A child first opens their eyes not to a classroom, but to a face. Before there are teachers, textbooks, or timetables, there is the quiet universe of home. In that universe, parents are the first curriculum, the first moral compass, and the first mirror in which a child learns to see themselves. Yet, in our race for better schools, higher salaries, and shinier gadgets, we are slowly forgetting that the strongest foundation for any society is not laid in institutions but in living rooms, kitchens, and bedtime conversations.
The parent–children relationship is, in many ways, the most natural bond known to humanity. But what is natural does not always remain intact on its own. It must be nurtured, protected, and consciously renewed. In Kashmir and across the world, this relationship is now under pressure from economic stress, political uncertainty, social change, and especially from the invasion of screens into every corner of domestic life. The question we must ask is simple: what kind of adults are we raising when our homes are noisy with technology but silent in affection and meaningful dialogue?
Parents as the first teachers
We often repeat the phrase “parents are the first teachers” as if it were a slogan, but rarely pause to consider what it truly means. A teacher is not simply someone who transfers information; a teacher models a way of being. A parent who speaks kindly teaches kindness. A parent who listens attentively teaches respect. A parent who apologises when wrong teaches humility. Conversely, a parent who shouts, belittles, or constantly complains teaches fear, insecurity, and resentment.
Children learn far more from what they see than from what they are told. A father who lectures about honesty but lies on the phone in front of his child plants confusion, not integrity. A mother who insists her child must study hard, but spends hours scrolling on her own phone, sends the message that distraction is acceptable. We cannot demand discipline, empathy, and resilience from our children while refusing to cultivate those same qualities in ourselves.
In our context, where families often live in close quarters and where social and political tensions are never far from the doorstep, the emotional climate of the home matters even more. A home cannot control what happens outside, but it can decide whether its own walls vibrate with anxiety or with reassurance. A child who grows up hearing “I am here for you” is more likely to face the world with courage than one who constantly hears “you are a burden” or “you are never good enough.”
The crisis of time and attention
Ask any child today what they wish for and the answer is rarely a new toy. More often, if they feel safe enough to answer honestly, they will say: “I want my parents to spend time with me.” We have mistaken providing for our children with being present for them. In the name of securing their future, many parents sacrifice the very present that shapes that future most powerfully.
Mobile phones, social media, and endless work-related stress have become silent intruders in the home. We see families sitting together at the dinner table, each member lost in a separate digital world. Parents often justify their own screen time as “important” while scolding children for theirs. This double standard not only weakens trust but also robs the family of the simple, unhurried moments in which connection is built: a shared meal, a walk in the neighbourhood, a story before sleep.
Time is the language in which love is written. Children rarely remember the expensive gifts we buy them; they remember the moments when we were fully, undistractedly with them. They remember the evening their father patiently helped them with homework, the afternoon their mother listened without judging, the weekend when the family laughed together over something silly. These memories become an inner shield they carry into adulthood.
Respect must flow both ways
In many traditional societies, including ours, respect is often defined one‑way: children must obey parents, and that is the end of the conversation. But genuine respect in a family is never a one‑directional command; it is a mutual practice. A child who is constantly humiliated, compared with others, or silenced “because elders know best” learns fear, not respect. Such a child may obey outwardly but will carry an invisible wound inside.
Parents deserve respect for the sacrifices they make, the years of care they invest, and the burdens they carry silently. But children also deserve respect as individuals with their own thoughts, emotions, and dignity. Listening to a child’s fears, explaining decisions instead of dictating them, and admitting when we are wrong does not weaken parental authority; it strengthens it. Authority that is rooted in compassion and consistency is much stronger than authority enforced by anger and threat.
We also need to rethink harsh disciplinary practices. Beating, shouting, and shaming children may bring short‑term compliance, but they leave long‑term scars. Islam and our own cultural traditions emphasise gentleness, mercy, and patience in dealing with children. Yet in daily life, we sometimes allow our frustrations and external pressures to turn our homes into battlegrounds. A society that normalises emotional or physical violence inside the home should not be surprised when that violence spills into the street.
Mothers, fathers, and shared parenting
Another aspect of the parent–children relationship that requires reflection is the division of roles between mothers and fathers. Too often, the emotional labour of raising children is placed almost entirely on mothers, while fathers see their primary duty as financial. This division not only exhausts mothers but also deprives children of a fuller relationship with their fathers.
