It was in December 1903, 122 years ago, that Marie Curie was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics for her discovery of radium, making her the first woman to receive the honour. She was, without a doubt, one of the greatest scientists of the 20th century, winning her second Nobel Prize in 1911 in Chemistry. Marie Curie was also the first woman in France to receive a doctorate in Physics. She defended her thesis on "Radioactive Substances" so well that her examiners remarked they had witnessed nothing like it before—making it obvious why she earned her Nobel Prize that same year. For a cricket fan like myself, it is as if she scored a double century on her debut. Her contribution to science was so profound that it essentially split the history of physics into two eras: the age of Classical Physics and the age of Atomic/Quantum Physics. Her life literally spoke volumes; hundreds of books have been written about her, including those by her two daughters, one of whom was herself a Nobel laureate.
In the summer of 1962, the Fulbright program invited some fifty scientists from developing countries across Africa and Asia to study advanced Quantum Mechanics at the Claremont Graduate School, about fifty miles from Los Angeles. During the course, the instructor was occupied with a complex derivation that took him three full days to complete. On the third day, having finally reached the result, he had hardly blown the chalk dust from his fingers and taken his seat when a middle-aged gentleman rose. In a very polite manner, he asked permission to derive the same result in less than twenty minutes.
The instructor, baffled yet curious if such a feat could be accomplished in his presence, granted permission and sat down. The auditorium fell into a hushed, aghast silence as the gentleman completed the derivation in under twenty minutes. In total disbelief, the professor asked, “Gentleman, what is your name and where are you from?” The gentleman replied, "My name is Abdul Majid Mian, and I am from Pakistan." When the professor asked for the reference from which he had learned the method, Majid Mian replied politely, "No, Sir, I cannot, because this is a method I have worked out myself." The esteemed professor stood silently for a moment, then addressed him with a smile of deep respect: "Abdul, from tomorrow onward, you will teach here in my place, and I shall sit in your chair to learn from you—because you happen to know more than I do."
I must add that one institution still stands as a beacon of pride—perhaps the most competitive and peerless in the entire country: the Khyber Medical College
However, Mian was no fool. He had a heavy teaching job back home at Peshawar University, where he served as the Principal of Islamia College, Chairman of the Physics Department, and Chairman of the Mathematics Department, in addition to being the full-time Dean of Sciences. Chaudhry Muhammad Ali, the then Vice-Chancellor of Peshawar University, had nominated him for the fellowship to see the US, not to stay and earn a profession there.
Imagine this gentleman’s passion for his learning, his work, his institution, and his country. It is no wonder that an institute under such brilliant minds produced luminaries like Dr Abdullah Sadiq, who would go on to study at the United States for his Doctorate on the recommendation of his mentor Abdul Majid Mian and later earn distinction at the Abdus Salam International Centre for Theoretical Physics (ICTP). Influenced by none other than Dr Abdus Salam, Dr Sadiq didn’t settle in Italy or the US but chose to return and serve his nation in many ways—including the introduction of Science Olympiads in Pakistan and helping build world-class universities like the GIKI and PIEAS. Perhaps those were the glorious days I used to hear about from my elders while I was growing up in Peshawar in the 90s.
At the turn of the century, we were not expecting the multiple catastrophes that were in the making: 9/11 attacks & the American invasion of Afghanistan, and an institutional crisis that had been brewing for years—the brain drains. For some in academia, scholarships and doctorates became saviours, or rather, lifelines used to scurry abroad. Soon, we became familiar with "in-your-face" corrupt systems everywhere, One Vice Chancellor of a public university hired hundreds of his kinsmen from his tribal district to get them jobs and had literally done nothing to setup any research centre. However, this academic plague was widespread, the end result of this nationwide academic decay was finely portrayed by physicist Pervez Hoodbhoy in one of his 2015 column, "Enough PhDs, Thank You"—a piece I find more relatable today than ever.
He narrates in his piece “sadly, the presentations by most Pakistani PhD’s were uninteresting, others were wrong. One was even laughably wrong. Probably the worst was by a professor who was not just a ‘doctor’ but a ‘professor doctor’. This terrible pomposity, borrowed from some German tradition, is now routinely augmented with ‘distinguished professor’, ‘national professor’ and what-not. Like cartoon generals who have won no wars but have medals stuck to oversized chests, Pakistan now has legions of highly paid ignoramus cartoon professors.”
Speaking of the present, the very same institute that once boasted names like Abdul Majid Mian and Dr Abdullah Sadiq is now facing a total financial and academic collapse. Yet, nothing stops the "Esteemed Professors" and "Professors Pro Max" from shining bright on Facebook for clicks, posing in front of their departments to herald: "Successfully Defended my PhD." And please, do not forget to call them "Doctor"—anything less is taken as a grave insult.
