Voices of Wisdom: Honoring Those Who Came Before

Twelve-year-old Hamza was always in a hurry. Whether it was rushing through his homework, speeding through dinner, or quickly brushing off his grandfather’s stories, patience just didn’t seem to be part of his world.

"Grandpa always tells the same things," he often muttered. "Who needs old stories in today’s world?"

Hamza’s grandfather, Baba Jan, lived with their family. A quiet man with kind eyes, a walking stick, and a collection of memories too big for any book, Baba Jan had been a schoolteacher in his youth. Now retired, he often sat in the courtyard, sipping chai and gazing at the sky with a soft smile.

One evening, as Hamza was glued to his tablet playing games, a power cut plunged the house into darkness.

"Ugh! No Wi-Fi, no games. This is the worst!" he groaned.

“Sometimes,” Baba Jan said, appearing with a lantern, “darkness can light up more important things.”

Hamza rolled his eyes. “Like what? Another story about the olden days?”

Baba Jan chuckled and patted the bench beside him. “Come, I’ll tell you something different tonight. Not just a story—a lesson.”

With nothing else to do, Hamza joined him.

"Did I ever tell you about the flood of 1973?" Baba Jan began. “Our whole village was drowning. People were panicking. I was just 19. Young, brave, and stubborn like you.”

Hamza listened, arms crossed.

“I saw an old man stuck on a rooftop. Everyone was running to save their valuables. I hesitated, but something told me: 'Help him first.' I used a rope, climbed a tree, and pulled him up. That man was blind and alone—but he held my hand like I was his entire world.”

Baba Jan paused. “That moment changed me. I realized wisdom isn’t in speed, Hamza. It’s in knowing what really matters—and our elders carry the map to that wisdom.”

Hamza didn’t say much that night, but something in him had shifted.

The next day, he noticed Baba Jan struggling to water the plants in the garden. For the first time, Hamza offered, “Let me do that for you, Baba.”

A week later, his school held a “Respect for Elders” week. Students were asked to write essays or share stories about an elder who inspired them. Most kids didn’t take it seriously—but Hamza saw an opportunity.

That evening, he sat beside Baba Jan with a notebook. “Can you tell me about your first day as a teacher?” he asked.

Baba Jan’s eyes lit up. “Ah, that day! I wore my best shalwar kameez, but I was so nervous I forgot my chalk! I had to write on the board with a piece of coal…”

Each story that followed opened a window into a different time—filled with lessons of honesty, kindness, sacrifice, and honor. Hamza began to understand the strength behind the wrinkles, the value behind quiet smiles, and the depth behind simple words.

The day of the presentations arrived. When Hamza stood up in front of his class, he held up a photo of Baba Jan.

“This is my grandfather,” he began, “He taught hundreds of children to read and write. But to me, he taught something even more important—how to be a good human.”

He told the story of the flood, the rooftop rescue, and how that moment shaped Baba Jan’s life—and now, his own.

The class was silent, the teacher moved. Hamza’s story earned the loudest applause.

Later that evening, Hamza ran home, excited. “Baba Jan, we won! Everyone clapped. Even our principal praised your courage!”

Baba Jan smiled, pulling Hamza close. “Winning hearts is the real victory, my boy.”

From that day forward, Hamza never rolled his eyes at another story. He started asking more questions, listening more closely, and offering help whenever he could—not just to Baba Jan, but to the elderly neighbor who walked with a cane, to the aunt who carried heavy groceries, and even to strangers on the street.

He had discovered something his games and screens could never offer: the strength and grace that comes from respecting those who’ve lived before us.

Moral: Respecting elders is not an old tradition—it's a timeless path to becoming wiser, kinder, and stronger.