There is a form of disability that rarely appears in medical records, is not measured through certificates and is seldom acknowledged in public conversation. It does not necessarily affect the body or the senses. It may exist in perfectly healthy individuals who can read, write, pass examinations and speak with confidence. Yet it limits their ability to question, imagine, listen and think independently. It is a learned disability: the gradual weakening of the mind’s natural capacity to examine the world for itself.
The phrase may sound harsh, even uncomfortable. Disability is not a moral failure, and no person should be judged for a condition they did not choose. But there is a difference between disability as a human condition and the learned helplessness that institutions sometimes produce. When schools reward memorisation over curiosity, families equate marks with intelligence, and society treats obedience as maturity, people can be trained to surrender their own judgment. They learn not how to understand, but how to repeat. They acquire information without developing wisdom, qualifications without confidence and speech without an independent voice.
This condition is visible in many aspects of our public life. We often ask what a powerful person has said before asking whether it is true. We accept official explanations even when experience contradicts them. We discourage children from asking difficult questions because questions are seen as signs of disrespect. We regard disagreement as disloyalty and silence as good manners. Over time, the mind learns to remain within safe boundaries. It becomes afraid of uncertainty and suspicious of imagination.
Education is supposed to widen the world. Yet, in practice, it can sometimes narrow it. A child enters school with an instinctive desire to know why the sky changes colour, why people suffer, why some are rich and others poor, and why rules exist. The child does not begin with a fear of wrong answers. That fear is taught. It grows when a teacher humiliates a student for making a mistake, when a textbook is treated as unquestionable, when an examination rewards the exact reproduction of approved sentences and when parents ask only one question after every test: “How many marks did you get?”
Marks are useful indicators, but they are not a complete measure of intelligence. A student may secure excellent grades and still struggle to form an original opinion. Another may perform poorly in a rigid examination system while possessing extraordinary insight, creativity or practical understanding. When the system recognises only one kind of ability, it does not merely exclude certain learners. It also teaches all learners to distrust their own different strengths.
This is where learned disability begins to resemble a social habit. People are trained to wait for instructions. They hesitate to take responsibility unless authority has approved the decision. They seek certificates before believing in their own competence. They quote famous people because their own thoughts seem insufficient. In offices, meetings and public institutions, many remain silent not because they have nothing to say, but because they have learned that speaking carries risk. The safest response becomes the preferred response.
In Kashmir, where social and political life has long been shaped by uncertainty, fear and competing forms of authority, the consequences are particularly serious. A society cannot rebuild itself through slogans alone. It needs citizens who can distinguish fact from rumour, principle from propaganda and genuine leadership from performance. It needs young people who can disagree without hatred and participate without waiting for someone else to speak first. But such citizenship cannot emerge from an education system that regards independent thought as a threat.
The problem is not limited to schools. Homes also shape the intellectual confidence of children. In many families, elders are expected to be obeyed even when they are wrong. Children are praised for being quiet, adjusting and “understanding” everything without complaint. Their emotional and intellectual questions are often dismissed as signs of immaturity. A child who asks why a custom continues may be told not to argue. A daughter who expresses an ambition outside traditional expectations may be advised to remain practical. A son who shows vulnerability may be told to be strong. In each case, the lesson is clear: belonging requires self-suppression.
Religious and cultural traditions, too, can be weakened when they are transmitted only through fear and repetition. Faith becomes a list of inherited answers instead of a path of moral reflection. Culture becomes a collection of rituals performed without understanding. Tradition, which should provide meaning and continuity, turns into an instrument for silencing inquiry. A living culture does not fear questions. It grows through interpretation, debate and engagement with changing realities.
The digital age has made this challenge more urgent. Access to information has expanded, but access to understanding has not necessarily followed. People can now encounter thousands of opinions in a single day, yet remain unable to assess their reliability. Social media encourages speed, outrage and imitation. A claim becomes popular before it becomes true. A video is shared because it confirms what people already believe. In this environment, those who have not developed the habit of questioning become vulnerable to manipulation. They may be highly connected but intellectually dependent.
The answer is not to produce more information. It is to cultivate judgment. Schools must give students the freedom to make mistakes without humiliation. Teachers should be respected not merely as distributors of syllabus material but as mentors who help students discover how to think. Classrooms should include discussion, debate, reading beyond the textbook and opportunities to solve unfamiliar problems. Examinations must assess comprehension and application, not only memory. A student should be able to explain an idea in their own words and defend a position with reason.
Parents also have an important role. Children do not need adults who know every answer. They need adults who are willing to say, “I do not know; let us find out.” Such a response teaches humility without weakening authority. It shows that knowledge is not a possession but a process. The home should be a place where disagreement is not treated as disrespect and where children can develop a voice without fear of losing affection.
Public institutions must examine their own practices as well. A society cannot ask citizens to think independently while rewarding conformity everywhere. If honest criticism leads to punishment, people will learn silence. If promotions depend only on pleasing superiors, competence will be replaced by submission. If public debate is reduced to personal attacks, reasonable people will withdraw and the loudest voices will dominate. Democracy requires not only elections and institutions but also the everyday freedom to question decisions.
To overcome learned disability, we must recover the dignity of curiosity. Curiosity is not a luxury for privileged children or an ornament for scholars. It is a civic necessity. It helps citizens identify injustice, resist falsehood and imagine alternatives. A curious society is difficult to deceive because it does not accept the first explanation offered to it. It asks for evidence. It listens to different experiences. It changes its mind when facts demand change.
The purpose of education should therefore be larger than employment, though employment remains important. Education should help a person stand upright in the presence of power, remain humane in the presence of difference and remain open in the presence of uncertainty. It should create individuals who can use knowledge responsibly rather than merely display it.
A learned disability can also be unlearned. The process begins with small acts: asking a question, reading beyond the prescribed text, admitting ignorance, listening to an unpopular view, challenging an unfair rule and allowing a child to disagree. These acts may appear ordinary, but they restore the mind’s independence.
The true measure of an educated society is not how many degrees it produces. It is whether its people can think clearly when no answer has been supplied, speak honestly when silence is easier and act responsibly when authority is absent. Education should not train us to become efficient repeaters of inherited ideas. It should help us become full participants in our own lives.
A society that teaches people what to think may produce order for a while. A society that teaches people how to think gives itself a future.
(The Author is a research scholar and freelancer)
