Once upon a time, education was a means of character-building, a sacred pursuit to understand the world, oneself, and the Creator. It was rooted in values, in adab, in humility, in seeking not just knowledge but wisdom. But today, education has lost its soul. It has become a factory—a mechanical, commercial, and heartless institution. Degrees have replaced decency, grades have replaced goodness, and ambition has crushed compassion. We wake our children before the sun rises, not to pray, but to prepare for coaching classes and tuitions, dragging their sleepy souls from one classroom to another like tired soldiers in a war they never chose. We place tiffin boxes in their hands, but not mercy in their hearts. We dream of making them doctors, engineers, IAS officers, corporate giants—our pride, our trophies—but in the race to fulfil our dreams, we forgot to ask: Are they kind? Do they care? Do they flinch when they see hunger or pain? Do they feel anything when an old man trembles on the street or when a mother cries alone in a corner of the house? No. We taught them how to rise in status, but not how to bow in humility. We taught them how to win, but not how to weep. Instead of values, we fed them pressure. Instead of empathy, we fed them competition. And then we wonder why their eyes are empty, why their hearts are numb, why they grow up to be cold, arrogant, and self-centered. Our beloved Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “I have only been sent to perfect good character” (Bukhari). But today, children top their classes and fail in humanity. They speak fluent English, but forget to greet elders with salam. They post about global issues on social media, but ignore the poor man begging right beside them. They earn medals, but cannot offer a glass of water to their mother. They achieve ranks, but cannot hold their father’s hand. This is not success. This is not education. This is not what the Prophet ﷺ taught us. We have confused literacy with enlightenment. We have built schools like palaces with tinted windows and smart boards, but we cannot teach a child that arrogance is poison and kindness is gold. Our educated youth mock their parents, call them backward, abandon them when they grow old. But this is the same mother who skipped her meals so her child could eat, the same father who walked barefoot to save money for his child’s school shoes. What kind of education allows this betrayal? The Qur’an commands us: “And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say, ‘My Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up [when I was] small’” (Surah Al-Isra, 17:24). But these divine verses are no longer echoed in our homes or hearts. We are producing educated zombies—mechanical minds with frozen hearts. We teach our children everything except what matters. They can explain quantum physics, but they cannot sit silently beside a grieving friend. They can solve mathematical theorems, but cannot pick up a fallen man from the street. They can debate, argue, and present slideshows, but cannot apologise. They can chase careers, but cannot chase forgiveness. The Prophet ﷺ cried with the hungry, sat with the orphans, and gave his heart to the oppressed. When a woman who used to throw garbage at him fell ill, he visited her. This is the model of education we were meant to follow. This was the tarbiyat—the nurturing—that Islam came to restore. But what have we done? We push our children to high scores, but not to high morals. We teach them to laugh at beggars, to ignore maids, to mock the poor. We taught them that the iPhone is more valuable than the Qur’an, that a foreign degree is better than their grandmother’s dua, that branded shoes matter more than dusty feet that walked them to school. And we, the parents, are equally responsible. We failed to give them the tarbiyat that the Prophet ﷺ advised. We failed to teach them to love Allah, to value salah, to serve their parents, to respect elders, to cry before Allah, to live with humility. We dressed them in expensive clothes, but left their souls naked. We filled their rooms with gadgets, but left their hearts empty. We gave them tuition, but not tarbiyat. And now we cry when they leave us in our old age homes or when they scream at us for being “too slow,” “too outdated.” But what did we expect from a tree we never watered? We wanted them to become engineers, not humans. We wanted them to earn in dollars, but not give in zakat. We wanted them to shine, not serve. And in this madness, we have lost a generation. Millions of parents stand at school gates every morning, unknowingly sending their children into a system that may turn them successful, but not soulful. These children might become CEOs, but forget the smell of their mother’s dupatta or the wrinkles on their father’s hands. They might build skyscrapers, but won’t remember how to sit quietly and make dua. They will know how to unlock devices, but not how to open their hearts. They will earn lakhs, but won’t know how to say “I love you” to their parents. They will have followers on social media, but no one to weep for them when they die. This is the cost of forgetting true education. And even schools today are no longer centres of learning, but centres of marketing—selling uniforms, forcing donation fees, turning education into a branded business.