This reminds me of a recent encounter at a sports event in my current city. A fellow parent, instead of introducing himself by the discipline he had spent years studying, kept introducing himself as a "Doctor." The fitness instructor mistook him for a physician due to his over-emphasis on the title. When he finally clarified, "I am a Doctor of Physics" (Main Physics ka Doctor houn – Instead of saying “I am a Physicist”), I was flabbergasted. For this gentleman, the title was clearly more important than the incredible discipline he had chosen to study—a discipline so close to my heart. This obsession reveals a systemic malaise where titles take precedence over the actual pursuit of research.
Back home, the city I grew up in—and was bound to leave for good almost two decades ago—is increasingly becoming unliveable. Whether due to cultural disparity or a lack of equal opportunity, the city’s built environment has lost its soul and integrity. This is especially true for someone like me, who believes firmly in cultural diversity. Opportunities for women have been crippled, particularly in the aftermath of the Afghan misadventure and the American invasion, which turned the city into a rigid “Man, Pashtun & Sunni only” dominion. This shift has left little space for other ethnicities, sects, religions, languages, or gender. A city that was once home to many civilisations now resists progress and diversity. How can creativity, curiosity, open debate and rational thinking nurture in such an environment? Perhaps, this is why those (like myself) who felt indifferent left the city once and for all.
I must add, however, that one institution still stands as a beacon of pride—perhaps the most competitive and peerless in the entire country: the Khyber Medical College. Since its inception, it has maintained its glory, consistently producing world-renowned figures. It has shaped luminaries such as Dr Syed Amjad Hussain (who was kind enough to write me a letter of appreciation for my previous piece on Peshawar) as well as Dr Zulfiqar Bhutta and Dr Sania Nishtar to name a few.
Punjab and Sindh are surging ahead of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa across almost every metric: Information Technology, AI, Youth Skill Empowerment, and the integration of women in tech. While Islamabad, Punjab and Sindh foster world-class industries and sustain prestigious institutions like NUST, LUMS, and AKU—or maintain the scholarly legacy of GCU through vigorous research and international collaboration—KP remains noticeably absent from the global stage.
I recently attended a two-day International Conference on Air Quality and Climate Mitigation (ASIC Pakistan 2025), organised by UC Davis and Fair Finance Pakistan. I was astonished to find that out of more than 20 shortlisted abstracts, only one was from a Khyber Pakhtunkhwa university. To make matters worse, the esteemed professor behind that abstract did not even appear, sending a research student in her stead. Meanwhile, major institutes from Islamabad, Punjab, Sindh, and even Balochistan—including NUST, LUMS, GCU Lahore, GCU Faisalabad, and the University of Makran—were there in high spirits, networking with international delegates from China, the UK, and the USA. I asked myself: Is this a result of government disinterest, academic neglect, or sheer incompetence? The air quality crisis is right at our doorstep, yet we have failed to do our homework. While industries from Punjab presented impressive portfolios and demonstrated a commitment to modernisation, there is no trace of awareness—let alone industry compliance or regulation—in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
If the KP government could spare a moment from their preoccupations with "Adiala" and Facebook campaigns, they might realise that the very capital of their province is in a state of dire emergency. Considering the recent research report saying “Air pollution cuts average Pakistani life expectancy by 3.9 years” while The World Health Organisation (WHO) describes air pollution as the “single biggest environmental threat to human health”
The crisis within Khyber Pakhtunkhwa’s public sector universities is merely the tip of the iceberg. It is a product of corrosive politics, chronic overstaffing, and the misuse of scholarships as a means for seeking jobs or settling abroad rather than the pursuit of knowledge or research. Kinship is frequently prioritised over merit. Vice Chancellors are often designated based on political motivations instead of calibre or competitiveness. Hiring of hundreds of clansmen instead of the establishment of research centres. Furthermore, the system is haunted by "ghost" lecturers and professors—individuals who went abroad on public scholarships with the sole aim of settling there, by hook or crook. They have forgotten that they were awarded these privileges to learn from the world and bring those insights back to their homeland.
Our collective mindset must change. We need to unlearn the class stigma and relearn our forgotten lessons: to learn and earn for the pursuit of greatness and excellence, not for titles and eccentricities.
Peshawar was once a city of caravans and gardens, a place where ideas from across the world met and flourished. To see it retreat into a rigid, singular identity is to watch a grand library being slowly emptied of its books. Abdul Majid Mian didn't need the title of 'Professor Doctor' to impress an auditorium in California, his passion and pursuit was his legacy. Dr Abdullah Sadiq didn’t settle abroad in pursuit of citizenship or better living prospects but rather he came back and setup institutes and ignited minds.
Until we realise that research is a responsibility to the future rather than a mere gateway to prestige, greatness will remain out of reach. As Edward Teller famously noted, “The science of today is the technology of tomorrow.” We must ignite minds for the sake of our collective future, fostering prodigies like Marie Curie, who not only challenged the fundamental laws of physics but paved the way for life-saving cancer treatments and mobile X-rays. To confront the looming climate and governance crises, we must reset our ambitions and policies. This begins with an honest, informed debate on how to excise the 'Academic Corruption' plaguing our institutions. We must pivot back to genuine scientific inquiry—not for titles, but for survival—because climate change knows no boundaries and will not wait for us to fix our broken systems.