From home to nation: the cost of silence

People who do not question are easily governed. Yet, in much of our society, a culture of silence endures — a silence that begins at home, deepens through fear and matures into collective inaction. Even as children are taught about equality and justice in textbooks, they are simultaneously conditioned to obey without question. When a child challenges a parent or teacher, they are told to stay quiet — reminded that questioning elders is disrespectful. This early silencing of curiosity discourages independent thought and breeds submission, which later becomes a lifelong habit.

Children are naturally inquisitive. They ask about everything — life, truth and morality. As they grow, their curiosity turns toward their surroundings: they ask why electricity is stolen through kunda connections, why their parents bribe the gas meter reader, or why politicians disappear after elections. These innocent questions often embarrass adults, who respond with shallow reasoning or anger — silencing the child to hide their own helplessness or complicity.

In many Pakistani households, curiosity is mistaken for defiance. Parents, shaped by generations of social conditioning, fear that a questioning child might grow disobedient. But this suppression is the first step in perpetuating a society already weakened by corruption, nepotism and injustice.

Children learn more from what they see than what they are told. When they watch their parents offer bribes or dump garbage on the street without guilt, they internalise dishonesty as convenience and corruption as survival. Ironically, the same parents who preach prayer and honesty often prioritise ritual over morality. They remind children to pray five times a day but rarely explain that religious duties are between a person and God — while deceit and injustice toward others carry graver moral weight. Religion becomes ritual, not reflection; worship becomes habit, not humility.

Thus, a child raised in such contradictions learns obedience, not morality — silence, not courage. By the time they reach college or university, the damage is done. The silence cultivated at home travels with them into institutions that should have nurtured critical thought. Schools and universities — meant to be nurseries of ideas — become factories of conformity for students trained to avoid questioning.

Once, Pakistan's campuses echoed with debate and reform through student unions. Those platforms nurtured political awareness and civic courage. Today, most are banned or tightly controlled. Students who question are labeled "troublemakers", facing suspension or even arrest.

Yet, history shows glimpses of courage — the Lawyers' Movement during General Musharraf's regime; protests by teachers, doctors and journalists against injustice. But these moments remain exceptions, not the norm. The culture of speaking truth to power is not deeply rooted in our social fabric. We complain privately but act rarely. Charity begins at home — and so does resistance.

A household that tolerates dishonesty cannot produce honest citizens. A family that mocks civic duty cannot expect reformers. Parents must teach children that moral integrity is not situational — it is absolute. Throwing garbage on the street, bribing officials or stealing utilities are acts of dishonesty as sinful as neglecting prayer. When children see their parents obey the law and respect others' rights even when unseen, they learn justice as a personal duty.

If children are taught early that collective problems require collective solutions, they will grow into responsible citizens. Encouraging them to speak up about a broken sewer, a corrupt official or social injustice cultivates accountability. But when silence is glorified as "wisdom" and compliance mistaken for "respect", society breeds timidity, not courage.

Children silenced at home remain silent in schools; students who fear teachers never challenge principals; citizens who fear rulers never challenge corruption. This unbroken chain of submission sustains authoritarianism.

When uprisings erupt elsewhere, people ask, "Why not here?" The answer lies not in the absence of anger but in the presence of fear. Pakistani youth are not indifferent — they are anxious. They recognise injustice but fear the consequences. Dissent is criminalised through draconian laws, and families discourage involvement. A student who speaks out risks blacklisting; a teacher who supports them risks dismissal. Expecting mass mobilisation in such fear is unrealistic — yet hope remains.

Change begins quietly — in homes, classrooms and conversations. If parents nurture critical thinking, if teachers reward curiosity and if institutions foster open dialogue, a culture of resistance can return. Reviving student unions, strengthening civic education and promoting debate at all levels can rebuild this culture gradually. The media must amplify youth voices and expose misuse of power without fear. The state must protect peaceful assembly rather than treat it as rebellion. Only when questioning is normalised will protest become constructive.

This silence is not born of moral weakness but of environment. From childhood, people are taught that obedience ensures safety. Bureaucrats, teachers and political patrons — the "non-biological parents" of society — warn that questioning authority endangers careers. Thus, truth becomes dangerous and silence wise. They grow up prioritising family, sect or ethnicity over humanity.

Pakistani youth refrain from activism not because they are apathetic but because they are conditioned to fear — by family, by system and by state. Decades of political instability, violent crackdowns and surveillance have criminalised dissent, creating deep psychological barriers to collective action.

A nation cannot produce honest citizens if dishonesty is taught around the dining table. The change must therefore begin not with laws or slogans, but with everyday behaviour at home. Every parent must remember that children silently watching them learn integrity not from lectures, but from example.