I'm A Kashmiri Student. Law School Is My Hardest Case Yet

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo

By Faizan Fayaz

I didn't think law school would make me feel smaller. I walked in excited, maybe even a little smug, thinking I'd landed among the country's sharpest minds. And I had. But I hadn't prepared for the weight of silence, the kind that grows in hostel corridors, in back benches, in the long, tired eyes of students pretending they're okay.

I've been a student representative for years now. That means I've had more conversations in stairwells and hostel rooms than I've had in classrooms. I've watched brilliant classmates slowly fade out. First missing breakfast, then lectures, then whole days.

Once, I found a student sitting alone in a dark room. He was shaking. When I asked what was wrong, he just said,“I can't take it anymore.” He wasn't talking about one bad day. He was talking about everything.

We're made to sit through marathon lectures, six hours straight, barely a pause. Professors drone on while we're expected to process complex judgments and legal theory like machines. The system assumes that teaching is the hard part. It isn't.

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Listening, absorbing, keeping up-that's where the real pressure lives. You walk out exhausted but there's still moot prep, assignments, and internship deadlines waiting.

Then there's the invisible hierarchy.

Everyone knows their place. Juniors stay quiet, seniors rule. Some take it too far. One time, a junior came to me with bruises, actual bruises. A senior had hit him over a petty disagreement. The junior had a history of depression and told me, in a flat voice, that he had been thinking of ending his life. I got him help. He's still around. But what about the others who never say a word?

Disability makes it harder. We talk a lot about rights, about accessibility, about equality. We even study laws that promise these things. But inside our own campuses, students with disabilities are left to fend for themselves.

A visually-impaired student once told me he couldn't access a single reading for weeks. Students with mobility issues face stairs, cracked ramps, and narrow doors. And those with mental health struggles are offered blank stares or casual suggestions like,“Try yoga.”

The gap between school and law school is brutal. You arrive at 18, still figuring yourself out, and suddenly you're competing with peers who seem smarter, sharper, faster. Romantic relationships are whispered about. Faculty scold you for wasting time if you smile too much, socialize too freely. The message is clear: don't feel too much, don't live too much. Just study.

And that's what makes this crisis so tragic.

It doesn't have to be this way. What we need is simple. Shorter, more engaging classes. Counselors who are trained and available. Professors who are sensitized. Mentorship that heals, not hazes.

Law schools don't need to be wellness resorts. They just need to be human.

We are training future lawyers. The ones who will defend the Constitution, who will fight for justice. But how can we do that if our own dignity is eroded before we ever reach the courtroom?

Sometimes I wonder what kind of lawyers we're becoming. Ones who can quote every article of the Constitution, but don't know how to ask for help. Ones who win arguments in court but lose the battle inside their own heads.

We need to change that.

For the sake of students. For the sake of the law. Because justice should start at home. And for us, that means starting with the law school itself.

• The author is a law student and activist. Views are personal.

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