate infrastructure, insufficient training for teachers, and limited awareness among peers and the larger community. The lived experiences of children with disabilities thus become critical evidence for understanding the success or failure of inclusive systems.

This article presents a detailed case study of a Class 7 student with Spina Bifida, to examine how inclusive education unfolds in a real classroom. This story illustrates the complexities of physical, emotional, social, and academic participation in a mainstream school while highlighting systemic gaps and potential pathways for transformation.

Background of the Child

The student, aged twelve, is enrolled in a private inclusive school in Srinagar. Diagnosed with Spina Bifida, she uses a wheelchair and requires catheter assistance twice daily. Her mother accompanies her to school every afternoon during the lunch break to support her needs—a role she performs with unwavering dedication.

Rabia (name may not be real) is academically average, enjoys reading, and expresses a strong desire to participate in school activities. Yet, her participation is hindered by mobility barriers, peer attitudes, and infrastructural limitations. Her case epitomizes the intersection of disability, gender, and geographical constraints.

Method of Data Collection

The findings presented here are drawn from:

• an in-depth interview with the student
• conversations with her class teacher and resource teacher
• an interview with her mother
• classroom observations
• reflections from field visits as part of a longitudinal qualitative research project

Data were analyzed thematically to uncover patterns related to academic adaptation, peer relationships, teacher attitudes, parental involvement, and emotional wellbeing.

Case Narrative

1. Daily School Experience

The student begins her narrative by stating:

“I look very different from everyone. I cannot walk and roam around in school. I usually read books during games period because I cannot do much.”

This simple expression captures the layered nature of her experience—physical limitation, emotional distance, and the silent adaptation she undergoes each day. The wheelchair restricts her movement across the campus, especially since the school lacks ramps, accessible toilets, and barrier-free entry in several blocks.

The games period becomes symbolic: a time meant for joy, but for her, it becomes a reminder of exclusion. Yet she finds solace in reading, constructing a private world where limitations dissolve momentarily.

2. Academic Participation and Classroom Accommodations

The student sits in the front row to ensure easy access and teacher monitoring. Her class teacher acknowledges:

“She is disciplined and sincere, but I often struggle to give her enough attention because the class is large. I wish we had more training to handle such needs.”

Despite goodwill, the teacher lacks formal training in special pedagogy, a gap highlighted in NEP 2020, which emphasizes the need for specialized modules and extended internships in inclusive schools.

She reports that:

“Sometimes the teacher goes fast, and I cannot copy everything. My friend helps me finish the notes.”

Peer support partially compensates for the absence of individualized lesson pacing. The resource teacher works with her thrice a week, helping her with written assignments, comprehension difficulties, and exam preparation. She describes this relationship warmly:

“My resource teacher listens to me. She tells me that I can do well in studies if I keep trying.”

This rapport strengthens her academic confidence and reinforces the importance of dedicated resource support in inclusive classrooms.

3. Peer Interactions: Acceptance and Insensitivity

Peers play a pivotal role in shaping the social climate of an inclusive classroom. Her experience reflects both acceptance and hurtful encounters.

She recounts:

“Some girls help me move my wheelchair, but a few ignore me. Once someone called me ‘the girl with wheels’ and laughed.”

Such remarks reflect the subtle yet damaging stigma that children with disabilities face. Although many classmates are kind, isolated incidents leave lasting emotional effects. The student admits: “I feel bad when they talk like that. I wish they understood me better.”

Peer insensitivity arises not from malice but from lack of awareness—a gap that peer-sensitization programs could effectively address.

Yet, she has a circle of supportive friends who help her navigate the classroom, pass notebooks, accompany her during lunch, and provide emotional comfort. Their acceptance contributes profoundly to her wellbeing.

4. Emotional Experience and Self-Perception

Rabia’s emotional world is sensitive and introspective. When describing herself, she says: “I am not like other children. I feel left out when they run or play. But I know it is not my fault.” This balanced yet poignant statement reveals both vulnerability and resilience.

Feelings of isolation, especially during outdoor activities and school events, are recurrent. She expresses sadness about missing events held on the playground or upper floors. However, she compensates through academic engagement and creative interests.

Her mother observes: “Rabia never complains. She has accepted her condition, but I worry that she hides her pain.”

This highlights an important dimension: internalized emotional labor, where children mask their struggles to avoid burdening caregivers.

5. Role of the Mother

Rabia’s mother is central to her schooling experience. She says: “My mother comes to school every day during lunch break. She never complains. She says I am never going to be a burden.” This unconditional support is both practically essential and emotionally grounding.

