A brilliant weekend until the bird arrived

 A Brilliant Weekend… Until the Bird Arrived

This morning felt different. It’s the weekend, the weather is finally cool and brilliant, and I woke up feeling unusually cheerful. The wife was still asleep, so I shuffled out — gracefully, for someone bordering on senile. Not quite Shakespeare’s “lean and slipper’d pantaloon” age, but certainly strolling in that direction.

I made myself a steaming cup of Lipton tea, my faithful favourite, and stepped into the garden like a man entering a private wellness retreat. I chose a comfortable chair and settled in, admiring the flowers and the trees we’d planted over the years. The air was so fresh it felt like I was inhaling premium-grade oxygen. Summer was finally behind us, and I told myself I should do this more often.

Yes, I missed the newspapers a bit, but I was already making plans for the day — sensible, age-appropriate plans. No, not ziplining across a canyon or hiking up a mountain or doing anything that involves signing a waiver. At my stage in life, excitement is gentler: giving my white shirts a proper wash, buying some plants, and maybe a few solar lights. Truly thrilling stuff.

And then came the moment of cosmic comedy.

A lone bird — one bird in the entire UAE, with billions of square metres of empty sky — decided to make me its chosen target. Why me? What was going through that tiny feathery mind? Did it hover above, weighing its options? “Palm tree? No. Wall? No. Wait… that man sipping tea with a cat at his feet — yes, him.”

My cat glanced up at me as if to say, “You do realise you’re sitting under the express lane?”

And then: plop — the bird deposited its droppings on me with sniper-level accuracy. Head and shoulder. A perfect strike.

Superstition insists this is good luck.

If so, I’m due for an extraordinary weekend — right after a long, soap-heavy shower.

AISLE SEATS, ANXIETY AND AIRPORTS

 AISLE SEATS, ANXIETY AND AIRPORTS - my tryst with Travel 

Living in the UAE makes it so easy to travel around the world. Non-stop flights, well-connected hubs, and short travel times mean the globe feels closer than ever. And yet, for me, the joy of travelling is complicated. 

When my wife suggested a short trip after Christmas, my stomach tightened. Everything connected with travel and airports unsettles me. I am no Christopher Columbus, no Ibn Battuta; I enjoy the destination but detest everything that precedes it. Flying doesn’t faze me—but ticket booking, baggage check, airport lights, and security scanners do.

There are three types of travellers: the audacious who live to travel, the ambitious who travel to live, and hapless mortals like me, who need a week of recovery after booking a ticket. Those demi-gods of the skies who casually drop, “I just flew in from Timbuktu via Belarus, didn’t even have time to shave,” deserve constellations named in their honour. Meanwhile, I prepare for a simple three-day trip as if it were a mission to Mars during monsoon season, complete with packing simulations, passport drills, frantic calculator sessions to check baggage weight, and mental rehearsals of surviving security scans without collapsing.

My Mumbai trip—a short three-and-a-half-hour flight—felt like a dramatic ordeal. Booking the ticket was a test of endurance. About 35 flight options appeared: 1-stop, 2-stop, 3-stop flights via strange countries—Nauru, Sri Lanka, Kyrgyzstan—essentially a world tour in the sky minus sightseeing but with all the nausea. The non-stop flights felt like VIPs hidden at the bottom of the list. When I finally reached them and began keying in my details, panic set in: did I spell my name correctly, enter the right passport number, type the date wrong, transpose numbers in my credit card? Every keystroke felt like walking a tightrope over lava. The verification code didn’t arrive. By the time I tried again, the fare had risen by three hundred rupees.

Packing was no less dramatic. Indecisive weighing scales, rebellious zippers, and a suitcase that mocked me made it feel like an obstacle course. I pack, unpack, reweigh obsessively, then prepare hand luggage: clothes in case the suitcase vanishes, passport, ticket, phone, chargers, pens, wallet, iPad, key ring, spare keys. I obsess over trivialities—what if the suit feels too warm, the shirt collar too tight, or I burn something while re-ironing? Extra unnecessary clothes are inevitable. Three pairs of cufflinks? Of course—what if one falls into the luggage abyss? The tiny locks and their keys always add more chaos.

