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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required “Our nation needs good teachers,” they said. But nobody warned her that classrooms had become war zones where exhausted women stand before forty children trying to resurrect language from the graveyard of neglect. Nobody warned her that chalk dust and marker fumes would eventually taste like grief. She returned believing literature could still save children, that poetry could soften rage, that education was sacred. Poor fool. Now teachers are statistics. Data. Targets. Deadlines. Uploads. And somewhere beneath mountains of paperwork a woman’s humanity suffocates quietly. They do not see her marking scripts after midnight while chest pains bloom beneath her blouse. They do not see her crying quietly in staffroom bathrooms before returning to classrooms with powdered faces and professional smiles. The children are angry now. Not evil— just abandoned. Some carry trauma so heavy it leaks from their mouths as violence. And still the teacher must perform miracles with broken resources and an empty stomach. The Ministry keeps demanding: Upload this. Track that. Improve scores. Produce results. Produce. Produce. Produce. As if teachers are machines instead of human beings. Still she stands at the board. Still she teaches beauty to children drowning in survival. Still she corrects essays while her own life falls apart sentence by sentence. And tomorrow morning the bell will ring again expecting her to enter smiling. Because this country loves the sacrifice of teachers more than the survival of teachers. One day, the classrooms will become emptier. The good teachers will leave. The tired ones will resign. The broken ones will bury themselves quietly. And when the nation finally asks, “What happened to education?” May somebody have the courage to answer: We destroyed the teachers and then blamed them for dying.
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