Punjab’s ambitious promise of free, quality education must now be examined through the experiences of its principals, teachers, parents and children. The real test of eminence is not the grandeur of a building or the name displayed at its gate, but how many deserving children enter, learn, grow and find a future within its walls.
It was a winter night. The clock was approaching one in the morning when BāBā-Tāl, my wandering Darvesh and Bell-man, asked me to stop Foxy, my long-time companion, the mustard-coloured Volkswagen.
“Bacha! Stop, drop me here. I shall be back with you at the Eyrie.”
He stepped out and began walking towards a building illuminated with such brilliance that the night appeared to have turned into daylight. It was a marriage hall. His navy-blue robe, stitched with brass bells of different sizes, his blue jeans torn near both knees, and his joggers made their familiar appearance as he disappeared into the brightly lit entrance.
I turned Foxy around and drove back to the Eyrie, my Eagle’s Nest, the rooftop studio apartment at Markaz F-10, Islamabad.
Winter was creeping towards morning when I heard the familiar chiming and sensed the distinctive fragrance of my wandering Darvesh. Before I could rise from my chair, he was there.
“Where is my mug of hot coffee? It was freezing out there.”
“BāBā, the coffee is ready and waiting in the kettle.”
“Okay, bacha! I shall wait.”
I returned with two steaming mugs. He took his seat, and I began my interrogation.
“Where were you? At that marriage hall? What was the gathering about? Were you invited?”
He calmly sipped his coffee, allowing my curiosity to exhaust itself.
“Yes, it was a wedding. And although I was invited, you know I have never waited for a formal invitation to go where life has something to teach me.”
He smiled.
“I met a fine gentleman, Mr. Sohail, dressed in an off-white shalwar suit and waistcoat, standing beside a gracious lady. They were Mr. Sohail and his wife, Madam Noureen Sohail. The wedding was that of her nephew.”
Then came the news.
“Bacha! I have brought you a hot story for tonight’s op-ed.”
Madam Noureen, he told me, was the Principal of a Nawaz Sharif School of Eminence in Chakwal. An educationist with considerable experience, she had headed institutions in Islamabad and Chakwal. But what had caught his attention was not her designation or professional résumé. It was her understanding of the people for whom a school actually exists.
BāBā leaned back. His bells became quiet for a moment.
“Bacha, listen…
This Madam is not a principal on a chair,
She is a principal on the ground.
She walks in Chakwal dust,
She knows every child’s name,
Every teacher’s pain,
Every mother’s prayer.
She told me, BāBā,
My campus is not walls,
My campus is children.
If a child is hungry,
A book will not fill the belly.
If a child is scared,
A lesson will not enter the heart.
First, love. Then, lesson.
First, character. Then, certificate.
In Islamabad, I learned systems,
In Chakwal, I learned souls,
She said.
Islamabad gave me files,
Chakwal gave me families.
She said, BāBā-Tāl,
Tell your writer bacha,
Write this:
A school is not made by a building,
It is made by a teacher who stays,
When everyone else leaves for the city.
It is made by a principal who stands at the gate on a winter morning
And says, ‘Welcome, my bacha. You are late, but you are mine.’
That is eminence.
Not a name on a board,
But a name in the heart.”
He finished his coffee.
“So, bacha, tomorrow’s op-ed is not about a wedding. It is about an educational promise that must reach children, one campus at a time, while the world is busy blowing media bubbles.”
I looked at my empty mug.
And there, dear readers, lies the point of our discussion. Madam Noureen is one of the educationists working within this initiative. Her encounter with BāBā-Tāl provides us with a human window into the Schools of Eminence. But the story is considerably larger than one principal, one school or one city. It stretches across Punjab, into every tehsil where this educational experiment is expected to give ordinary families access to extraordinary opportunities.
The Nawaz Sharif Schools of Eminence, introduced under the umbrella of the Punjab Education Foundation, represent an ambitious public-private partnership. The stated objective is to establish a network of modern schools, offering free, quality education, with contemporary classrooms, science and technology facilities and a learning environment intended to compete with the standards ordinarily associated with expensive private institutions.
The programme’s stated ambition extends to 300 schools across Punjab, with the broader plan envisaging two schools in each tehsil, one for boys and one for girls. The government’s published programme information also describes education as free for students, with tuition payments made directly to partner schools.
These are substantial promises. They deserve recognition. But a promise, however attractive, must eventually be judged by its delivery.
A smart board cannot educate a child by itself. A robotics laboratory cannot replace a committed teacher. A magnificent building cannot compensate for an empty classroom, an unresolved admission application or an administrative system that fails to recognise a child who is physically present and learning.
We must therefore look beyond inauguration ceremonies, photographs, impressive signboards and official presentations. The real story begins when the school opens its gates and children arrive.
