Rameez Bhat
In a village on the outskirts of Baramulla, a young man wakes before sunrise, helps his father in the fields and returns home as the morning fog begins to lift. A few years ago, his mornings looked very different. He would sit with his books late into the night, preparing for competitive examinations and imagining the day he would return home with an appointment letter. His parents believed education would take their son somewhere they had never been able to go. His mother still remembers those years when she would quietly place a cup of tea beside him while he studied. Sometimes she would ask him to sleep because morning was approaching. He would smile and say, “Just one more chapter.”
Today, there are no chapters to finish, only forms to fill, recruitment notices to check and examinations to prepare for. He has appeared in several competitive examinations, travelled to Srinagar for interviews and waited among hundreds of other young people hoping for the same thing; a chance to begin their lives. Nothing came. He now helps his family with agriculture and occasionally works with a local business. There is dignity in both, but when relatives ask what he is doing, there is often a pause before he answers, “I am still looking.” Across Kashmir, many young people are living somewhere between education and employment, between expectation and uncertainty. They studied because they were told education would open doors; now many find themselves waiting outside those doors.
For generations, education has been one of Kashmir’s greatest hopes. Parents who had limited opportunities themselves sacrificed whatever they could so their children could study. A child’s success was seen not merely as personal progress but as the fulfilment of a family’s long-standing dream. Yet today we must ask an uncomfortable question; what happens when educational aspirations grow faster than livelihood opportunities? The answer cannot simply be another examination or another competition for a limited number of government positions. Government employment will remain important. For many families, it provides stability and security, and there is nothing wrong with aspiring to it. The difficulty begins when it becomes almost the only definition of success. Over time, we have created a hierarchy of occupations in which a government employee is considered secure, a doctor or engineer is celebrated, while a farmer, artisan, shopkeeper, technician or small entrepreneur may be viewed as having settled for less. Such thinking is increasingly out of step with the economic realities of the modern world.
Kashmir cannot build its future only through offices and recruitment lists. It must also build it through orchards, workshops, businesses, laboratories, hotels, farms and markets. Our young people need opportunities to turn knowledge into value. A graduate trained in agriculture can help modernise farming and develop food-processing ventures; someone skilled in digital marketing can help Kashmiri businesses reach customers beyond the Valley; a designer can take traditional handicrafts to new markets and a trained hospitality professional can contribute to a more diverse tourism economy. Much of the potential already exists around us. What is often missing is the bridge between education and opportunity.
Our classrooms therefore need to become more connected with the world outside them. Students should learn not only what to remember for an examination but how their knowledge can address real problems. An agriculture student should understand markets and value addition, an economics student should see how small businesses function, a science graduate should have pathways into research and innovation and students interested in literature, communication or journalism should understand the opportunities created by digital platforms. This does not mean reducing education to employment. Education has a much larger purpose: it teaches people to think, question, understand and participate meaningfully in society. But livelihood is also part of human dignity.
There is a quiet pain in being educated and having nowhere to use that education. It is felt by the young person who begins avoiding family gatherings because he is tired of being asked about his career. It is felt by the mother who continues telling relatives that her son is preparing for another examination. It is felt by the father who starts calculating household expenses differently because the child he once expected to support the family is still dependent on it. These are the less visible costs of unemployment and they can gradually turn confidence into self-doubt. That is why skill-development programmes must be judged by what happens after the training ends, not by the number of certificates distributed at a ceremony. Did the trainee find employment? Did income improve? Did someone establish an enterprise? Did the training provide access to an actual market? Entrepreneurship, too, cannot remain a slogan. A young person needs access to finance, mentorship, technology, infrastructure and markets before a promising idea can become a sustainable livelihood. Government has an important role, but so do educational institutions, businesses, financial organisations and society itself.
Perhaps we also need to change the questions we ask our young people. Instead of repeatedly asking, “Which job are you preparing for?” we could ask, “What can you do? What are you good at? What problem can you solve?” The first question can create a culture of waiting; the second can encourage a culture of possibility. Not every graduate can or should become an entrepreneur, but every young person deserves the chance to discover a meaningful path beyond the narrow expectation of securing a government position.
The young man in Baramulla may eventually get the job he has been waiting for. Perhaps he will not. Perhaps his future lies in the orchard he once wanted to leave. He may introduce better farming practices, develop a small food processing venture or help other farmers find better markets. He may employ two people, then five and eventually realise that his education was never wasted; it simply needed a different destination.
That is the possibility Kashmir must create for its youth. We have spent decades teaching our children how to pass examinations. We now need to teach them how to navigate uncertainty, develop skills, recognise opportunities and build lives with dignity. The real measure of an educated society is not how many graduates it produces, but whether those graduates can find independence, purpose and a meaningful place in the economy they have spent years preparing to enter.
Literacy opens the door. Education broadens the horizon. But livelihood gives a person the freedom to walk towards a future of their own.
Rameez Bhat can be reached at ramizspeaks77@gmail.com
