When the government announces the closure of educational institutions due to protests, security concerns, or climate-related issues, both teaching and learning fall under lockdown. Although such closures are brief, their consequences run deep in a country where higher education is already in the ICU.
We asked our students a simple question: how do you feel when your university or college closes because of political unrest? Their answers opened a window into the emotional, intellectual, and civic toll that recurring political or security turbulence takes on our nation’s young minds.
“I usually feel frustrated and disappointed,” responded one student. Another confessed, “Honestly, I feel so bad because of these political and security issues.” One student admitted, “Such closures slow down my academic progress and affect my motivation.” Across campuses, learning has become a stop-and-start affair, dictated not by academic calendars but by street unrest.
The sense of routine that sustains intellectual curiosity is often punctured by fear, uncertainty, and helplessness. Another respondent noted, “I feel frustrated, panicked, and scared because many people are on roads protesting.”
If every protest shuts down a classroom, then every slogan silences a student’s question and eventually disorients them from seeing their future in the Republic.
Political closures have a subtle but cumulative impact on academic motivation and pace. Students are quick to adapt, but adaptation should not be mistaken for resilience. These acts of self-discipline often occur in a vacuum devoid of peer engagement, mentorship, and campus life. Learning thrives on rhythm, a dialogue that continues from one class to the next, building momentum. Every closure resets the learning pace to zero.
In our study, several students described loss of motivation, missed syllabi, and slow academic progress. The most conscientious among them study at home, but even that effort is often framed as compensation rather than continuity – an act of damage control.
Teachers, too, find themselves trapped in this cycle of adaptation. Many believe that online classes are a reasonable substitute and a temporary bridge to prevent total academic paralysis. Yet beneath that practicality lies fatigue. “Online teaching feels like shouting into a void,” some educators observed. “We keep speaking, but half the class is disconnected, literally or mentally.”
During political protests or security crises, when the government deliberately suspends internet services, teachers are forced to record lectures, resend materials, or conduct half-sessions with frozen screens. The continuity of teaching becomes a patchwork of improvisation. “We cannot see their faces, cannot sense their comprehension,” another educator complained. The energy that flows naturally in a physical classroom through gestures, eye contact, and spontaneous discussion evaporates in the pixelated distance of an unstable connection.
Even when the online infrastructure works, many students log in but remain passive. Teachers, out of empathy, continue to record and share lessons afterwards, but they admit that learning outcomes suffer. “We can deliver content,” said one professor, “but we cannot sustain curiosity.”
When campus shutdowns become frequent, students stop making long-term plans. Instead, they wait for “normal days” that may or may never come. Eventually, their time becomes fragmented, along with their sense of purpose. This situation is reminiscent of Irish playwright Samuel Beckett’s tragicomedy Waiting for Godot, in which the elusive character symbolises hope that never arrives. In this context, Godot represents the return of stability in higher education, or perhaps in Pakistan itself.
There is a more serious concern beneath these emotional responses. When the government repeatedly disrupts education, it sends a message to the young that public anger is louder than public reason, and that force, not dialogue, determines the rhythm of life. Even when they cling to hope, students know that the state cannot promise them something as basic as the continuity of learning.
This erosion of institutional reliability breeds cynicism. When youth perceive the state as fragile and reactive, they either withdraw into private survival while focusing only on degrees and jobs or regurgitate the same reactionary patterns they see in politics. Hence, education becomes collateral damage.
If there is a single message emerging from our small survey, it is that normalcy itself has become aspirational. We welcome each new year with the quiet hope that it will be better than the last. Yet for students, even the simple rhythm of education, including classes held on schedule, lessons completed, and exams conducted on time, is no longer guaranteed. Each closure chips away at their faith in the system’s ability to protect the sanctity of learning.
The question is not whether protests should happen; they are part of democratic expression. The real question is whether education should be its first casualty.
Political instability is inevitable in a maturing democracy, but its impact can be lessened through preparedness and policy clarity. Students offered valuable suggestions while expressing a desperate need for dialogue over disruption. The government must treat education as a protected zone, not an afterthought.
Despite fatigue and disconnection, Pakistani educators have never allowed the silence of classrooms to become the silence of learning. They rose to the challenge during COVID-19 and stand ready to serve the nation again in difficult times, provided such hardship does not become a permanent state of normalcy.
Pakistan’s educational future will not be built merely by constructing campuses, revising curricula, or privatising education. It will depend on our ability to insulate learning from the tremors of political volatility, climate disasters, and security issues.
Universities, policymakers, and civic leaders must agree on one shared principle: education should be the last institution to close and the first to reopen when crises occur. Anything less is a betrayal of the very generation we expect to rebuild the Islamic Republic of Pakistan.
If every protest shuts down a classroom, then every slogan silences a student’s question and eventually disorients them from seeing their future in the Republic.
The first author is a Professor of English at Riphah International University, Lahore. He is a lead guest editor at Emerald and Springer publishing.
The second author is an Assistant Professor of English at Govt. Graduate College for Women, Samanabad, Lahore