Oh, for the seats of my youth

As I pass by the University of Peshawar, my alma mater, I am transported back to another time. The years from 1978 to 1983 replay in my mind like an old reel, slightly faded yet unmistakably vivid. Those were years of youth, curiosity and intellectual freedom. The university was not merely an institution; it was a living, breathing space of ideas, friendships and gentle dreams.

Sweet university, loveliest place of the plain/Where health and plenty cheered the student's heart.

It was my bower of innocence and ease/The seat of my youth, when every sport could please.

How often I loitered over its greens, where humble happiness endeared each scene. Students walked unhurried, teachers approachable, debates animated yet civil. The campus offered not only education but a sense of belonging. It was a sanctuary — open, welcoming, and confident in its purpose.

Yet those years were not politically benign. It was the era of martial law, when dark clouds of dictatorship hovered over the country. Paradoxically, despite this oppressive backdrop, the indomitable spirit of students was very much alive.

It was during this period that we succeeded in uniting all student federations on a single, defining demand: the restoration of student unions. Diverse in ideology yet united in purpose, we embarked upon a collective movement, driven by an infallible hope. That hope did not remain abstract for long; it translated into reality. Student unions were restored.

With their revival, the university came alive. Campuses brimmed with activities — debates, cultural events, political discourse and leadership training. Hidden talents surfaced, many of whom would later find their way into the National Assembly, provincial assemblies and the civil services. The university functioned as a true nursery of leadership, civic engagement and democratic values. Movement within the campus was free, unrestrained and intellectually charged.

Memory, however, collides harshly with the present.

As I try to enter the campus today, the main gate is closed. I take a turn towards Palosi Road, hoping for another entry point, only to find the road leading to the Administration Block sealed. I move further; more doors remain shut. Eventually, I locate a single open gate, clogged with vehicles and confusion, guarded not by learning but by suspicion.

Inside, the atmosphere is suffocating. Barbed wires, barricades and layered entry points dominate the landscape. Access to the Administration Block becomes another ordeal — blocked from all sides except one narrow passage. The scene unfolding before me resembles a fortified garrison rather than a university campus.

This transformation is not merely architectural; it is deeply psychological. Universities are meant to be spaces of inquiry, dissent, dialogue and intellectual courage. When fear becomes the organising principle, learning retreats into the background. The student no longer feels like a scholar in the making, but a subject under watch.

The irony is painful. Institutions that once nurtured critical thinking now operate under a siege mentality. Surveillance replaces trust; restriction substitutes engagement. The very openness that allows ideas to flourish is perceived as a liability rather than a strength.

This is not to deny the reality of security challenges. Peshawar, and indeed the entire province, has paid a heavy price in blood and trauma over the decades. Precaution is understandable; paranoia is not. There is a crucial distinction between reasonable security and institutional suffocation. When every gate is closed, every movement monitored, and every space fenced, the cost is borne not just in inconvenience but in the erosion of academic culture.

Universities shape societies long before policies do. They are meant to be nurseries of confidence, not corridors of fear. A nation that fences in its centres of learning ultimately fences in its future.

Yet, despite everything, hope lingers. It survives in classrooms where committed teachers still inspire, in students who persist despite constraints, and in memories that refuse to fade. The spirit of the University of Peshawar, like that of the city itself, has been bruised, not broken.

Perhaps one day, the gates will open again — not just physically, but intellectually.