Respect beyond ceremony

I remember vividly, it was about twenty-five years ago. I had recently joined the University of Karachi as a faculty member. One late night around 1am, a senior colleague was giving me a ride back from a wedding when our car was stopped near a police mobile. One of the car's headlights was dim, so we were pulled over. The officers began their routine inspection, questioning us rather brusquely.

After a few minutes of tension and waiting, a voice came from the police van: "Master hain, janay do."(He's a teacher, let them go.)There was a moment of relief - no case was made, no bribe demanded. But it came with a sting. The word "Master" wasn't used with respect; it had a sneering tone, a dismissive familiarity, as if we were harmless, low-ranking public servants, insignificant enough to be waved off. We left feeling small, exposed to the casual disregard society often shows to teachers in our part of the world. It was a release, yes - but it didn't feel dignified.

Roughly a decade later, during my doctoral studies in Sweden, I encountered a very different cultural moment, but one that, in hindsight, felt connected.

At some point in the process, I needed to apply for a Swedish ID card. Upon inquiry at the relevant office, I was informed that to complete the process, a blood relative who already held a Swedish ID was required to accompany me. I explained that I had no relatives in Sweden, but asked whether I could bring someone from the university, since a PhD in Sweden is considered formal employment. The officer confirmed that this would be acceptable.

The next morning, my PhD supervisor, a well-respected professor, kindly agreed to accompany me. We arrived at the registration office around 9am, took our token, and stood in line. Time passed. My supervisor, always efficient, opened his laptop and quietly worked while waiting.

After about an hour, I noticed he was growing slightly uneasy. Upon asking, he mentioned he had a class to teach at 1pm. I went to the reception desk and, politely, informed them that the person accompanying me was my doctoral supervisor and that he had a teaching commitment soon.

The woman at the counter gave me a sharp, almost disbelieving look. Then, in a raised voice, she exclaimed: "You brought a professor here?" Everything came to a halt. Within minutes, two senior officers approached us, deeply apologetic. They turned to my supervisor and said: "We are so sorry for the delay, Professor. Please, come this way."

He was immediately ushered to the front, and the process was completed in no time. I walked out of the office in awe - not because a special favour had been granted, but because of the sheer reverence that civil society in Sweden extends to educators. There, a professor was not just a job title, he was seen as a valuable public servant, someone whose time mattered, whose dignity was worth protecting.

And in that moment, my mind involuntarily echoed the words I'd heard years ago in Karachi: "Master hain, janay do." But how vastly different the contexts were. How differently those words were weighted by society.

In Pakistan, particularly in public discourse and bureaucratic interaction, a teacher may be tolerated, even spared trouble, but seldom celebrated. In Sweden, a teacher is honoured, institutionally and culturally, without performance or protocol. One is waved away with indifference; the other is welcomed with respect.

It struck me then, and still does, that truly civilised nations place teachers above systems - not for privilege, but for their vital role in shaping society's intellect and ethics. In Pakistan, teachers are honoured with gestures, but true societal respect often falls short. In contrast, Sweden offers no ceremonial praise, yet deeply values educators respecting their time, apologising for delays, and embedding that respect into institutional culture.