Early morning flights make the night before dramatic. Two alarms are set, checked, rechecked, while I imagine a dozen catastrophic scenarios. Breakfast is avoided—two fried eggs and leftover vegetables could launch a digestive revolt. My wife is kind, supportive, and likes to act as if she’s a travel expert, yet she convinces our daughters that I am the reason our luggage is singled out for inspection. When we travel together, she mutters, “Just behave normally. Don’t talk unnecessarily,” as if my mere existence triggers chaos. She becomes a backstreet driver guiding me straight to the gallows, pointing at every pothole and danger along the way.

At the airport, static shocks from the trolley, serpentine queues, and check-in staff wielding more power over my happiness than anyone else greet me. My single wish is simple: an aisle seat. I always pay extra yet still fret I won’t get it. To add to the misery, I am horribly claustrophobic. I smile, project humility, and wait for the golden words—“Mr Guzder, I’ve given you an aisle.” Heaven opens.

Then comes passport control, the stage for all my anxieties. My name is always mispronounced—creatively, confidently, and with conviction—and I never look at the right light or camera. My mind races through catastrophic possibilities: What if my passport image is unrecognisable? What if the chip is damaged? What if a page is torn? What if someone with my name is wanted in Argentina? The officer studies me, the screen, me again. I am convinced a supervisor, a sniffer dog, and a small committee are about to appear. Only when the stamp is finally applied do I exhale with relief.

Security is no less nerve-wracking. I remove every metal object—watch, belt, coins, key ring, mobile, pens—emptying my personality into a tray. I hope they don’t ask me to remove my chain and pray my hand-luggage contains no rogue nail-cutter. Inevitably, my bag is pulled aside, my heart rate doubles, and I imagine someone has planted an explosive device inside. After a thorough check, they find nothing more dangerous than a camel-shaped key ring, a packet of coins, and a pen so blunt it couldn’t injure butter.

Finally, the flight itself is serene: food, drinks, the loo, and the aisle seat are all manageable. At my destination, I repeat the ritual in reverse—passport control, luggage scan, hand-luggage inspection, endless questions—while trying not to burst from nerves or bladder pressure. Stepping outside into the fresh air, I realise I have survived once more, ready to endure it all again the next time someone casually says, “Let’s take a short trip after Christmas'

Our world is out of Balance

 Our World Is Out of Balance — But Not Beyond Repair

The rhythm of life may have faltered, but harmony is still within reach.

We seem to have lost — or be losing — our rhythm, as if life itself is out of step. The world moves faster, louder, and brighter than ever before, yet something still feels unsettled. We are connected across continents but often disconnected from ourselves, flooded with information yet starved of understanding. The quiet pulse of everyday balance is now something we have to consciously reclaim.

Look at our lives. Our days begin with a phone in hand and end with a weary scroll through headlines that blur together, and everything is about more: more speed, more noise, more choice. We rush to keep up — with news, trends, and each other — and in the process often forget what we’re actually chasing.

 We call it progress, even when it sometimes feels like motion without direction. Reflection, that old-fashioned pause between thought and action, has been replaced by the constant urge to respond, to post, to prove ourselves. The quiet space to think has almost vanished.

And this rush spills over into how we look at the world. Everyone seems to be talking about how the planet is going to hell — or whatever the latest phrase happens to be — yet there is endless talk and very little follow-through. We hold panels, post slogans, shake our heads at disasters, and then slip back into comfort, leaving the Earth, like ourselves, overstimulated and under-rested.

 Nature once taught us balance through tides and seasons, but we have stopped listening. And noticing this imbalance makes it impossible not to see that it extends into the way we live together in society.

Society, too, feels off balance. Conversation has become competition, opinion has replaced understanding, and outrage travels faster than empathy. We’ve become experts at reacting and amateurs at reflecting. 

There was a time when disagreement could coexist with respect, yet now it often serves as another reason to shout. We are louder but lonelier, more visible but less truly seen. The way we interact in society mirrors the way we live our personal lives — rushing and reacting without pause, almost as if we are afraid to stop. Society itself feels like a swinging pendulum, moving between outrage and indifference, volume and silence, never quite settling into reason.