For Rabia’s mother, inclusion demands daily sacrifices—time, mobility, and psychological strength. She organizes life around her needs and expresses the anxiety that accompanies each school day: “Every morning I pray that she manages without problems. Her courage gives me courage.”

Such parental resilience is rarely acknowledged in policy frameworks, yet it remains indispensable for inclusion, especially in high-need cases like Spina Bifida.

6. Teacher Attitudes and Institutional Gaps

The class teacher shows empathy but admits to limitations in training. The resource teacher is enthusiastic but overburdened, handling multiple students with varying disabilities. Both highlight the absence of:

• structured training in inclusive pedagogy
• adequate teaching aids
• assistant staff for high-need children
• infrastructural support such as accessible toilets and ramps

These gaps are systemic rather than individual shortcomings. The school reflects a common situation in Kashmir: willingness but inadequate capacity.

Analysis of the Case

This student’s experience illustrates several key dimensions of inclusive education:

1. Inclusion Requires More Than Physical Placement

Although she attends a regular school, structural barriers (stairs, inaccessible washrooms, uneven grounds) restrict her participation. True inclusion demands architectural accessibility and universal design—not merely enrollment.

2. Teacher Preparedness Matters Immensely

The teacher’s empathy is not enough without special training. NEP 2020 emphasizes sensitivity training, early identification, and continuous professional development—needs strongly highlighted by the student’s experience.

3. Peer Sensitization is a Critical Determinant

Positive peer interactions enhance emotional wellbeing, while teasing undermines self-confidence. Structured programs on empathy, disability awareness, and collaborative learning can transform classroom dynamics.

4. Parental Involvement Sustains Inclusion

Rabia’s mother plays the role of caregiver, assistant, advocate, and emotional anchor. Inclusion often relies heavily on such invisible labour, which schools must acknowledge and support through flexible schedules and caregiver involvement.

5. Resource Teachers are the Bridge Between Policy and Practice

The student’s progress is significantly attributed to her resource teacher, whose motivation compensates for systemic gaps. Schools need adequate numbers of trained special educators.

Implications for Practice

Based on this case, the following measures can strengthen inclusive education:

• mandatory training modules on special needs for all teachers
• peer-sensitization workshops
• accessible infrastructure in all school blocks
• emotional counseling for children with disabilities
• resource rooms equipped with assistive devices
• involvement of parents as partners in the IEP (Individualized Education Plan)
• flexible assessment methods and extra time in exams

These measures align with NEP 2020’s call for holistic and equitable education.

Conclusion

This story is a powerful testimony of courage, love, and aspiration. It showcases both the beauty and the fragility of inclusive education in Kashmir. While the policies envision an empowering educational landscape, the on-ground reality requires sustained effort, structural reform, and attitudinal change.

Rabia’s journey reveals that inclusion thrives where there is empathy, collaboration, and commitment. Her case urges educators, policymakers, and communities to recognize that inclusive education is not a favour but a right—and its fulfilment demands collective responsibility.

(Note: Names in the article may not be real)

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance and Online Education, University of Kashmir.

The post An illustrative story appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

His wife, Hameeda, was already awake, preparing breakfast in their small kitchen. She taught at the private primary school in the neighboring village, walking four kilometers each way on mountain roads that turned treacherous with the slightest snowfall. Together, they earned just enough to support their own two children and Shabir’s aging mother, but barely enough to dream beyond the next month’s expenses. “The water’s frozen again,” Hameeda said quietly, showing him the empty plastic pitcher. It was the third time this week. Shabir added “find plumber” to his mental list, somewhere between “prepare lessons for Classes 9-12” and “visit Abdul Rashid’s family to convince them not to pull their son out of school.” At school, the familiar sight of the cracked building greeted him. The government had promised renovations for three years running. The promise arrived reliably every budget session; the funds never did. Shabir unlocked his classroom – he kept his own key because the school chowkidar often failed to show up, having taken a second job as a security guard to make ends meet.

