Kurram’s us and them – Pakistan

THERE are two children in the hall that must appear too large to them, full of the many young, the many old. They are here with their father. They are too young for school. Or old enough, one cannot decide.

This convention at Nishtar Hall is organised by the Sunni Educated Council — members of intelligentsia from a tribal district known for the highest literacy rate among the seven of former Fata.

The young and the educated from Lower Kurram are here; the hall echoing with demands that link the life-affirming with the death-drive, emphasising unity while entrenching divisions: rights, security, rehabilitation. And the “balance of power” in terms of Us and Them; the former are in attendance while the latter, conspicuous by their absence.

Aspirations and proclamations are thundered from the dais, punctuated with verses from Ghani, Hamza, Iqbal. And peace, that elusive ideal — a refrain repeated down the decades of imposed wars; in protests on roadsides, in jirgas in dusty plains, in conventions far from home (like this one in Peshawar).

If this is a no-win war for both sides, who really stands to gain from it, and what have they got to lose from talking to each other?

Who does one speak to in their districts when the authorities are not the authority, when voices are gagged and petitions for peace and security fall on deaf ears.

Whose ears do they fall on here, these entreaties for peace, rights, security and rehabilitation? For in this hall, there are no government guests, and only three journalists. In this hall teeming with people from the Lower Kurram are the young and the old, pleading and absorbing, speakers and audience of their own desperate pleas.

‘Balance of power’

They will grow, you will see, such fruit they will bear For the children of my nation are on books reared But Ghani rings hollow. Hamza turns in his grave. Iqbal ponders over this, his dream.

Whatever the place or people, these educated youths from Bagan or Sada shouldn’t be here, begging for peace and ‘balance of power’. They shouldn’t be wasting precious years of schooling to end up radicalised, fodder for tribal and sectarian conflicts, or shadow wars.

Whatever their tribe or sect, young men shouldn’t be dying while seeking a future elsewhere because of the insecurity and unemployment back home, their drowned bodies brought home to Parachinar — 12 of them on March 1st — through a helicopter, of course, because the road stays blocked.

Fleeing death, destruction and displacement, only to come home in a coffin.

For the horrors and fears of Kurram — lower, upper or central — are the same. Their concerns all human. Bagan’s burnt, Sadda broken and Parachinar bleeding.

Here, in this hall, are two children who should have been in school this day. Or perhaps they are too young. But even if they weren’t, where would they go?

Man on a mission

Din Gul, the mild-mannered principal of Al-Madina Public School in Bagan, is one of the many attending the convention in Peshawar — drenched in rain and emotion.

His was one of the three schools burnt in Bagan in November last year. Roughly 870 boys and 280 girls left without a hope for education. As the owner of a private school, Gul has lost money, his staff their jobs — 18 teachers, three drivers, three ‘Class 4’ employees.

Gul’s school had sections for boys and girls, and since its establishment in 1999, had produced future doctors, lawyers and engineers. These last few months, he has been mobilising parents and teachers, lobbying authorities to rebuild and reopen his school.

“Man on a mission” is how he describes himself: he hopes to arrive at some modus operandi soon, given all the schools had was lost in the fire. “Parents say it is expensive to pursue education in other cities. They want us to start the school as soon as possible.”

But with 70 per cent — Gul’s own statistics — of Bagan’s population displaced, and the rest only staying to look after their properties amidst a tenuous security environment, his hopes are pinned to peace and help from authorities.

The administration had promised to reconstruct and reopen the school by Feb 1, but “the situation has been deteriorating by the day and our future is [being] destroyed”, he says.

A critical stage in a student’s academic years, the annual matric exams have been postponed to April, and Intermediate exams to May.

“We want the exams to be held in Bagan so people come back home. The destruction… has affected people financially. They cannot afford to send children to schools. We have asked teachers to volunteer and they have agreed to help till the situation stabilises.”

What about ‘them’?

For every house burned in Bagan, there is a ruined family in Alizai, with their bread-winner killed.

For every teacher losing a job in Bagan, there is a shop that closes down in Parachinar because the supplies won’t get through. For every boy made to miss school in Bagan, there is a girl losing hope of education in Parachinar.

If this is a no-win war for both sides, who really stands to gain from it, and what have they got to lose from talking to each other?

On March 1, schools in Parachinar were supposed to reopen after the extended winter break. From there, the head of a girls’ school in Upper Kurram speaks to me over the phone. She tells me about children who are too mentally disturbed, diseased and malnourished by a punishing winter of scarcity to return to school.

“The distances between homes and schools are considerable”, she says.

“The boys can walk. The girls face a ‘double masla’ — they have to be chaperoned or taken by a car. Their mothers cannot accompany them, as they do in Peshawar or Islamabad. Between unremitting conflict and a strict culture, they choose what’s easy — giving up on education.”

She and other teachers have been demanding the opening of the road to the city. “There is no diesel or petrol for transport; no uniforms, stationary and books for students; the shops are closed and the bazaars empty… How can we go back to school, and to what?”

Published in Dawn, March 3rd, 2025