Our personal scales are equally uneven. They tilt like a see-saw, as we work harder to earn more, fill our days with tasks, and measure our moments, rarely pausing to find equilibrium. The pursuit of success feels like a high-wire act — precarious and exhausting — and even leisure has become a performance, with steps counted, moments measured, and achievements displayed. While we live in an age of efficiency, we are perpetually short of time. And while we look to technology for a solution, it often adds to the imbalance instead of fixing it.

Technology connects and simplifies, yes, but it also distracts and consumes. The human touch — conversation, laughter, eye contact — now competes with screens for attention. We are surrounded by clever machines that can do almost everything except make us feel whole. And beyond all of this, there is a shortage of courage, because the world can do without bullies and cowards. What it desperately needs are people willing to stand up, speak honestly, and act decently even when no one is watching — those who understand that balance isn’t about staying neutral, but about knowing where to stand and having the strength and grace to hold that ground.

The world may not slow down. Still, we can move through it with a little more awareness, a little more kindness, and a renewed sense of proportion. Every time we pause to listen, to laugh, to care, we tilt the scales back toward harmony. 

The clock is ticking — though not the doomsday clock so many like to warn us about — just the rhythm of life nudging us to pay attention, reminding us that balance was never lost; it has only been waiting for us to find our footing again.

Harding hall memories - REVISITED

 Harding Hall Nostalgia

– Can We Ever Forget It?

Which Bishopite wouldn’t remember Harding Hall, named after the then Bishop of Bombay, John Harding, and associate some memory with it?

From its small, timeworn walls, seemingly made of rocks, to the echo of footsteps and laughter, Harding Hall has been at the heart of Bishops, one of India’s oldest boarding schools, established in 1864.

Every boarder, teacher, and visitor left a trace—memories of assemblies, Prize Days, socials, and quiet, reflective moments—that still linger.

Adjoining the office and the basketball court, Harding Hall was an impressive building, standing as a silent witness to decades of school life.

In 1981, when I first joined Bishops, I rushed to the Principal’s bungalow and found Mr. Roberts, the towering figure of Bishops, having breakfast. Known for his impeccable discipline, fairness, and sharp wit, he commanded instant respect from both staff and boys alike. Yet beneath his formidable presence was a warm, thoughtful man who genuinely cared for the school and its students.

I also met Mrs. Roberts very briefly that morning. She was gentle, motherly, and quietly efficient, directing Harry to bring tea and biscuits with a soft smile. As Head of the Primary Section, she was deeply respected and well loved by both pupils and staff. Her calm, reassuring presence added warmth to the bustling bungalow, a perfect complement to Mr. Roberts’ commanding stature.

I was offered steaming tea and home-baked biscuits at the dining table by his butler, Harry—a quiet, short, white-haired man whose warmth and dedication were unmistakable. Men like Harry were part of the living legacy of many old boarding schools, often followed by sons and grandsons continuing their work. Harry’s silent presence, carrying tea or a tray of biscuits, held generations together with warmth that needed no words.

After this brief pause, Mr. Roberts took me to Harding Hall. In about 30 minutes, he shared the essence of the school, walking me through the hall and pointing out its treasures. It felt like traveling through the soul of Bishops—years of achievements, memories, and traditions captured in honours boards, photographs, and memorabilia.Honours boards displayed the names of Head Boys, Captains of Games, and ISC/ICSE toppers. Photographs, some decades old, captured school groups, class groups, and sports teams.

Many faces I once knew have since passed on. Photographs of former Principals, including the legendary Mr. Lunn, graced the walls—beloved by generations of boys for his fairness, wit, and quiet wisdom. His presence was iconic, and even decades later, alumni still remember his warm guidance and the respect he commanded without ever needing to raise his voice.

I often wonder how much of the memorabilia—the photographs, shields, and flags—has been preserved. Hopefully it has not been discarded. Perhaps a dedicated room in the new building would allow alumni to revisit the legacy—a suggestion I have made before.