His first class was tenth-grade History. Thirty-seven students crammed into a room meant for twenty-five, sharing textbooks because the new curriculum books hadn’t arrived yet, though the academic session was already halfway through. As he began discussing the freedom struggle, young Arif raised his hand. “Sir, my cousin says education is useless. He dropped out in ninth class and now earns more as a delivery boy than my uncle who has a degree. Why should we study?” The question hit Shabir like a physical blow, not because it was disrespectful, but because it was painfully logical. He looked at Arif’s earnest face, then at the other students waiting for an answer that went beyond platitudes about knowledge being power. What could he tell them? That their degrees might help them stand in longer queues at employment exchanges? Those competitive exams were designed for students who could afford coaching classes that cost more than their families earned in months? “Because,” Shabir said, choosing his words carefully, “education gives you choices, even when those choices are difficult. Without it, you don’t even get to choose your difficulties.” After classes, Shabir rushed to his second job – tutoring students from affluent families in Baramulla.

The irony wasn’t lost on him: he spent his evenings giving individual attention to children whose parents could pay for it, while his own students at the government school made do with whatever energy he had left during school hours. But the tutoring money paid for his mother’s medicines and his daughter’s books. The commute back home in the shared auto-rickshaw gave him time to think, squeezed between a laborer returning from a construction site and a young woman clutching her college bag with the same desperate hope Shabir once remembered feeling. The auto broke down twice – nothing unusual – and by the time he reached home, it was nearly nine o’clock. His own children, twelve-year-old Aaliya and eight-year-old Owais, were doing homework under a single bulb. Aaliya was struggling with mathematics, and Shabir felt the familiar pang of guilt. Here he was, a teacher who spent his days trying to inspire other people’s children, yet he barely had time to sit with his own daughter and help her understand fractions.

“Baba, why do you look so tired all the time?” Owais asked innocently, looking up from his Urdu textbook. The question lingered in the air like smoke from the chinar leaves they burned for warmth. How could he explain to an eight-year-old that he was tired because the system expected him to be a teacher, counsellor, social worker, and miracle worker all at once? That he spent his days trying to convince teenagers that their futures mattered while struggling to secure his own family’s present? The next morning brought news that made everything worse. Three more ad hoc teachers from neighboring schools had resigned to take jobs as clerks in banks. The education officer called, asking if Shabir could “temporarily” handle additional sections. Temporarily had become permanently long ago. In his second-period class, he noticed Zara, usually one of his brightest students, staring blankly at her notebook. During the break, he approached her.

“Everything alright, beta?” Zara looked up with eyes that seemed older than her sixteen years. “Sir, my parents are discussing my marriage. They say what’s the point of studying further when I’ll just be a housewife anyway.” Shabir felt something break inside his chest. Zara had dreams of becoming a doctor, had consistently topped her class, had the kind of intelligence that could take her anywhere. But poverty had a way of shortening horizons, making the impossible seem impractical and the impractical seem impossible. “Would you like me to talk to them?” he offered, though he knew from experience that such conversations rarely changed minds already made up by economic desperation.

That evening, instead of going to his tutoring job, Shabir made the twenty-minute walk to Zara’s village. Her father, a carpenter whose work had dried up since the latest shutdown, listened politely but his decision was final. “Shabir sahib, I respect your concern, but I have three daughters. Who will pay for their education? Who will pay for their weddings? At least if Zara marries now, it’s one burden less.” Shabir walked back home under a canopy of stars that seemed to mock his helplessness with their distant brightness.

He thought about the dozens of Zaras he had taught over the years – brilliant minds extinguished by circumstances beyond their control or his ability to change. At home, he found a letter waiting: his own daughter Aaliya had won a scholarship to a private school in Srinagar. The scholarship covered tuition, but not transportation, uniforms, or living expenses. It was an opportunity wrapped in impossibility, a door opened just wide enough to see through but not wide enough to walk through. Hameeda found him sitting in their small courtyard, the letter in his hands. “We’ll find a way,” she said simply. “We always do.” The next day at school, he made an announcement to his students.

“I want to tell you something,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that made even the most restless students pay attention. “Every day, I come here tired. I come here worried about money, about my family, about whether what we’re doing here matters. And every day, I see the same worry in your eyes.”

The classroom was silent except for the sound of wind rattling the loose window frames.

“But I want you to know that being tired doesn’t mean giving up. Being worried doesn’t mean stopping. Yes, our circumstances are difficult. Yes, the world outside sometimes seems designed to break our spirits. But you know what I’ve learned in fifteen years of teaching?” He looked at each face, seeing himself at their age, full of dreams and uncertainty. “I’ve learned that education isn’t just about getting jobs or escaping poverty – though those things matter. Education is about dignity. It’s about having words for your thoughts, tools for your dreams, and strength for your struggles. When everything else fails, when opportunities disappear, when the world tells you that you don’t matter – your knowledge, your ability to think and question and hope – that stays with you.” Arif, the boy who had questioned the value of education, raised his hand tentatively.

