The other day, one of my students came to me, visibly excited. With unmistakable pride, he shared a story from his neighbourhood. The Imam of their local mosque, he told me, had refused to accept the stipend recently announced by the Government of Punjab for mosque clerics. His reason, according to my student, was that sanitation workers—dismissively referred to by the derogatory term chuhra—were to receive a higher stipend.
For a moment, I found myself at a loss for words. Whether the government’s stipend is adequate is a legitimate matter for debate. People may reasonably disagree on that question. What unsettled me was not the amount of money but the assumption that those who keep our streets and communities clean somehow deserve less dignity than those who lead our prayers.
The irony was difficult to ignore. The custodian of a faith that teaches that cleanliness is half of faith seemed unable to recognise the dignity of those whose labour makes cleanliness possible. That brief conversation stayed with me long after the class had ended—not because it was extraordinary, but because it reflected something I have been noticing for years.
That classroom conversation was not an isolated experience. Only a few days later, another incident reinforced the same unsettling lesson. In a nearby village, a cleric known for his fiery sermons had long urged parents to withdraw their children from formal schooling and devote them exclusively to religious education and the memorisation of the Holy Quran. To many of his followers, he was regarded as a steadfast guardian of religious purity.
During the first ten days of Muharram, however, he attended a religious gathering organised by members of another sect. What might have been seen as a simple act of participation—or even an opportunity for dialogue—was interpreted very differently by someone within his own circle. Almost overnight, the language of faith gave way to the language of suspicion. He was accused of compromising the purity of religion and, before long, was removed from his position as prayer leader by many of the very people who had once admired him.
Whether one agreed with his decision to attend that gathering was beside the point. What struck me was how quickly religious disagreement turned into exclusion, and how readily contempt clothed itself in the language of religious devotion. It was another reminder that intolerance seldom remains confined to those we consider “others.” Sooner or later, it consumes its own. Once contempt becomes the measure of faith, almost no one remains pure enough. Taken together, these two incidents point to a deeper and more troubling reality. When contempt is mistaken for conviction, it does not merely divide society; it gradually narrows the boundaries of belonging until yesterday’s allies become today’s outsiders.
Whether one agreed with his decision to attend that gathering was beside the point. What struck me was how quickly religious disagreement turned into exclusion.
Life has allowed me to observe Pakistan from different vantage points. At the Securities and Exchange Commission of Pakistan, I learnt that institutions ultimately stand or fall not on regulations alone but on the moral choices of the people entrusted with them. My years in the media taught me that words can illuminate truth or legitimise prejudice. Social work showed me how compassion can heal fractured communities, while teaching has convinced me that societies are shaped less by what they proclaim than by what they quietly teach their children.
These experiences have led me to reflect on a disturbing pattern that extends far beyond any single village, mosque, classroom, or institution. Hatred rarely presents itself as hatred. More often, it disguises itself as religious devotion, moral purity, cultural pride, or the defence of honour. It begins with small acts of exclusion—with the belief that one profession is beneath another, one sect is less deserving than another, one ethnicity is less respectable than another, or one human being is somehow less worthy of dignity than ourselves. Viewed individually, such incidents may appear isolated. Viewed together, they reveal a pattern that should concern us all. We have become remarkably comfortable with contempt.
Pakistan was envisioned as the Land of the Pure. But purity was never meant to signify superiority over others. It was meant to reflect purity of character—justice over prejudice, humility over arrogance, and compassion over contempt. Somewhere along the way, however, we have confused piety with pride. The tragedy is that contempt never remains confined to its original target. Once society begins measuring faith by whom we exclude rather than by how we treat one another, the circle of exclusion grows ever smaller. Those condemned today may have been celebrated yesterday, and those who judge today may themselves be judged tomorrow.
That is how societies slowly unravel. Hatred rarely arrives carrying a flag or announcing itself with slogans. Instead, it spreads quietly through ordinary conversations, careless labels, sermons, classrooms, television programmes, social media posts, and everyday interactions. By the time we recognise it, it has already begun shaping our attitudes—and eventually, our national character.
The conversation with my student—and the events that unfolded only days later—reminded me that education neither begins nor ends at the school gate. Every sermon, every family conversation, every classroom, every television programme, and every social media post teaches someone how to see another human being.
The question Is not whether we are teaching. The question is what we are teaching. If a child grows up believing that a sanitation worker deserves less respect because of the work he performs, or that anyone who reaches across sectarian boundaries deserves exclusion rather than understanding, then we have failed that child—not merely as educators, but as citizens and as believers.
The lessons we teach without realising are often the ones that endure the longest. If we teach contempt, we should not be surprised when hatred becomes ordinary. But if we teach dignity, humility, and compassion—in both our words and our conduct—we leave behind a different inheritance. Perhaps the future of our country will be shaped less by the ideals we proclaim than by the values we quietly pass on each day. That, perhaps, was the greatest lesson my student unknowingly brought into my classroom that morning.