The Day Zehra Found Her Voice In Kashmir

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
Representational Photo by Abid Bhat

By Muntashir Kifayat Hussain

We walked in, not to inspect, but to see. The sun hung low over Narbal, Budgam, my home district, and spilled soft light into the room where children sat. Little ones, barely three to five, were arranged in neat rows like display items, not living beings.

They were silent. Unnaturally so.

We paused at the door. The hall was large but cold. There were no toys, no posters, no laughter. Just the sound of breathing and a voice: loud, sharp, misplaced.

“Jo shor karega usko main maaroonga.”

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Whoever makes noise, I'll beat him.

The teacher barked the warning, unaware we were watching. My chest tightened. At that age, children aren't meant to be silent. Silence in a pre-primary room isn't peace, it's fear wearing a school uniform.

I saw her then. Zehra. Four, maybe. Her face was small, her eyes swollen with held-back tears. She was trying not to breathe too loud.

Then came another shout, this time directed at her.“Chup, chup, chup.” Be quiet.

My friend, a fellow teacher and visiting academic monitor, couldn't stay quiet. He walked up to the man and asked plainly,“Why should they be quiet?” The teacher stared. As if we'd questioned a holy truth.

“They're not soldiers,” my friend said.“They're children. This is not an army barrack.”

He looked at the kids, then back at the teacher.“You are their mother for six hours. Not a guard.”

He picked up Zehra gently, sat her on his lap, handed her a small packet of biscuits. She looked surprised, then calm, then lit up. Something inside her unlocked. She leaned in, pointed at my friend and said in a soft voice:“Yeh shall acha hai. Mela teacher acha nahi hai.” This sir is good. My teacher is not.

Even the teacher smiled. A little.

That moment said everything. It didn't need explanation. But my friend explained anyway.

“Kids this age are still learning how to feel. How to hold back a cry. How to speak without fear. If you scold them, they'll carry that fear. And if they learn to fear learning, what then?”

We asked the teacher what he does when a child makes noise.

“Redirect them,” my friend said before the man could answer.“Give them a puzzle, a story, a hug. Let them make noise. Let them be. Then praise them when they calm down on their own.”

He quoted Gibran, not to show off, but to reach the heart of it:“The mother is everything. She is our strength in weakness. Our hope. Our mercy.”

And then, as if reminding us all, he added,“Love. Mercy. Sympathy. Forgiveness. That's your toolkit.”

We stood there a while longer. Talking. Listening. Thinking. Outside, the world was moving on. Inside, Zehra sat on the floor with her lunchbox in her lap. When the bell rang, she stood and walked over to us.

She looked up and said,“Shall, shall, chalo khana khawo melai saath.” Sir, come eat lunch with me.

I sat beside her, took a spoonful. Her hands were soft. Her smile, full of wonder. For a second, I thought of my daughters at home, and something heavy turned inside my chest.

We left after that. Zehra waved, her fingers small and perfect. Her eyes no longer frightened.

Walking out, I thought about how much we've misunderstood early education. Pre-primary is not preparation for discipline. It's preparation for life. Eighty-five percent of brain development happens before age six. That time is gold. And we're burning it.

The National Education Policy says we must make learning joyful, rooted in play. But here, in this classroom, policy hasn't reached practice. Most teachers in Jammu and Kashmir still don't know what foundational education really means. No training, no tools, just tradition. And silence.

I carry Zehra's words with me now. That small sentence, spoken through biscuit crumbs and courage:“This sir is good. My teacher is not.”

Sometimes it takes just one honest voice to expose everything that needs fixing. And sometimes, it's the smallest voice in the room.

• The author teaches at Boys High School Narbal, Budgam.

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