“But sir, what if we study and still nothing changes?” Shabir smiled, and for the first time in months, it reached his eyes. “Then you’ll be educated people who faced difficulties, instead of uneducated people who faced difficulties. And sometimes, that makes all the difference.” After class, three students approached him. They wanted to start a study group, meeting after school to help each other with difficult subjects. Zara was among them. “Sir, I convinced my parents to wait one more year. I want to try for the medical entrance exam. If I don’t make it, then I’ll accept their decision. But I want to try.” That evening, Shabir called his brother in Delhi, swallowed his pride, and borrowed money for Aaliya’s school expenses. It would mean tighter months ahead, perhaps skipping some medicines for his wife, definitely no new clothes this year. But some investments were worth making, even when – especially when – you could barely afford them.

As winter gave way to spring and the chinars began to bloom again, something shifted in Shabir’s classroom. The study group had grown to fifteen students. Zara was accepted into a coaching program for medical entrance exams, with fees sponsored by an alumni who remembered the teacher who had refused to let him give up. Shabir was still tired. The salary delays continued, the school infrastructure remained crumbling, and the education department kept sending circulars about initiatives they had no resources to implement. But something had changed in the way he carried his burdens. He realized that his students weren’t learning just Mathematics and History and Science. They were learning how to persist when everything seems stacked against you. They were learning that dignity wasn’t dependent on circumstances, that hope was a choice you made every morning when you got up and decided to try again.

On the last day of the school year, as he packed up his books and prepared for the brief respite that summer vacation provided, he found a note tucked into his copy of the tenth-grade History textbook: “Shabir sir, thank you for teaching us that being burdened doesn’t mean being broken. We promise to carry what you’ve given us forward. – Your students, Class of 2024” Standing in his empty classroom, surrounded by the familiar smell of chalk dust and old wood, Shabir felt something he hadn’t experienced in months: lightness. Not because his burdens had disappeared – they remained as heavy as ever. But because he had finally understood that the weight he carried wasn’t just his own troubles. He was carrying tomorrow. For Zara, for Arif, for all the students who would sit in these broken chairs and look up at him with hope they didn’t even know they possessed. And tomorrow, despite everything, felt worth carrying. Outside, the call to evening prayer echoed across the valley, the same call that had awakened him every morning for thirty-eight years. But tonight, for the first time in months, Shabir Ahmad was not afraid of tomorrow’s weight. He was honored to carry it.

 Note: All names in the article may not be real.

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Directorate of Distance education, University of Kashmir

The post THE WEIGHT OF TOMORROW: A Kashmiri Teacher’s Journey appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Living with a grown-up son and daughter-in-law, for example, is not always a harmonious dream. Differences in lifestyle, values, and expectations can create emotional fissures. A daughter-in-law’s indifference, a son’s passive silence, and a lack of gratitude for years of unacknowledged service can turn a familiar home into an alien space. It is in such quiet storms that solitude begins to appeal—not as an escape, but as a form of protection. Choosing to stay in one’s own flat, however small or worn out, becomes an act of self-preservation. It allows an aging woman the autonomy to set her own routine, maintain her spiritual practices, keep her memories intact, and simply breathe without judgment.

Zaitoon Begum had spent most of her life in a modest home in Noorbagh. Life had never given her much comfort but she had learned to live with dignity. She drew strength from her values, her memories, and the soil she had never left. Years ago, when Zaitoon was just 26 years old, her world changed overnight. Her husband died suddenly, leaving her alone to raise their two-year-old son, Samiullah, whom everyone lovingly called Sami. The grief was deep but the weight of responsibility was heavier. Zaitoon didn’t have the luxury to mourn for long. She picked herself up, wiped her tears, and stepped into the long quiet battle of survival. She took up tailoring and embroidery, working from a small corner of her room. Her fingers stitched through long nights while little Sami slept beside her on a thin mattress stuffed with worn cotton and hope. She saved every rupee, stretched every meal, and kept the house running. Even when the power went out and the streets were flooded with rain, she stitched on by the light of an oil lamp and whispered silent prayers for strength.

Over the years, she managed to raise Sami with great care. Although she had never been formally educated, she made sure her son went to school regularly. With whatever little she earned, she paid his fees, bought books from the second-hand market at Zaina Kadal, and sometimes went hungry so that he could have milk. By the time Sami completed his graduation and got a modest job in a private company, Zaitoon had aged far beyond her years. Her knees had grown stiff from long hours of sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her eyes had begun to strain from years of needlework. Sami got married to a girl named Nargis who was more familiar with Instagram than with managing household chores. Nargis was neither helpful nor interested in any work at home. While Zaitoon continued her routine of waking early, offering Fajr prayers, making tea, and tidying the house, Nargis often slept until late and wasted most of her time on her phone or watching videos.