And that is where the voices of principals become particularly important.
Madam Noureen’s concern about admissions was unmistakable. She believes that introducing a second shift could provide a practical answer to the problem of limited enrollment. Many children, she explained, are deserving, intelligent and capable, but cannot secure admission because the number of available seats is restricted by classroom space, institutional capacity and other constraints.
Her argument is rooted in a simple social reality. Families are facing severe financial pressures. For them, a school offering free education of a high standard is not merely another educational option; it may be the difference between a child continuing education and being deprived of that opportunity.
She wants more children to benefit from the initiative. Her request is straightforward: introduce a second shift so that deserving students who cannot be accommodated in the morning can also become part of these schools.
This is not an argument for compromising standards or overcrowding classrooms. It is a call to examine whether existing infrastructure can be used more effectively, with suitable staffing, supervision and resources, to extend the reach of quality education.
A separate enrollment account from a Chakwal campus adds another dimension to this discussion. The principal expressed deep dissatisfaction despite having received more than one thousand admission applications. According to the figures she shared, 461 students were physically attending the school and had been submitted on the PEF portal, while only 391 appeared as active there.
The difference between these figures deserves attention. The distinction between applications, actual attendance, submitted enrollment and active portal records must be understood clearly. These are not interchangeable categories.
But behind the numbers is a human concern. The principal spoke of intelligent, talented children from extremely poor backgrounds who had not received the opportunity to become part of the institution. She wanted them inside the school, not outside looking at an opportunity they could not afford elsewhere.
Here is a question that should concern every policymaker: if a deserving child has the ability and willingness to learn, but the available seats have run out, should the story end there?
The second shift deserves a serious feasibility assessment across the province. Where demand exceeds capacity, the authorities should examine classroom availability, teacher strength, transport, electricity, security, laboratories, sanitation and the additional operational cost. A second shift must be properly planned, not merely announced. Quality cannot be sacrificed in the name of quantity.
There is also a practical management proposal worth considering. Where an existing principal is already familiar with the institution, its staff, parents and local circumstances, continuity should be preferred rather than unnecessarily changing the leadership. An experienced, hardworking member of the existing staff could be appointed as the Administrator for the evening shift, entrusted with additional responsibility and given appropriate financial compensation.
This arrangement would also ensure that the same institutional spirit, working style, discipline and standards established during the morning shift are carried forward into the evening. At the same time, it would provide a deserving, experienced and hardworking member of the existing staff with additional responsibility, recognition and a meaningful financial boost.
This would create a defined chain of responsibility, reward capable staff and avoid placing the entire burden of two shifts on one principal. The arrangement would, of course, require clear accountability, adequate authority and proper monitoring.
The larger point is that the evening shift must be treated as a properly managed educational operation, not an extension of the morning timetable without additional human and administrative support.
After BāBā-Tāl had left Eyrie, the faint chiming of his brass bells was still in the air, gradually fading away. I was about to WhatsApp my article when my cellphone rang.
An unknown number appeared on the screen.
“Assalam-o-Alaikum!” I began.
“Walaikum-Assalam! I am calling from Minchanabad, in response to your message about our NSSE campus.”
“Oh, that is a very good gesture on your part,” I replied.
What followed was a candid assessment:
“Our enrolment is according to our infrastructure capacity. We do not want to operate in a double shift. Moreover, the subsidy offered against each class is low compared with the quality of infrastructure and academic excellence being demanded from the partners.”
That was all.
The message was clear. The caller was explaining his institution’s present capacity and financial considerations. His position deserves to be understood rather than judged.
But there is another side to the picture. The directors of NSSE Girls Campus, Bhone Road, Chakwal, are very anxious, determined and courageous to undertake the evening shift. They are willing to accept this additional responsibility and are looking forward to an opportunity to accommodate more deserving children.
I was still holding the phone when the familiar bells chimed again at the door.
BāBā-Tāl was back. Apparently, he had not gone far.
He looked at my face and smiled.
“Bacha! You heard two voices, no?
“One said, ‘Not yet.’
One said, ‘We are ready.’
“Do not call the first one less, bacha.
“Minchanabad is not without courage.
Minchanabad is clear.
At this very early stage,
They know their shoulders,
They know their load.
“They said, ‘We will not pick a weight
That we cannot carry with honour.’
“That is also honesty.
That is also responsibility.
“Bhone Road said,
‘Our heart is ready,
Our shoulders are ready,
Give us the evening,
We will carry it.’
“That is also courage.
That is also love.
“Bacha, one is the wisdom of pause,
The other is the wisdom of pace.
Both are wisdom.
“School is not a race, bacha.
School is an amanat.
Whoever understands his amanat
Never fails his children.”