A father’s presence is not merely symbolic. When fathers participate in everyday caregiving — from changing diapers to attending school meetings, from helping with homework to simply listening — they provide a powerful model of balanced masculinity. Children learn that strength is compatible with tenderness, that manhood includes empathy. Similarly, when mothers are supported in pursuing education, work, or community engagement alongside their parenting, children see that womanhood is not limited to sacrifice but includes growth and self‑respect.
Shared parenting does not mean that both parents must do everything in exactly equal proportions. It means recognising that raising a child is a joint responsibility that demands emotional, physical, and moral engagement from both. In a region where many families have faced loss, displacement, or economic hardship, children need to feel that both their parents, in whatever form family takes, are a stable and loving presence.
The shadow of comparison and pressure
One of the most damaging habits in parent–children relationships today is the culture of constant comparison. “Look at your cousin; he scores better than you.” “The neighbour’s daughter got into medical college; what are you doing with your life?” These sentences are spoken casually but land heavily on a child’s heart. Under the weight of such comparisons, many children begin to see themselves not as unique individuals but as failed replicas of someone else.
Our education system and competitive job market already exert enormous pressure on young minds. When parents add to that burden by measuring their children’s worth only in marks, degrees, or job titles, they risk pushing them into anxiety, depression, or quiet rebellion. Every child has a different pace, a different talent, and a different path. Some may shine in academics, others in art, sports, entrepreneurship, or community service. True parental love is not blind praise; it is the courage to see your child as they are and to support the best within them.
This does not mean abandoning discipline or ambition. It means aligning ambition with the child’s strengths and well‑being, not with society’s narrow definitions of success. A child encouraged to pursue what genuinely suits them is far more likely to become a confident, responsible adult than one forced into a life chosen only to impress relatives and neighbours.
Listening as an act of love
In our social fabric, young people are often told what to do, rarely asked what they feel. Yet one of the simplest ways to strengthen the parent–children bond is to listen — not as a formality, but as a genuine act of curiosity and care. When a child comes home from school distressed, the easy response is to say, “These are small things; you will forget them.” The harder but more loving response is to sit down, maintain eye contact, and say, “Tell me what happened.”
Listening does not mean agreeing with everything a child says. It means acknowledging their experience. It opens a doorway through which guidance can later enter. A teenager who feels heard at home is more likely to share their struggles with their parents rather than seek answers in unsafe spaces. In a time when mental health issues among adolescents are quietly rising, attentive listening may be one of the most powerful forms of protection parents can offer.
Rebuilding the home as a sanctuary
Kashmir has seen more than its share of uncertainty and suffering. In such an environment, the home should be more than a shelter from the weather; it should be a sanctuary for the soul. Children who grow up in conflict‑affected regions often carry invisible anxieties. The warmth and stability of their relationship with parents can either soothe those anxieties or amplify them.
Rebuilding the home as a sanctuary requires intention. It may mean setting simple family rules: shared meals without screens, a fixed time each week for honest conversation, a daily habit of appreciating at least one small thing about each other. It may also mean parents seeking support for their own unresolved traumas, so that they do not unconsciously pass them on to their children.
We must remember that no parent is perfect, and no child is either. The goal is not to create a flawless family, but a forgiving one — a family where mistakes can be acknowledged, apologies can be offered, and love is not withdrawn when expectations are not met.
A call to conscience
Ultimately, the state of our parent–children relationships will shape the state of our society. The leaders of tomorrow are sitting in our homes today, watching how we speak, how we argue, how we treat the weak, and how we respond to injustice. If we want a more compassionate, honest, and courageous society, we must first become more compassionate, honest, and courageous within our own homes.
The time has come to slow down, to put the phone aside, to look our children in the eye, and to ask ourselves some uncomfortable questions: Do they feel safe with us? Do they feel seen by us? Are we raising them to fear us, to impress us, or to trust us? The answers to these questions may decide not only their future, but ours.
In the end, a child will not remember every word we spoke, but they will remember how we made them feel. If we can ensure that they feel loved, respected, and guided — even in our imperfections — then we have already given them a gift greater than any material inheritance. The first school of life is the home; it is time we treated it with the seriousness and the tenderness it deserves.
(The author is a lecturer in HED and columnist)