When I became Headmaster in 1987, one of my first tasks was restoring old frames and photographs, carefully reinstalling them on the boards, and creating a board listing all Principals over the years. Old flags, carefully framed, reminded us of the school’s proud heritage.

The small stage witnessed boarders setting up panels and curtains for Prize Day and handling sound and lights. Their dedication became part of the school spirit.Prize Days were among the biggest events. The maroon blazers glistened under the morning light as boys walked proudly across the stage to receive awards—some of which were over a century old. I still remember the glint in a boy’s eyes when he received the Gentlemanly Qualities cup, weathered by a century but shining brighter than ever in that moment.

Assemblies took place every morning. Boys trooped in, masters lined the sides, and Mr. Roberts would often arrive five to ten minutes after the boys had settled, his black gown flapping slightly as he walked in. The moment he entered, there was pin-drop silence, a mix of awe and respect filling the hall. The routine—a Bible reading, prayer, hymn accompanied by the grand piano, and announcements from the large red register—was familiar. Staff quaked if Mr. Roberts was in a foul mood. And the boys? Some cast furtive glances to St. Mary’s Hall next door, hoping—usually in vain—to spot some girls. Even the bravest staff felt the weight of his presence, yet all who knew him remembered his fairness, integrity, and unwavering commitment to the school’s values.

Harding Hall was lively for sports too. Table tennis and badminton were played with enthusiasm, the hall buzzing between assemblies, exams, and other functions.

It was a place of both discipline and delight—a hall where serious learning and playful energy coexisted.During Founders Week, when old boys returned, Harding Hall had a magnetic charm. Many made a beeline for the hall, tracing the honours boards, pausing at photographs, and quietly recalling their own school days. Old boys made a beeline for Harding Hall, hands tracing the honours boards, eyes lingering on decades-old photographs, hearts full of nostalgia.

Harding Hall also had a mischievous reputation—Mark Reading Day. Bright students enjoyed it; weaker ones dreaded it when Mr. Roberts read their marks, scolding them for wasting their parents’ money. Yet it worked—failures were few. Every time the roll number was called, hearts raced—fear and pride mingled in the air like electricity.ICSE examinations were conducted here as well. Desks were arranged meticulously, boys lined up outside, walked in silently, and took their places—a scene of disciplined anticipation.

And then there was the Social with St. Helenas—the heartbeat of the school year. The Social was more than a dance—it was a universe of music, laughter, and fleeting romances. For one night, Harding Hall transformed into a universe of music, laughter, and fleeting romances. Nervous glances, polished shoes, last-minute adjustments of ties and dresses, and the scent of excitement lingering in the hall created memories that lasted a lifetime.

I worked at Bishops from 1981 to 2001—as a teacher, housemaster, dormitory in-charge, and eventually the first Headmaster. There were First Assistant Masters before me, but I was the first to hold the title of Headmaster—how many of you know that? That too is part of the school’s history.

Those were glorious years of teaching, learning, and growing.Harding Hall was more than a building. It was a repository of memories, achievements, and emotions. Prize Days, assemblies, exams, mark readings, socials, sports, and countless routines—everything passed through that hall, leaving echoes of laughter, discipline, and learning.

The honours boards and photographs weren’t just decorations—they were storytellers. Each name, each image, whispered tales of triumph, laughter, and sometimes mischief. And quietly moving through the hall with trays of tea or warm smiles, Harry and the other staff were the invisible threads holding generations together.

Harding Hall, akin to a heritage structure, may have been pulled down for a modern building, but its memories remain vivid in the hearts of thousands of Bishopites. It lives on—not in bricks and mortar, but in the laughter, achievements, and spirit of those who walked its floors, including quiet, devoted souls like Harry, the gentle, motherly presence of Mrs. Roberts, and the countless alumni who carry its memories wherever they go.

Confusion personified

 Disclaimer -:A bit lengthy so only read if you have time. 

I’m not quite sure where to begin this story, but tell it I must. Have you ever been on a simple evening walk that suddenly turned absurdly confusing? That’s exactly how I felt one evening during one of my regular walks — an evening that was meant to be calm and restorative.