He paused before adding:
“Write this, bacha…
“Punjab does not need partners who promise everything.
Punjab needs partners who know what they can carry —
And carry it with a full heart.”
And now, another practical matter deserves attention, one that may appear small on an official file but can be enormous in the daily lives of female employees.
BāBā-Tāl leaned forward, his bells giving a faint chime.
“Bacha! I have a vibe that the very ambitious and active lady ruler of Punjab is about to visit an interior town of Chakwal. Advise the school authorities to request Madam Prime Minister…”
He suddenly corrected himself with a mischievous smile.
“Oh, she is not Prime Minister yet, but Chief Minister! Ask her to distribute scooties among the female staff members of that school.”
After a while, he continued, “As you know, I keep an eye on places. I know that this School of Eminence is in good hands, and its performance has been commendable. These women are working hard to stand on their own feet. They deserve wheels for their feet!”
“Madam Maryam Nawaz is already working to strengthen women across her province. She is providing pink vending vans to women. Why shouldn’t these educated and hardworking women also receive her patronage? After all, they deserve encouragement from their own inspirational woman leader.”
The suggestion deserves serious consideration. We talk about empowering girls through education and encouraging women to participate in the teaching profession. Yet, if a female teacher cannot conveniently reach her school, our commitment to empowerment remains incomplete.
I would request the relevant authorities and potential patrons to examine a properly designed scooty-support arrangement for deserving female staff. Eligibility, safe riding training, helmets, maintenance, financing and local road conditions should all be considered. A modest intervention could remove a daily obstacle for women who are helping build the educational future of others.
And now, let us move from the classroom to the machinery that keeps it functioning.
The collective field feedback reaching us from Schools of Eminence in several Punjab locations, including Chishtian, Sahiwal, Multan, Qila Didar Singh, Sharaqpur and Abdul Hakeem, raises concerns about digital enrollment verification, the F-Portal and payment-related difficulties.
This feedback is a synthesis of experiences gathered across different locations. It is not being attributed to any single principal or school.
One recurring concern is the relationship between the verification and activation of students on the portal and the financial arrangements of partner institutions. Field feedback suggests that children may be physically attending classes while their records remain inactive or incomplete in the digital system. Where payment depends upon verified enrollment, such delays can become a serious operational bottleneck.
There are also concerns about payment delays affecting private partners, investors and licensees, even as the responsibility of paying teaching staff and meeting recurring institutional expenses continues.
These concerns deserve a careful, transparent examination. We must distinguish between a verified payment default, a pending verification, an incomplete record and a technical portal problem. They are different matters, requiring different remedies.
But the consequences of unresolved problems can converge. An institution has to pay its teachers, maintain its premises, provide learning materials and keep its doors open. An investor or private partner who cannot predict the flow of funds may begin reconsidering the sustainability of the arrangement. Field feedback indicates that confidence is being affected in some quarters.
If the programme depends on private participation, that confidence is not a peripheral matter. It is part of the operational foundation.
The government and PEF must therefore ensure that digital systems facilitate education rather than obstruct it. A portal should be a servant of the school, not a master that leaves an attending child administratively invisible.
If a student is present, eligible and studying, there must be a timely, accessible mechanism to identify and resolve any discrepancy in the record. Principals should be able to report errors, track corrections and receive decisions within a clearly defined timeframe.
Similarly, partner institutions deserve transparent payment schedules, accessible complaint channels and clear explanations for any deductions or delays. Public money must be accounted for, and private partners must honour their contractual obligations. Accountability has to work in both directions.
A public-private partnership cannot be built on public expectations alone. It requires a functioning relationship between the government, the Foundation, the school management, teachers and families.
The authorities should consider establishing a dedicated NSSE facilitation and grievance mechanism, supported by a district-level focal person and a central monitoring dashboard. Such a system should distinguish between student attendance, admission approval, portal submission, active verification and payment eligibility. It should also allow schools to see precisely where a pending case is stuck and who is responsible for resolving it.
The objective is not to weaken verification. It is to make verification accurate, timely and fair.
After all, the initiative is not merely a collection of buildings. It is a network of institutions entrusted with the future of children whose parents often have very few alternatives.
The question of teachers deserves equal attention. A school may have the finest equipment, but its educational character is shaped by the people who teach, guide and care for the children. Recruitment, qualifications, professional development, attendance, fair compensation and retention must be treated as essential components of the programme.
Teachers should not be expected to produce extraordinary results under ordinary or uncertain working conditions. They need a stable working environment, clear responsibilities, appropriate training and timely payment. Principals need authority proportionate to their responsibilities. Administrators need systems that work.
And parents need something even more basic: confidence.
They need to know that their children will be safe, that teaching will take place regularly, that school management will listen to them and that admission is governed by transparent rules. A child from a poor family should not feel like a temporary guest in an institution established in the name of educational opportunity.
