When Our Roots Become the Curriculum: Sindhi Culture and the Classroom

سنڌي: اسان جي ٻارن کي اسڪول ۾ گھڻو ڪجھ سيکاريو وڃي ٿو — پر اسان جي پنھنجي ماٽي، اسان جي سنڌ جي ڪھاڻي ڪيتري سيکاري وڃي ٿي؟

اردو: ہمارے بچوں کو اسکول میں بہت کچھ پڑھایا جاتا ہے — لیکن ہماری اپنی مٹی، ہماری سندھ کی کہانی کتنی پڑھائی جاتی ہے؟

English: Our children are taught many things in school — but how much are they taught about their own soil, the story of Sindh?

Every morning, thousands of children across Sindh pick up their school bags and walk into classrooms. They learn mathematics, science, and Urdu grammar. They memorize dates and capitals. But ask a child in Hyderabad to name the rivers that shaped their civilization, or explain the philosophy woven into the ajrak on their grandmother's shoulders — and most will fall silent.

After thirty years of standing in front of classrooms across Sindh's government schools, I have watched this gap grow wider with every passing decade. The curriculum our children study is largely disconnected from the culture they live in. And that disconnection has a cost — one we are only beginning to understand.

Sindhi culture is not merely a collection of folk songs and colorful embroidery, though both are precious. It is a complete worldview — one built on the teachings of Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai, on the wisdom of Sachal Sarmast, on the legacy of the Indus Valley civilization that flourished here thousands of years before the modern world drew its borders.

Our culture teaches resilience — the Sindhi farmer who plants again after floods knows more about perseverance than any textbook chapter. It teaches coexistence — for centuries, Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs lived side by side in Sindhi towns, trading, celebrating, mourning together. It teaches ecological wisdom — our ancestors understood the rhythm of the Indus floods and built their lives in harmony with the river, not against it. It teaches the dignity of craft — the woman who weaves rilli is not just making a blanket; she is preserving a language of patterns that her great-grandmother spoke.

None of this appears in our standard curriculum. And yet all of this is education.

The national curriculum still prioritizes national unity over regional identity — as if the two were in conflict. It still teaches history as a march of empires and battles, with little room for the quieter histories of villages, of women, of artisans, of saints who never raised a sword.

It teaches children to read and write in Urdu fluently — but offers minimal, often poorly resourced, Sindhi language instruction. In a province where millions of families speak Sindhi as their mother tongue, this is more than a pedagogical gap. It is a cultural wound.

After three decades in Sindh's classrooms, here is what I believe a reformed curriculum must include:

First, Sindhi language must be taught as a genuine subject, not an afterthought — with qualified teachers, well-designed textbooks, and meaningful examination standards.

Second, local history must sit alongside national history. Children should learn about Mohenjo-daro as their own inheritance. They should know the story of Hala's blue pottery, of Bhit Shah's annual urs, of the fishermen communities of Keenjhar Lake.

Third, the literature of the saints belongs in the classroom. Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai's poetry is among the greatest philosophical literature in South Asia. It deserves serious study — not as cultural ornament, but as a subject that teaches ethics, spirituality, and the beauty of the Sindhi language.

Fourth, environmental education should begin with the Indus River, with mangroves, with the Thar Desert — the environments our children actually live within and will need to protect.

Fifth, Sindhi craft and arts must be celebrated as knowledge. Ajrak-making, rilli-stitching, Hala tile-craft — these are systems of knowledge, geometry, chemistry, and cultural memory. They deserve space in our schools.

If you are a parent reading this — the curriculum your child studies in school is important. But you are the first curriculum they ever encountered.

The stories you tell at bedtime, the proverbs your mother used, the songs your grandmother still remembers — all of this is education. Talk to your children about Sindh. Tell them where your family came from. Show them the ajrak and explain its patterns. Read them a verse of Shah Latif, even if they don't fully understand it yet.

The seeds you plant at home will take root, long after the school bell has rung for the last time.

The children I have seen thrive are not the ones who were taught to forget where they came from. They are the ones who knew their roots so deeply that they could reach confidently toward any future.

A child who knows Shah Latif can also learn Shakespeare. A child who is proud of Mohenjo-daro can also understand Silicon Valley. A child who speaks Sindhi fluently will learn Urdu and English with greater ease, not less.

Sindhi culture is not the enemy of Pakistan's progress. It is one of its greatest, most underused resources.

It is time our curriculum said so.