I’ve always been fairly fit — volleyball, badminton, table tennis, the gym — I’ve done them all. I’m not fat or podgy — at least that’s my opinion. According to my wife and daughters, however, I’m probably bordering on obese. They exaggerate, of course — purely to get me moving. So, I made my walks more regular, brisk, and determined, something my colleagues and I often discuss, comparing diets, gym routines, green smoothies, and walking habits.

Fitness is a frequent topic at work. Some colleagues are diet-conscious — green tea, salads, quinoa, kale smoothies, avocado toast, chia seeds, and other things I pretend to understand. Some are vegetarians, some meat-eaters, others vegan, and a few pescetarian (I’m not sure what that even is, but it sounds impressive). Some religiously take omega-3, protein shakes, or gluten-free snacks. Others are walkers like me, though they usually stroll elsewhere, living in various parts of the city. Then there are the yoga practitioners, gym-goers, and one dignified gent whose only identifiable habit is an impressive devotion to coffee at a regular café, reading and tapping away on his iPad; what else he does, I’m not sure. Some are slim, some like me — so I don’t particularly stand out.

It was during one of my evening walks by the lake, green and calm yet abuzz with dog walkers, joggers, strollers, cat feeders, and chattering maids (some letting dangerous-looking dogs pull on the leash), that I encountered a situation that would test all my good intentions.

A kindly-looking couple, clearly tourists, appeared. They seemed a little oldish, both wearing hats and masks. He carried a laptop, she had a camera. Masks made it even harder to decipher what they were saying, and I caught myself thinking, What if they’re infected? Every time I stepped back, they stepped forward.

They approached me with a question, seemingly searching for some place. She pointed to her watch, and that’s when I realised they needed directions.

At first, I couldn’t understand him — the accent and all. Then his wife joined in, and she was worse! They both spoke at once, words tumbling over each other in polite desperation. After about three attempts, I finally caught the word souq. Or did I? I thought he’d said soup. Suddenly I was nodding like a chef, recommending cafés, imagining bowls of steaming soup. SPRINGS SOUQ IT WAS — maybe they wanted soup there too. Life’s little confusions, served piping hot.

Meanwhile, they were smiling and bowing — she every time she spoke, he every time I replied. So naturally, I started bowing too. We must have looked like a slow-motion, strange, exotic dance troupe. It must have been quite a sight for those passing by! They looked Japanese somehow — and the bowing confirmed it. Unless they were just overzealous Chinese, Koreans, or Vietnamese. I’m not good at this, but it didn’t matter — they were polite and friendly.

I’d never seen them before, and I thought it was a strange place to get lost. I racked my brains — there are innumerable exits around the lake. The best one, I decided, was across the lake. But what landmark could I give?

“See that big tree? Go there and turn left,” I imagined saying. But what if they asked about a neem tree? Google Translate? No clue. Should I just make it up? Or take them in my car and drive them there?

I probably have a face that says, Let me help you. Maybe I look like a dignified gent who knows things — roads, directions, areas. Maybe I appear confident, though I’m far from it.

It happens often. Lost-looking people come straight to me, ignoring everyone else. I’m a magnet for confusion. Some people attract luck or love; I attract lost souls. I’ve sent people off in the wrong direction more than once, comforted by the fact that we’d never meet again.

Eventually, I asked a young man passing by to help. He did so with typical Gen Z bravado. I somehow felt he was overconfident — maybe he sent them the wrong way. Then again, I could be wrong. There is a villa nearby that has been vacant; I just hope Murphy’s law isn’t in play, and that they are not the new tenants — we saw someone shifting last evening.

As I continued my walk, I reflected on the absurdity, the small kindnesses, and the unpredictability of life. Sometimes we are lost, sometimes we are guides — often at the same time. We stumble, misstep, bow awkwardly, and yet life moves forward. Perhaps that is its quiet beauty: in the confusion and chaos, we find moments of connection, humor, and human kindness.

 And as I walked beside the calm, green lake, I realized that life, like my evening stroll, is a journey best taken one careful, imperfect step at a time.