There must also be clarity about admissions. Merit and access are both important, but they must not be confused. If a competitive assessment is part of the policy, its rules should be transparent and consistently applied. At the same time, the government should examine whether the existing capacity and admission arrangements are sufficient to serve the population the programme intends to reach.
A child who does not secure admission must not simply disappear from the system. The authorities should know how many applicants were turned away, why they were not accommodated, and what alternative public educational provision is available to them.
This is particularly important in smaller towns and interior areas, where a family’s options may be much more limited than those of a family living in a major urban centre.
The initiative’s provincial character must remain central. Punjab is not Lahore alone. Nor can the success of a programme be judged through a handful of well-presented campuses. The experience of a school in Chakwal, Chishtian, Sahiwal, Multan or a remote tehsil must count equally in the assessment of the whole initiative.
A province-wide programme requires province-wide listening.
The government should invite structured feedback from principals, teachers, parents, students and private partners. It should publish meaningful performance indicators: admissions received, students admitted, actual attendance, portal activation, teacher vacancies, payment timelines, examination performance, retention and the number of children who benefit from additional shifts.
The purpose of such reporting should not be to produce another glossy brochure. It should be to identify problems early and correct them before they become institutional weaknesses.
There is a larger moral dimension to all this.
The Holy Qur’an opens its revealed message with the command to read. In Surah Al-Alaq, verses 1–5, Allah Almighty draws attention to the act of reading, the creation of human beings and the teaching of knowledge through the pen. In Surah Al-Mujadilah, verse 11, the believers are reminded that Allah raises those who believe and those who have been given knowledge in degrees.
Education is not a privilege to be displayed before society. It is a responsibility to be extended to society.
The Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him] said:
“Whoever follows a path in pursuit of knowledge, Allah will make easy for him a path to Paradise.”
— Sahih Muslim, Hadith 2699.
The message is profound. The pursuit of knowledge deserves respect, support and practical facilitation. It should not be obstructed by avoidable administrative confusion, inadequate capacity or indifference towards the circumstances of the poor.
Nelson Mandela’s widely remembered observation that education is the most powerful weapon with which to change the world carries a similar message. But the weapon of education must be placed in the hands of every child, not only those fortunate enough to find a seat.
This brings us back to the word Eminence.
What makes a school eminent? Is it the name on the entrance gate, the smart boards, the laboratories, the impressive building or the official inauguration? These things may contribute to an excellent institution, but none of them alone makes it eminent.
Eminence begins when a child who has little in material possessions discovers that the world has not closed its doors to him. It grows when a teacher refuses to surrender a struggling student. It becomes visible when a principal knows the difficulties of parents and finds ways to help rather than merely forwarding files. It becomes meaningful when public money is spent transparently, private partners are treated fairly and children receive the education promised to them.
This is the spirit I saw reflected in BāBā-Tāl’s account of Madam Noureen Sohail. But it must not remain the story of one woman. Across Punjab, there are principals, teachers and school employees who deserve to be heard, supported and held accountable according to the same standards.
Their experiences should become part of a continuing conversation about the future of the programme.
And perhaps this is where my wandering Darvesh would return with another cup of coffee and another question for me:
“Bacha! You keep talking about schools of eminence. Tell me, how will you recognise one?”
I would answer:
“When its doors are open to the deserving, its teachers are respected, its administration is responsive, its finances are transparent, and its children are learning.”
He would probably smile, ring his brass bells and whisper, “Now you are getting somewhere, bacha!”
Let me leave the matter with a few lines of
*POETEARS* — a literary form coined by S. T. Hejazi, where poetry becomes tears, and tears become poetry.
Let every classroom hold a lamp against the night,
Let every child be given room to rise in light,
No portal can measure all the courage in a name,
For eminence is earned when opportunity burns bright.
The Nawaz Sharif Schools of Eminence have an opportunity to become much more than an educational brand. They can become a living promise to families across Punjab. But that promise will be fulfilled only when the machinery of administration serves the mission, when the concerns of principals and teachers are heard, when private partners can operate with justified confidence, and when deserving children are not turned away merely because the system has run out of seats.
The Chief Minister, the Punjab Education Foundation and the relevant education authorities must now look beyond the ceremony and into the classrooms. Listen to the people on the ground. Examine the figures. Resolve the portal and payment difficulties. Assess the second-shift proposal. Facilitate female staff. Strengthen school leadership. And, above all, make sure that every rupee spent produces a meaningful educational outcome.
A school of eminence must not be eminent merely in its name.
It must be eminent in its service to the child.
And the final measure of its success will not be the number of nameplates installed across Punjab, but the number of young lives whose doors to knowledge, dignity and opportunity have genuinely been opened.
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