“Education is not a certificate, salary, or applause, but the tears we wipe and smiles we bring. The real test is the legacy we leave behind. Let us embrace the Prophet’s model of education—love, service, humility, prayer, and truth.”
The poorer the parent, the heavier the burden. The child becomes a price tag. Our homes have become like hotels where love is missing. Our mosques, which should’ve been centers of community learning and compassion, are sometimes too silent to awaken hearts. The Qur’an says: “The example of those who were given the Torah but did not apply it is like that of a donkey carrying books” (Surah Al-Jumu’ah, 62:5). Isn’t that us now? We carry degrees but lack decency. We speak eloquently, but cannot humble ourselves before our parents. We collect certificates, but forget how to collect tears in dua. Even our duas are now filled with worldly greed: “Ya Allah, make my son a doctor,” not “Ya Allah, make my son a good man.” We no longer ask for guidance; we ask for glory. The duniya has become our idol. We sacrifice our deen, our families, and our own souls just to maintain an image. But what image are we chasing? Swami Vivekananda once said to a man who mocked his simple clothes, “In your culture, the tailor makes a gentleman. In ours, character does.” This one line should sting our conscience, because today, we judge people by their car, not their character. Children are taught to chase likes, not light. To perform, not to pray. To impress, not to improve. They don’t know how to reflect, how to cry for Allah’s forgiveness, how to speak with tenderness. And parents cry, wondering why their children don’t sit with them, don’t love them, don’t even respect them. But dear parents, let us be honest—did we give them the tarbiyat of the Prophet ﷺ? Did we teach them about the tears of Abu Bakr, the patience of Bilal, the humility of Umar? Did we speak to them about paradise and the Day of Judgment, or only about careers and competitions? We wanted them to be worshipped by the world, not worshippers of the Creator. And now, in our old age, we long for their time, their affection, but all we get is silence. This is not their fault alone—it is ours too. If a child grows without learning what it means to serve their parents, the seed of that ignorance was sown by us. True education begins with tarbiyat—with nurturing hearts. Without it, we raise clever minds but cruel souls. Our Prophet ﷺ said: “He is not one of us who does not show mercy to our young and respect to our elders” (Tirmidhi). But this mercy is now extinct in our homes. We take pride in foreign education, but ignore the tears in our parents’ eyes. We wear suits to interviews, but forget to say salaam to elders. We read Shakespeare, but not the Qur’an. We memorise equations, but not duas. We shine in the world’s eyes, but fail in the eyes of Allah. What a tragedy. Education is not the certificate on your wall, but the tears you wipe from someone’s face. It is not the salary you earn, but the smile you bring to a mother’s lips. It is not the applause you receive, but the janazah you leave behind—will people cry for you, or breathe a sigh of relief? That is the real test. So let us wake up. Let us return to the model of education the Prophet ﷺ brought—a model built on love, service, humility, prayer, and truth. Our schools must teach adab before algebra. Our teachers must be role models before being syllabus experts. Our homes must become gardens of compassion, where Qur’an is recited not just with tongues, but with actions. The child who carries groceries for a neighbour, who kisses the hands of their grandparents, who wakes up for Fajr with tears in their eyes—that child is educated. Not the one with 95% and arrogance. Not the one with a job in Dubai but a cold heart. The educated child is the one who knows that success lies not in being seen by the world, but in being loved by Allah. So let us not call a cruel man educated just because he built a company. Let us not admire a heartless achiever and ignore a gentle soul. Let us remember that if our education has taken away our humanity, then we are worse than illiterate. It is time to rewrite the aims and objectives of education—not in textbooks, but in tears, in actions, in sujood. Let us raise a generation that not only knows how to fly rockets, but also how to bow their heads to their Lord. A generation that not only earns millions, but gives millions in charity. A generation that not only talks about change, but becomes the change. A generation that remembers that education is not just learning, but becoming. Becoming human. Becoming better. Becoming what the Prophet ﷺ prayed for. Only then will our education mean something. Only then will our tears be healed.
(The author is a teacher by profession. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
Dr Aftab Jan
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