When Zaitoon returned from the market, she would find the house in a mess. Dishes were unwashed, bedding was unmade, and Sami’s clothes were lying exactly where he had left them. Despite this, Zaitoon remained silent for weeks, thinking Nargis would adjust with time. But the situation only got worse. Sami worked for long hours and often returned home tired. He believed that everything was fine because Nargis smiled and spoke softly in his presence. Zaitoon didn’t want to create tension, so she kept her grievances to herself. Three months passed like this. One evening, while washing the dishes after dinner, Zaitoon noticed a moldy plate left in the young couple’s room. She hesitated but washed it anyway. The next day, another plate came out, smelling so bad that it reminded her of drainage water in summer. Still, she said nothing. But on the third evening, when Nargis handed her a plate crawling with insects and acted as if it was normal, Zaitoon finally spoke. Not with anger but with quiet firmness. She simply asked Nargis to wash her own dishes once in a while. That single sentence changed everything. The next day, Nargis stopped speaking to her. Sami was confused and asked his wife what had happened. With a few gentle words and wounded expressions, she had made it seem as though Zaitoon was unnecessarily interfering in their private matters. Sami exhausted from work and unaware of the daily realities at home, accepted his wife’s version without question. Within a week, they had packed their bags and moved into a rented one-bedroom flat nearby. Zaitoon stood silent, watching them leave, wondering if all the years of struggle had come to this. Months turned into years. Their communication became limited. Zaitoon rarely visited unless she was invited. Even then, she could sense the coldness in Nargis’s tone and the strain in Sami’s eyes. When their daughter Inaya was born, Zaitoon was called to visit only once. Although she brought clothes, toys, and sweets, she was never asked to stay.

Then came the turning point. After years of living in a rented flat, Sami managed to buy a small plot of land in Budgam. He had big dreams. A double-storey house. Enough space for everyone. A garden full of flowers and fruit trees. Zaitoon supported the idea quietly. She watched from a distance as the construction began. The first year, they built a fence. The next year, the foundation was laid. But then the work stopped due to lack of funds. During every visit to Zaitoon, their talk was only about the windows, wiring, plaster, and paint of the house. No one asked her how she was feeling. If her knees still ached. If she felt lonely. She listened quietly and nodded when needed, even though each visit left her more anxious. She began to suspect they wanted her to sell her ancestral house and use the money to finish their new house. One day, Sami told her mother that once the new house was ready, they could all live together. Zaitoon asked gently if that meant she should sell her ancestral house. Both Sami and Nargis lit up at the idea. But Zaitoon noticed a small change in Nargis’s face. A slight tightening of her jaw. A quick look of irritation. At that moment, she understood that living together would never be peaceful.

Still, she loved her son deeply. It hurt her to see him working so hard for so many years with little to show for it. She wanted him to succeed. To have a good home. To give her granddaughter a happy life. But she wondered, where would she live?

The ground floor of the half-built new house didn’t have the basics. No heating. No proper bathroom. Not even a working kitchen. It was not a place where an old woman with joint pain could stay. Above all there was no room for socialization at the new place.

She also knew that promises made when people are full of hope often fade when life becomes difficult. Marriage, money, and modern demands change people. Zaitoon understood that if she sold her flat, her son and daughter-in-law might be thankful for a while. But she would lose her freedom for ever. She would no longer have her own space. That night, she wrote a letter to Sami. She didn’t complain or blame anyone. She praised his hard work. She said how proud she was of him. She told him she believed his dream house would be complete one day. But she also wrote that she would stay in her own ancestral house. Not because she didn’t care, but because life had taught her one thing. Sometimes, keeping your own space is necessary, even if others don’t understand.

The next day, she mailed the letter. Sami never replied. But Zaitoon felt a strange peace in her heart. She had chosen solitude over humiliation. Clarity over emotional pressure. Dignity over uncertain comfort.

Note: Names in the article may not be real.

Any coincidence is incidental not intentional.