When Birthday parties were simple

 

When Birthdays Were Simple: From Say Cheese to Selfie Please

A humorous look at childhood parties, family traditions, and how celebrations have changed in the UAE.

Childhood Parties: Simple, Small, and Full of Surprises

Remember your childhood birthday parties—the thrill of guests, the cake, the games, the laughter? Now imagine a simpler time—my birthdays as a child—small, homely affairs, full of surprises that seem quaint today. (Yes, I’m that old!)

Parties were held at home, with about fifteen friends and an adult nearby. They started at 4 pm on a Saturday, no matter the actual birthday. Friends arrived neatly dressed, on time, carrying gifts wrapped in shiny kite paper. Out came the box camera—“Say cheese!”

And the gifts! A “compendium of games” was a staple—Chinese Checkers, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, and Chess, all in one box. Then there were cricket bats, tennis balls, badminton rackets, shirts, socks, and vests. I hated the clothes gifts—three white vests! Who on earth wanted that for a birthday? I remember, as a child, throwing them on the bed in a temper, calling the giver a fool. I was promptly chided. I probably wore one to school the next day.

The best gift I ever received was a carrom board. I played for years and became quite a champion. Once, my grandfather bought me an air gun. I came home thrilled—until my mother saw it. She nearly fainted. The gun was confiscated and “kept safely” until I was older. I never saw it again.

Games were the highlight—musical chairs, I Spy, Seven Tiles, Kings, and the khoi bag. For those unfamiliar, it was a paper bag stuffed with puffed rice, confetti, whistles, coins, and toys, tied to a fan or ceiling hook. When it burst, there was a wild scramble. I crawled on all fours, trying not to pick up anything, frustrated as friends collected it all.

The cake was usually baked at home. There were sandwiches, chips, patties, and plenty of orange squash—no ice for me, thanks to tonsillitis. By eight o’clock, the party was over. Everyone went home happy, and so did I.

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Birthday Parties for My Daughters

Fast forward a generation: when my daughters arrived, birthday parties had a very different rhythm. They joined in the planning, chose the themes, and insisted on printed invitations—about thirty guests. The cake came from a bakery, often shaped like a doll or castle. There were balloons, lights, and music from cassettes chosen days in advance. Adults sat indoors chatting while the children played on the terrace. There were return gifts, and the evening ended with dinner for close friends.

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Modern UAE Parties: Glamour, Gadgets, and Selfies

Today, in the UAE, parties have gone to another level. There are parties on dhows, in fancy resorts, or themed venues. Planning starts weeks in advance. Venues and DJs are booked. Stretch limos may arrive. Parents are often not invited. Clothes swing to extremes—either scruffy casual or head-to-toe designer labels.

Fast food and fizzy drinks flow freely. Cake is optional. Music is loud, tuneless, and impossible to dance to traditionally, yet the kids sway, spin, and perform acrobatics while glued to their phones—snapping, uploading, and livestreaming every moment.

Phones dominate every party. Candles barely blown out before every smile is snapped, filtered, and uploaded—duck faces, peace signs, sparkles… all in a race for likes. And what’s with pushing a person’s face into the cake? We didn’t do such things—it would have been unimaginable!

Gifts today are mostly PlayStations, electronics, or cash. Anything else would be met with polite horror. The munch—the endless snacks and treats—costs a small fortune.

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A Message to Parents

I don’t want to play spoil-sport—parties must be fun! But all this glamour comes at a price. Children often feel pressured to “compete” with friends, and parents aren’t immune. They don’t want to disappoint their kids, and the credit card bill is probably through the roof! Some children even feel left out or depressed if their party doesn’t measure up.

As parents, it’s worth pausing. Celebrations are meant to be joyful, not stressful. Focus on love, laughter, and togetherness. The gifts, the venue, the tech—they’re just icing on the cake.

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Looking Ahead

The contrast is striking: from small home parties with board games, homemade cakes, and family warmth, to orchestrated, high-tech, adult-free events. Yet the joy of being celebrated, the excitement of friends and gifts, and the laughter remain timeless.

