A degree of escape

Every year, thousands of young Pakistanis head to Britain on student visas. For many, higher education isn’t really the goal. It’s a desired but desperate route to become and be seen as a credible man. A degree at home guarantees jobs for a lucky few. For others, it does open a door to escape. But behind that dream of greener pastures, there’s a life of "tension": getting soaked delivering takeaways in the rain, long hours on security shifts, and the worry of unpaid university fees that never relents.

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I learned this from Yasir, a student I met in Edinburgh. We were in a café. Next to us was a man reading a book. Two women at a nearby table sipped their coffees. One of them leaned frequently to pet and ruffle the fur of her dog lying at her feet. The dog tilted its head up and closed its eyes, happy.

While Yasir looked tired. He’d done three back-to-back 15-hour shifts, mostly on his feet, as a security guard at a festival. "Sandwiches for those three days. No chai", he said with a wry smile. Just then, his iPhone buzzed. He looked at the screen, then put it face down. "A friend from Pakistan", he said. "He’s asking for money. They don’t know what we’re going through here. It’s all tension here", he muttered.

"What tension?" I asked.

"Finding work. University fees," he replied. Still, Yasir wasn’t that bitter: he was jobless in Pakistan, but here, at least, he didn’t have to keep answering the dreaded question, "Have you found a job yet?"

Yasir is from Dir, a historically poor district of KP, because of the cruel regime of the Nawab. His father laboured in construction in Saudi Arabia and paid for his son’s education. He hoped Yasir would build a life in Pakistan, not abroad. That was his dream. But sadly, it didn’t come true. After finishing his engineering degree, Yasir couldn’t find a job. He then taught at a private school and barely managed to cover his own expenses. Finally, he used his engineering degree from Pakistan to move to Britain as a student.

The British university as a Kafeel

Most students borrow from family and friends or even sell land to get to Britain. They gather just enough money for the visa fee, a plane ticket, and the first tuition instalment. The rest must be earned in Britain. And the tuition isn’t cheap. International students pay three to four times what locals do.

They work in Britain’s informal economy. You’ll see them riding bicycles through biting wind and rain to deliver takeaways. Their faces are tightly wrapped like characters in a heist film. Others stand as docile and motionless bodies guarding sports and entertainment venues. Some lift crates in warehouses or wash dishes in kitchens. Their bodies are taut and aching, but they’ve to keep going. Missing a tuition fee means expulsion. And with it, visa cancellation and deportation. This "tension" is unstoppable.

British universities function similarly to the kafala (sponsorship) system in the Gulf. There, workers must keep their kafeel (sponsor) happy or face deportation (Nihai). In Britain, the threat of removal comes in the form of a polite email about payment deadlines.

The language is softer. The control isn’t.

The "tension" doesn’t end at graduation. To stay, students must pay the graduate visa fee. Marketed as a pathway to employment opportunities, it doesn’t deliver. Their degrees poorly prepare them for the job market. Some students haven’t been able to write their essays. Ghostwriting isn’t uncommon. This isn’t because they’re lazy or don’t care, but because they’re tired. Most work long hours. Sleep isn’t regular. Studying is a luxury that very few can afford. The university collects its fees. The students get a degree. Nobody asks any crazy questions.

In this "new age of Empire", British universities profit greatly. They charge inflated fees, and the country benefits from the students’ cheap labour. This is a familiar logic. The British Empire once plundered trillions of dollars from the subcontinent. Now, neoliberal universities extract various fees and invisible labour from South Asian students.

The empire’s gone, yes. The logic is very much alive.

Money is masculine "potency"

But let’s be honest, what do the students get? For many young men, migration is a gendered transition. In Pakistan, masculinity is strongly tied to earning (gata-wata) to provide for family and other dependents. "When I was in Pakistan, nobody gave me their sister or daughter," Yasir said. But now, with some pounds in his account, he’s seen as a credible and marriageable man. Migration has elevated his masculinity in the eyes of those who stay in Pakistan. "He’s in England," as they say back home. This means he is amassing a fortune.

Social media shows smiling faces in branded jeans and crisp jackets at scenic spots. It doesn’t show the Deliveroo bag and anxious eyes glued to the mobile screen, waiting for the next order. Or the long security shifts. Back home, people see remittances. They don’t know what it costs to send them. The illusion holds.

Of course, the work is gruelling, the degree is hollow, and there’s "tension," but many like Yasir still see themselves lucky to be in Britain. Because back home, the same degree wouldn’t get them anywhere. But in Britain, even a few pounds earned look amazing when converted into rupees.

A structural betrayal

This isn’t a story of personal failure. It’s one of systemic betrayal. Students like Yasir do what they’re told. They study and earn degrees. But the system lets them down by not providing decent employment opportunities at home. They are the sons, brothers, and uncles for whom families make many sacrifices so they can study and succeed. And their reward? A generational cycle of migration. Fathers go to the Gulf, and sons go to Britain and beyond. How long will these Pakistani degrees remain a "degree of escape"?

Ismail Khan is an ethnographer and social anthropologist. He holds a PhD from the University of Edinburgh, UK. He looks at the world around him with the eye of an anthropologist, which may not always reflect how others see it. Ismail has written about gender, masculinities, (im)mobility, and transnational migration.