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance & Online Education, University of Kashmir

The post Secure in my sanctuary appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

While his aged parents were alive, they took care of that property. Abdul Rehman regularly sent money for repairs, fencing, and harvesting, even though he himself rarely benefited from the yields. He was not only a responsible son but also a benevolent brother. His younger brother, Mohammed Maqbool, was unemployed and struggling to make ends meet. Abdul Rehman invested his hard-earned money to set up a small shop for him in the village. His elder brother, Ali Mohammed, also leaned on him for support. He did everything in his power to uplift his family—even securing a payment-seat admission for Basharat, Ali Mohammed’s son, in a reputed college outside the state. Abdul Rehman accompanied him during his admission process, bought him clothes, arranged for accommodation, and even sent him pocket money every month without fail. When their younger sister was to be married, Abdul Rehman bore the entire cost. From the dowry items to the wedding arrangements, he ensured that her marriage was celebrated with grace and dignity. He never kept count, never expected returns—believing that family stood above all. However, as fate would have it, time began to unveil the darkest corners of human greed.

Before her death, Abdul Rehman’s mother, with trembling hands and tearful eyes, told her sons, “Rehman is far, but his heart beats for this land. You are not just his brothers—you are custodians of his legacy. Protect his land until he returns.” But that sacred promise dissolved in the face of avarice. In the heart of their ancestral land stood a towering walnut tree, planted decades ago by Abdul Rehman’s grandfather. It was more than just a tree—it was a symbol of inheritance. His mother, a woman of simplicity and fairness, would always say, This tree belongs to Abdul Rehman. She would always save a share of the walnuts for Abdul Rehman, no matter how far he was. Even in her last years, despite her frailty, she never forgot to send him fresh walnuts from the tree—a silent reminder that he still had roots in the village, that someone still cared. But after her death, things changed.

Even in the most sacred moment of mourning—the passing of his mother—Abdul Rehman found himself side-lined, treated as an uninvited guest in his own home. As relatives, neighbours, and well-wishers poured in to offer condolences, their attention gravitated solely toward his elder brother, Ali Mohammad. People spoke to Ali Mohammad, comforted him, and acknowledged his grief, as if their mother had belonged exclusively to him. No one turned to Abdul Rehman, no one asked how he was holding up. It was as if he were invisible, a mere bystander at an event where he should have been at the centre, grieving alongside his brother. The house that once echoed with his childhood memories now felt like unfamiliar territory. He stood there, an outsider in his own family, a guest in his own mother’s final farewell.

The weight of years of alienation settled heavily on his shoulders. He had already lost his mother, but in that moment, he realized he had lost his family long ago. The cruellest pain was not just the death of a parent—it was the death of belonging. His mother’s passing did not just mark an end to her life, but also to the last thread that connected him to his roots. Standing in that crowd, yet utterly alone, Abdul Rehman felt a truth colder than grief—sometimes, blood ties exist only in name.

One autumn, when Abdul Rehman visited the village, his heart sank—the walnut tree was gone. The sturdy trunk that had once shaded his childhood was now a hollow space. His brothers, without informing him, had cut it down and sold the wood. When he asked why, Ali Mohammad shrugged, “The tree was old; it was of no use anymore.” But Abdul Rehman knew the truth. It was never just about wood or walnuts. It was about erasing his claim, his identity, his connection to the land.

A neighbour who owned a small plot adjoining Abdul Rehman’s land wanted to sell it due to a terminal illness. Naturally, he first approached Abdul Rehman. But his brothers, seeing a chance to expand their own landholdings, cunningly bought it in their own names—without informing him. When Abdul Rehman questioned them later, they gave vague excuses, claimed they did it for him, but never transferred the land in his name. They then started a vicious campaign to pressurise him into selling his share. They spread rumours in the village that Abdul Rehman had abandoned the land, fabricated fake representations in revenue records, and even approached local goons to create disturbances whenever he visited the property.

One day, he tried to put up a boundary fence around his portion of land. A scuffle broke out. Basharat—the very boy whom Abdul Rehman had mentored and funded—slapped him and shouted abuses in front of villagers. No one intervened. A few looked on with pity, but many just turned their backs. Some weeks later, Abdul Rehman’s wife and only daughter visited the village to continue the fencing work. What they endured was horrifying—they were physically assaulted, abused, and humiliated by Basharat and his uncles.

The daughter, a postgraduate student, cried bitterly and said, “We thought this village was our identity; but it has only given us scars.” The trauma left a deep wound in Abdul Rehman’s soul. But the agony didn’t stop there. One winter, a part of the old ancestral house collapsed due to snow. Abdul Rehman sent money to rebuild it, but instead of repairing it, his brothers used the money for personal use. When he questioned them, they insulted him, saying, “Why do you care now? You have your own home in the city.” On one of his visits, he noticed that his name had been removed from a joint property record in collusion with local revenue officials. He tried to file a complaint, but the village sarpanch, influenced by his brothers, refused to support him.

