Education: Sacred Duty or Profit-Driven Industry?

When knowledge becomes merchandise, the classroom begins to lose its soul.
“Iqra.” Read.
With this single word began the journey of human enlightenment in Islam. The first revelation of the Qur’an did not command conquest, power, or wealth. It commanded knowledge. “Read in the name of your Lord who created… who taught by the pen, taught man what he knew not.” From the very first moment of revelation, knowledge was placed on a sacred pedestal. It was never meant to be a commodity traded in markets, nor a privilege reserved for the wealthy. It was a trust — an Amanah placed in human hands.
Another Qur’anic supplication captures the spirit of learning: “My Lord, increase me in knowledge.” Notice the beauty of this prayer. It does not ask for wealth, power, or status. It asks for knowledge. Because knowledge shapes civilizations, refines character, and protects the moral future of nations. Yet somewhere along the road of modern development a troubling question quietly emerges: has education gradually drifted from sacred duty toward profitable industry?
The Messenger of Allah ﷺ gave knowledge a dignity unmatched in human history. He declared that seeking knowledge is an obligation upon every Muslim. In that declaration education became a collective responsibility of society. Teachers were not merely employees; they were builders of generations. The classroom was not simply a workplace; it was the workshop where the character of a nation was patiently carved.
Sometimes while reflecting on such matters an old figure appears in my imagination — Baba Tall. This time he walks slowly along a dusty lane beside a modest school building. Children’s voices echo faintly across the playground and the gentle chiming sound of the school bell floats through the afternoon air. Baba Tall pauses for a moment, leaning slightly on his walking stick, and whispers in his familiar tone:
“Bacha!… knowledge is like water from a village well. As long as people draw it with respect, the well remains alive. But when someone begins to sell every drop, the well slowly dries.”
Across many developing societies today the educational landscape has expanded rapidly. Private schools multiply every year. New academies emerge in growing towns. Bright banners promise “international standards,” “modern facilities,” and “future-ready classrooms.” On one level this expansion fills important gaps where public systems struggle. Parents naturally seek better opportunities for their children.
Yet alongside this expansion another reality quietly grows.
In many towns and cities education has gradually transformed into one of the most profitable sectors of the local economy. School buildings rise, campuses expand, and educational networks grow stronger with each passing year. A bitter truth must also be acknowledged: when greed quietly enters the classroom, education begins to drift from its sacred mission toward a profitable enterprise. Buildings may become larger, balance sheets may shine brighter, but a silent moral question begins to echo in society — was knowledge ever meant to be traded like merchandise?
And here emerges a painful paradox.
While the industry grows rapidly and capital circulates vigorously, the very people who carry its intellectual weight — the teachers — often remain the most financially vulnerable group within the system.
Teachers are the backbone of this expanding educational structure. Every morning they stand before classrooms filled with restless curiosity and fragile dreams. They shape minds, correct mistakes, encourage confidence, and patiently guide children toward understanding. Yet their compensation frequently fails to reflect the dignity of their role.
Pakistan’s labour framework speaks of a minimum monthly wage. Yet within certain segments of the educational sector teachers sometimes report salaries far below that threshold. In various towns and neighborhoods figures between thirteen thousand and twenty thousand rupees per month are not uncommon. Such amounts barely sustain the basic cost of living in today’s economic climate.
Here lies a contradiction sharp enough to trouble any thoughtful mind. The industry of education expands rapidly, yet the teacher — the very pillar upon which the entire structure stands — often struggles to maintain a modest livelihood. When the guardian of knowledge lives under financial strain, society must pause and examine its priorities.
Parents too sometimes raise concerns. Fees continue during vacation periods when classrooms fall temporarily silent. Yet teachers — those who bring life into those classrooms — may not always receive the same continuity of income during those breaks. Such arrangements invite a simple ethical reflection: can an educational structure remain morally balanced when it stands upon the patience of underpaid educators?
Baba Tall appears again in my imagination, standing quietly beside the school gate. The bell rings in the distance and a group of children run laughing across the dusty courtyard. He watches them for a moment and then murmurs gently:
“Bacha!… when the gardener goes hungry, the garden may still bloom for a while — but its fragrance slowly fades.”
Nearly two decades ago, while planning the idea of establishing a small school in a town of Punjab, I once had a conversation with a concerned mother. I told her that in my educational vision children would not need to carry heavy bags of notebooks home every day. She looked surprised and asked, “Then how will parents know what their child is learning?”
I asked her a simple question in return. “When you open a notebook and see neat handwriting, how can you be certain whether the teacher helped guide the child’s hand?” She paused thoughtfully. Then I said, “When your child returns home from school, look for the real signs of education. Does the child speak with respect? Does curiosity grow? Does discipline appear in daily habits?” Because the true product of education is not notebooks — it is transformation.
Another memory returns to me from Islamabad. Years ago I admitted my son Syed Hamazah to a school managed by an Arab diplomatic mission where Arabic was the primary medium of instruction. One afternoon he returned home repeating a word again and again: “Ijlis!”
At first I corrected him gently in English, but he insisted once more. Then he waved his hand downward in the familiar classroom gesture teachers use when they ask students to sit. Suddenly I understood. He was saying “sit down” in Arabic. That single word told me something far more meaningful than any advertisement or school brochure could have revealed. It told me about the living educational environment surrounding him.
A few months ago I visited a modest school in a rapidly growing town of interior Punjab. The institution served children from a low-income locality. The principal — whom I will simply call Madam Sarah — spoke about her philosophy of education.
“I try to provide quality education at very nominal fees,” she explained calmly. “I can do this because my family’s livelihood comes from other professional work.”
As she spoke something remarkable appeared before my eyes. Through the thin veins of her sparkling eyes I felt ambition flowing — not ambition for wealth but a quiet determination to serve the children of her community. Her words were simple, yet her spirit carried sincerity. In that moment I felt that what I often describe as the Triple-C formula — Conscience, Care, Commitment — was alive within her approach.
And once again Baba Tall seems to pass slowly along the school boundary wall. The afternoon bell trembles gently in the air. He pauses, listens, and then speaks softly:
“Bacha!… when the pursuit of wealth becomes the guiding philosophy of schooling, classrooms begin to manufacture certificates instead of character — and the soul of education slowly fades away.”
Education is not merely another sector of the economy. It is the moral infrastructure of society. When education is guided primarily by profit, a subtle transformation begins. Schools risk producing customers instead of thinkers, certificates instead of character, and graduates who carry degrees yet still search for direction.
Schools must remain financially viable. Institutions must manage resources responsibly. Teachers must receive dignified compensation. But the heart of education must remain service to humanity. If profit becomes the only compass guiding educational institutions, the classroom gradually loses its soul.
The word Iqra still echoes across centuries. It calls humanity toward enlightenment, responsibility, and moral growth. Let that first command remain what it was meant to be — a call to knowledge that uplifts society rather than exploiting it.
And somewhere beyond the school gate, where the bell continues to echo softly in the fading afternoon, Baba Tall’s voice returns once more:
“Bacha!… a nation does not rise because its school buildings grow taller. A nation rises when its teachers stand tall.”