My life in war when I start education

I am Jamil, and I was born in a time and place where the sounds of birds singing were quickly replaced by the roar of fighter jets and the thunder of explosions. My home is Bajaur, a tribal region nestled in the mountains of Pakistan, a place once known for its simplicity, traditions, and close-knit communities. But by the time I was old enough to hold a pencil, war had already arrived at our doorstep.

I remember clearly the day my education began. Not in a classroom with rows of desks and a blackboard, but in a small, broken room with no roof and crumbling walls. It was 2007, and Bajaur was burning. The military operation against militants had started, and our villages were turning into ghost towns. People fled, houses collapsed, and the silence of destruction wrapped around everything like a blanket.

My father, a man of little words but great strength, decided we would not leave. "Education is your only weapon," he told me one night, his voice barely above a whisper as we sat under a shattered ceiling, listening to gunfire in the distance. I was only six years old, but his words rooted themselves deep in my soul.

There was no school nearby anymore. The one that existed was destroyed by a bomb just a few weeks earlier. The blackboard was shattered into pieces, books were burnt, and the only thing left were the tears of children who didn’t understand why their right to learn had been taken away.

But I was lucky. My mother, though illiterate, believed in the light of knowledge. Every morning, she would comb my hair, wash my face, and hand me a small slate board and a piece of chalk. Our neighbor, an elderly man named Ustad Karim, had once been a teacher. He gathered the few children who remained in the village and started a small "school" in the ruins of an abandoned house. There were no benches, no fans, not even drinking water. But we had something powerful—hope.

I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, my ears often distracted by the distant thud of helicopters or the terrifying rattle of gunfire. Sometimes we had to pause lessons when the bombing got too close. At times, classes were held in underground rooms or in the shadows of trees, always shifting, always afraid.

My handwriting was shaky at first, not just because I was learning, but because my fingers were cold and my heart always anxious. Every night, my family and I would huddle together in the one room of our home that was still standing, praying that the night wouldn’t be our last.

The days passed, and the war raged on. Food became scarce, and my books turned into precious treasure. I would protect my notebook as if it were gold, wrapping it in plastic when it rained, hiding it under my pillow at night. Once, a mortar shell hit near our village. Dust and debris filled the sky, and I ran home, blood on my face from a small cut. But the first thing I checked was my notebook—it was safe.

Despite the chaos, I kept learning. I learned to read Urdu poems and write my name. I learned the value of peace, not from textbooks, but from the pain around me. I learned that courage is waking up every day with the will to dream, even when your world is falling apart.

Years went by. Slowly, the fighting eased. A proper school was rebuilt, and I finally entered a real classroom. I was older than my classmates, but it didn’t matter. I had earned every step of my journey. I had learned by candlelight, in fear, under fire.

Now, when I hold a pen, it’s not just an instrument. It is my weapon against ignorance, my voice against the silence that war tried to impose. I study not just for myself, but for every child who couldn’t. For every book that turned to ash. For every classroom that became rubble.

War taught me many things. It taught me pain, yes. But it also taught me resilience, love, and the undying spirit of a child who just wanted to learn. I am still on my journey, but I carry my past with pride. I am Jamil, the boy who started his education in the middle of a war—and never gave up.