During a family function, he was deliberately not invited, and when someone asked about him, Ali Mohammad casually remarked, “He has forgotten us. He belongs to the city now.” Once, a fellow villager came to the city for medical treatment. Abdul Rehman offered them shelter and assistance for days. When he later requested the same man to testify about the land dispute, he refused—fearing the wrath of his brothers. One evening, as Abdul Rehman sat on his veranda sipping tea, reminiscing about his childhood days in the village, he received an unexpected visit from his younger brother, Mohammad Maqbool. Accompanying him was his brother-in-law, a man Abdul Rehman had met only a few times. After a few pleasantries, Maqbool hesitated before coming to the point. “Baya,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “since you’ve settled in the city now, it might be best if you consider selling your share of the ancestral graveyard

. My brother-in-law here is interested, and it would make things easier for everyone.” Abdul Rehman put his cup down, his hands suddenly feeling cold. The suggestion was like a dagger to his heart. The graveyard was not just a piece of land—it was sacred ground where his parents, grandparents, and forefathers rested in eternal peace. It was a place of prayers, of memories, of unbreakable bonds. Selling it would mean severing the last tie he had to his ancestral land. He looked at Maqbool in disbelief. “You want me to sell my share of the graveyard? The same land where our parents are buried?” His voice was calm but carried the weight of deep hurt.

Maqbool sighed, exchanging glances with his brother-in-law. “Baya, you don’t live there anymore. It’s just land for you now. And besides, it would be better if it stays with someone from the family rather than an outsider.” Abdul Rehman shook his head. “Family?” He let out a dry chuckle. “I thought family meant respect, meant standing by each other.

But time and again, I see that family only means convenience to some.” Maqbool opened his mouth as if to argue, but the intensity in Abdul Rehman’s eyes made him stop. “The graveyard is not mine to sell,” Abdul Rehman continued, his voice firmer now. “It belongs to those who rest there, and I will not be the one to disturb their peace.” A tense silence filled the air. Maqbool and his brother-in-law exchanged awkward glances before standing up to leave. “Think about it,” Maqbool muttered before walking out. As Abdul Rehman watched them disappear into the evening mist, he felt an overwhelming sorrow settle over him.

The land of his ancestors, once protected by love and duty, had now been reduced to a mere transaction. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer for his parents, hoping that even in death, they would not have to witness the erosion of the very values they had lived by. In time, Abdul Rehman stopped talking about the village altogether. The dream that once gave him hope now only brought pain. Instead of returning to his roots, he planted a walnut tree in his small city garden, a silent tribute to the soil he could never reclaim. He found peace not in land or legacy, but in memories—and in the realization that sometimes, what we give others can never be repaid, not in kind, not in loyalty, and certainly not in blood relations.

(Names in this story are not real)

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance Education, University of Kashmir

The post When Blood Turns to Bargain appeared first on Greater Kashmir.

Despite the crushing burden of poverty, Nyla’s mother worked tirelessly as daily wager in JK Minerals Corporation to ensure her daughters received an education. She often sacrificed her own needs to buy books and pay school fees for Nyla, instilling in her the value of perseverance. Nyla’s childhood was marked by resilience. She often studied by candlelight after helping her mother with household chores. Her mother’s unwavering determination inspired Nyla to dream of becoming a teacher—a dream she pursued with passion and dedication.

At 23, Nyla’s mother arranged her marriage to Faizan, a man from a seemingly respectable family. Faizan was portrayed as educated and employed—a match that seemed ideal for Nyla. With hopes of easing her mother’s burdens and fulfilling societal expectations, Nyla agreed to the marriage. However, within weeks of moving into Faizan’s home, Nyla faced emotional and physical abuse. Her in-laws accused her of being “defective” for not conceiving quickly, despite Faizan’s undisclosed infertility. She was denied proper food, verbally insulted, and locked in her room for hours as punishment for speaking up. One particularly disturbing incident occurred when Nyla accidentally spilled tea on the dining table; her mother-in-law slapped her and forced her to clean the floor while fasting during Ramadan. Her belongings—clothes and jewellery gifted during the wedding—were confiscated under the guise of tradition. Despite the abuse, Nyla tried to make the marriage work for the sake of her mother’s happiness. She endured humiliation in silence and even suggested seeking medical advice together when conception didn’t happen. Faizan lashed out at her for questioning his masculinity.

