Shattered Wings

I remember him clearly — a quiet boy with fire in his eyes. The kind of fire only children have, fueled by dreams untouched by disappointment. He would sit in the second row of the classroom, his well-worn notebook always open, his blue pen carefully refilled because buying a new one wasn’t always possible.

His name was Hamza.

Hamza didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was always about the future. “Sir, when I become a doctor, I’ll open a free clinic for the poor.” Or, “If I become a pilot, I’ll take my parents to Makkah for Hajj.” He dreamed with an innocence that softened even my jaded heart.

At parent-teacher meetings, his father would come — a gentle man with oil-stained hands from long hours at the workshop. His tired eyes still carried pride. His mother never came; she stayed home caring for Hamza’s two younger sisters. Despite their poverty, there was dignity in the way his father stood — proud, even if worn down by life.

Hamza’s world was small but full — school, home, mosque. Books, faith, and the belief that his parents could make anything possible.

But life has a cruel way of testing belief.

The First Cracks

After his matric exams, I noticed a change.

Hamza stopped smiling as much. His questions in class became fewer. The fire in his eyes dimmed. At first, I thought it was nerves about his results or the shift to college. But then he stopped coming to school for a week.

When he returned, he was quieter than ever.

During lunch break, I asked gently, “What’s going on, Hamza?”

He looked at me, sadness in his young eyes. “Sir, I passed with good marks… but I can’t apply anywhere.”

“Why not?”

He lowered his gaze. “My father said he can’t afford the admission test fee. Even if I pass, we can’t afford books, uniforms, or transport. Everything costs money… and we don’t have it.”

I had no words. Just silence — heavy and suffocating.

A System That Fails Its Children

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

How did we reach this point — where a child with so much potential is held back by something as small yet powerful as a fee slip?

We live in a country where politicians chant about youth being the future, where speeches overflow with promises of free education and opportunity. Yet children like Hamza are quietly abandoned.

This wasn’t laziness. This wasn’t lack of ambition. This was poverty — a monster that eats away at dreams, one rupee at a time.

Hamza’s father worked twelve-hour days fixing motorcycles, barely earning enough to feed his family. His mother saved every penny, reused every scrap, yet still struggled to buy school supplies. And when the crucial jump came — from high school to college — they hit a wall.

It’s not just Hamza. It’s thousands across Pakistan. Children who dream of being engineers, teachers, astronauts — but end up in shops, factories, or fields because the system rewards privilege and punishes poverty.

I once read: poverty doesn’t just steal your future — it teaches you not to dream at all.

Hamza still dreamed. Until the day he couldn’t.

The Moment Dreams Collapsed

I saw him one last time before the summer break. He had come to collect a character certificate.

“I’m going to try to find a job, Sir,” he said. “Maybe part-time. I want to save up… maybe take the entry test next year.”

I forced a smile. “I’m proud of you, Hamza.”

But inside, my heart cracked. I knew how hard it is to return once you step away. One year becomes five. Dreams fade.

The tragedy of Hamza’s story is not that he failed — he didn’t. He studied hard, got good grades, kept his end of the bargain. But the world didn’t keep its promise.

Education — the one thing that should have been his ticket out of poverty — came with a price tag.

We blame children for “dropping out,” but we rarely ask what pushed them out. Sometimes it’s not laziness. Sometimes it’s a missing bus fare. Sometimes it’s the cost of a textbook. Sometimes, it’s the price of an entry test that decides whether you sit in a classroom or sweep floors in a workshop.

Growing Up Too Soon

What haunts me most is Hamza’s acceptance.

He didn’t blame his father, who offered him his last 500 rupees with tears in his eyes. He didn’t blame his mother, who wanted to sell her wedding bangles so he could register for the test. He didn’t even blame me, though I know I could have done more.

He simply bowed his head, like so many children do, and moved on.

There is heartbreak in watching innocence replaced with understanding. In seeing a child grow up too soon, not because he wanted to, but because life left him no choice.

Today, Hamza works in a mobile repair shop. I still see him sometimes — polite, humble, tools in hand. But the fire in his eyes is gone.

And I can’t help but wonder: what kind of doctor, pilot, or engineer did we just lose to poverty?

Closing Reflection

Hamza didn’t lose because he was lazy. He lost because we, as a society, make dreams conditional.

We tell children to dream big, then hand them a fee slip instead of a future.

I don’t write this to blame his parents — they gave him love and everything they had. I write this to question a system where hope is free, but opportunity is not.

How many more Hamzas will we lose before we change the rules of the game?

If this story touched your heart, reflect on the Hamzas around you. And if you can, be the bridge between someone’s dream and their reality. Because sometimes, even the smallest act of kindness can reignite a child’s belief in possibility.