I’ve been teaching for a few years, and having taught in some less than ideal situations, I figured I had seen a fair share of what was troubling and traumatic in schools today. I taught 6th graders sentence structure as gangs engaged in a shootout outside the classroom, and I had been to two student funerals before I had the pleasure of attending a single graduation. But I had never been to a government school in Karachi. I knew this would be a difficult experience; I had heard conflicting reports from friends and colleagues who had been part of organizations committed to bettering the state of education in Pakistan and so I prepared myself. Yet, as I drove back from my first day at Shah Faisal Colony Summer Camp, I felt unable to articulate the awful gnawing sensation inside of me. My first day left me overwhelmed, saddened, disheartened, but most of all, humbled.
The Karachi heat was characteristically oppressive, and bore down on us incessantly in the small rooms that were filled beyond capacity with bright eyes and curious minds. But more than the heat, it was the realization of the almost impossible nature of the task at hand that bore down on me like a leaden blanket and wore me out both mentally and physically. Of course I had known all my life the state of government schools in Karachi, but something about being there made it hit home hard. How would this ever change? How were we as a nation going to take on the task of educating our masses through a government education system that was practically non-existent? To say there was a lack of resources would be too generous; there was a complete and utter absence of resources. No desks, no chairs, no books, no paper, no pencils. But if the absence of resources were the only issue, it would be cause to celebrate. Unfortunately lack of resources is only one problem among a myriad of ills that plagues any effort to educate our nation’s children.
But even though the obstacles are many, so are the efforts to overcome them, and that offers some respite. And as the children of Shah Faisal Colony Summer Camp sat mesmerized by the light of the projector on the screen, I sat there mesmerized by their spirits: the little girl who wore her sparkly new shoes to school because she was so excited to be there. The little chatterbox who carefully guarded his broken color pencils, but decided to share them with his friends as they collaborated on their class work. The cheeky young lad who pretended to know all the answers and ferociously ticked multiple-choice boxes to hide the fact that he couldn’t read. The ten year old who stayed back after all her friends left so she could ask me how to do question number nine. Seeing them so happy to have a chance to be in a classroom with an unassuming resolve to learn left me inspired, and most humbled.
When it was time to leave, I didn’t know how to feel. I was sad to leave because I felt I really hadn’t made much of a difference, yet at he same time I was relieved because the experience had been so exacting and painful.
It takes strength to be there, and strength to leave the children there. But most of all, it takes strength to return there, day after day standing by the children and holding their hands as they fight insurmountable odds to gain an education.