Eventually, through a neighbour who worked at a clinic, Nyla discovered that Faizan had been diagnosed with infertility years before their marriage—a fact his family had deliberately concealed. This revelation devastated Nyla but also left her conflicted. She hesitated to leave the marriage because she feared societal stigmatization as a divorced woman. She worried about how society would view both herself and her widowed mother if she walked away.

When Nyla disclosed her mother about Faizan’s deceit and the abuse she endured daily, they approached the Mohalla Committee for help. Nyla’s mother, desperate to seek justice for her daughter, submitted a formal application to the local Mohalla Committee in the neighbourhood where Faizan and his family resided. However, the committee, expected to serve as a pillar of community support, exhibited a disappointing lack of resolve. Instead of confronting Faizan’s family or holding them accountable for their deceit and abuse, the members of the committee chose to remain passive. No one had the moral courage to speak the truth or challenge the influence wielded by Faizan’s family. Out of fear of damaging personal or social ties, they played a dual role—pretending to mediate while covertly encouraging Nyla’s mother to concede to the unjust demands imposed by Faizan’s family. They subtly suggested that she accept whatever terms the boy’s family proposed, disregarding the mental and physical suffering Nyla had endured.

Several months passed in futile meetings and hollow deliberations, but the issue remained unresolved. No sincere effort was made by anyone in the committee or extended family circles to invest their time, influence, or empathy toward a genuine resolution. Most relatives distanced themselves, unwilling to get involved in a matter they deemed controversial or inconvenient. The silence of the community, their fear of confrontation, and their apathy toward justice deepened Nyla’s sense of isolation. Her mother, though emotionally shattered, continued to knock on doors that never truly opened with compassion or purpose. Frustrated by this indifference and the lack of genuine support from relatives, Nyla eventually turned to the courts seeking justice on the grounds of fraud and cruelty.

She hoped that the legal system would offer her the justice and dignity that her community had denied her. However, the judicial process proved equally disheartening. Legal delays and repeated adjournments compounded her emotional suffering, dragging her through months of anxiety and uncertainty. Each court date brought with it a new wave of emotional distress, only to be met with deferrals that prolonged her trauma.

In the face of mounting psychological pressure and societal isolation, Nyla and her mother were eventually compelled to dissolve the marriage on the terms and conditions dictated by Faizan’s family. Despite being the victim of deceit and abuse, Nyla was forced to make concessions—not because justice was served, but because endurance had limits and survival became the only priority. The system, both social and legal, had failed her at multiple levels, leaving her to accept closure on unjust terms, just to reclaim a semblance of peace and start the long journey toward healing. Post-divorce life was equally challenging; she struggled with financial instability while battling feelings of worthlessness imposed by societal judgment. Her mental health deteriorated further when neighbours gossiped about how “no man would marry a divorced woman.” These remarks made Nyla question whether rebuilding her life was even possible.

When I reconnected with Nyla through our student tracking system, it became immediately clear how profoundly the events of her past had affected her. She had withdrawn from her studies, gradually stopped attending classes, and eventually dropped out entirely. Deeply concerned about her emotional and psychological well-being, I offered consistent encouragement, empathetic conversations, and patient guidance to help Nyla rebuild her shattered confidence. Slowly but steadily, she returned to the classroom—still carrying emotional scars, yet determined to reclaim her life.

Her academic performance began to flourish once again, and writing assignments on resilience and inner strength became a therapeutic outlet through which she rediscovered her voice and reignited her passion for teaching. In time, Nyla was appointed as a teacher, became self-reliant, and successfully rebuilt her life. Eventually, she found companionship again and remarried the right person—someone who valued and respected her for who she truly was. The couple was later blessed with a beautiful daughter .

Lessons from the Story

Nyla’s journey highlights several systemic issues:

Mandatory Medical Disclosures: Couples should be required to disclose significant health conditions before marriage.

Judicial Reforms: Expediting cases related to marital fraud is essential.

Support Systems: Establishing shelters and counselling centres can provide immediate relief.

Social Awareness: Combatting stigma against divorced women requires community education programs.

As educators and mentors, we must recognize our role in helping students like Nyla rebuild their lives after adversity—empowering them not just academically but emotionally as well.

{ Note: Names in the article may not be real}

Dr Showkat Rashid Wani, Senior Coordinator, Centre for Distance and Online Education, University of Kashmir.

The post A voyage against tides appeared first on Greater Kashmir.