Ten years from now? Fully virtual? Underwater? In augmented reality universes? I wouldn’t be surprised. But one thing, I hope, never changes: the sheer joy of being celebrated, surrounded by laughter and love.

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Planting Seeds of Peace . How Classrooms Can Raise a Generation of Hope

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Planting Seeds of Peace: How Classrooms Can Raise a Generation of Hope

In a world filled with conflict and chaos, the greatest weapon against violence may be found in the hands of a teacher in a classroom.

The world today seems unrecognizable. From wars in one region to conflicts in another, from domestic shootings to the surge in nuclear weapons testing, violence fills our news. Countries race to build more weapons, and the possibility of global destruction feels closer than ever. The sense of fear and uncertainty touches every corner of the globe, leaving ordinary people anxious about the future.

Over the decades, it sometimes feels as if nations are ready to take the law into their own hands. “Might is right” seems to be the guiding principle. Treaties are signed, conferences held, promises made — yet it only takes a man or two in a moment of madness to do the unthinkable. The world feels fragile; sanity hangs by a thread, and the scale of human suffering continues to rise.

Lately, the tone of international talk is chilling. The way countries boast about new nuclear tests, advanced missiles, and deadlier arms — “anything you can do, I can do better” — is frightening. When will this madness cease? What will it take for humanity to realize that escalation only brings more grief?

And still, the victims remain the same. Children go hungry, small hands clutching empty bowls. Mothers bury their sons, faces etched with disbelief and sorrow. Families grieve for loved ones whose only crime was being born in the wrong place. Soldiers fight battles they barely understand, caught between orders and confusion. Headlines change, debates shift — but grief remains universal, persistent, and deeply human.

More violence. More senseless deaths. More innocent lives lost. The cycle seems endless, and yet, we must find a way to break it.

Anyone with an ounce of wisdom will tell you — this is not rocket science. More security, more sanctions, more armies will not solve this. The only way forward is to focus on the human mind — to teach, to nurture, to enlighten. Education is humanity’s most powerful weapon, offering a path out of the darkness.

We must catch children young. Teach them to think, to question, to see the shared humanity in every person — even those labelled as enemies. Schools and classrooms are where hope begins. Teachers shape understanding, empathy, and reason. Through education, children can learn the cost of violence, the value of life, and the meaning of peace. They learn that words, dialogue, and compassion are stronger than any missile or gun.

Imagine a classroom anywhere in the world where children from different backgrounds learn together. Lessons are not only in math and science but in dialogue, understanding, and compassion. A teacher shows that war brings grief, planting tiny seeds of hope that may one day grow. This is how we build a world beyond violence, one classroom at a time, one mind at a time.

Better schools. Better classrooms. Better teachers. Awareness programs that teach conflict resolution, compassion, and global understanding. These are not lofty ideals — they are urgent necessities. Education is the armor that shields humanity from itself, giving future generations the tools to choose peace over war.

The guns, the wars, the nuclear arms race — they will not vanish overnight. Conflicts are complex, involving many nations and interests; no single party can claim absolute blame. All sides must come to the table, all voices must be heard, and solutions must be sought with patience, wisdom, and a genuine commitment to humanity.

This is not something one man, or one country playing “Godfather,” can solve. It requires global commitment: dialogue, collaboration, and a readiness to listen. Practical steps are within reach — investing in education, promoting peace programs, supporting humanitarian aid, tackling poverty and hunger, and helping young people learn empathy, tolerance, and global citizenship.

Stop the blame game. Stop endless political debates that change nothing for the people who suffer. Instead, act where you can. Teach your children to value life and understanding. Support schools that nurture empathy and critical thinking. Demand that leaders prioritize dialogue over weapons. Encourage communities to solve conflicts peacefully. Volunteer, donate, speak, and most importantly — educate.

Education is not just a tool — it is our path to sanity, our path to peace, our path to love. If each of us — teachers, parents, citizens — commits to raising minds that think, question, and care, we can begin to change the course of history. Start today. Teach, nurture, and insist on understanding. The future depends on it.

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