A familiar tale of two classrooms unfolds as schools in Punjab shut down once again, this time due to conflict and a severe fuel crisis, setting the stage for a stark contrast between two classrooms. The Punjab government’s recent emergency measures, effective from March 10 to March 31, 2026, were essentially required. With official fuel supplies for ministers suspended and a 50% cut in government petrol allowances, the mandate is clear: conserve every drop of energy for the nation’s survival. Yet as schools shift to online modules and “work from home” becomes the new regulation, we find ourselves back in an uncomfortable conversation about inequality: who really bears the cost of these “adjustments” at the national level?

The extraordinary economic challenges have created a stark contrast. On one side are the students logging in from secure, high-speed setups; on the other are those for whom “school closure” is not a digital transition but a total halt to progress. Pakistan’s education system now seems to experience more than just the traditional academic calendar. We have entered a cycle of “crisis seasons”, where regional instability and resource scarcity dictate the rhythm of our lives. Each emergency brings its own set of closures and compromises, yet the impact is never equal. National crises have a way of exposing structural cracks. In a country where the foundation of education is already fragile, every disruption lands unevenly.

While many of the government’s measures to curb fuel consumption are necessary for national security, the decision to shutter schools remains a deeply saddening recurring theme. It has become a predictable pattern in Pakistan: every time a crisis emerges—be it smog, weather or war—schools are the first to close. The education system now seems to experience more than the traditional four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, smog, winter and now war. Each brings its own closures and compromises, yet the impact is never equal. National emergencies have a way of exposing structural cracks. In a country where the foundation of education is already fragile, every disruption lands unevenly.

The crisis spares no one, but its impact certainly knows class boundaries.

The debate around emergency school closures largely revolves around “loss of studies”. The majority of parents are understandably worried as syllabi remain incomplete and lengthy, exams loom, and academic competition grows fiercer every year. To them, every closed school day feels like lost time that may never be recovered. Education, after all, is already disrupted too often. But this fear assumes something dangerously misleading — that all children are losing the same thing when schools remain closed. This assumption is far removed from reality.

For privileged students, education merely changes rooms. It seldom halts. When the government advises adopting “work from home” and online classes, these families transition seamlessly. Bedrooms and cosy lounges become classrooms. Devices are readily available, and stable internet connections are a given. Private tutors fill any gaps the conflict interrupts. For them, the disruption is a logistical hurdle, but one comfortably managed within the safety of their homes.

Meanwhile, for underprivileged students, particularly those enrolled in public schools or living in remote areas, the suspension of schools means something entirely different. They face a harsher reality: either a struggle to catch up with the curriculum, or a prolonged break that cuts them off from learning altogether. For parents struggling to make ends meet amid rising transport fares and food prices, digital learning is not a luxury they can afford. The majority of children in public schools walk to their classrooms without consuming the fuel the government seeks to conserve. Why must these children fall into an academic void? Why not prioritise practical solutions such as carpools or dedicated school buses for those who need them, for both public and private sector students?

Online education, often presented as a universal solution, simply does not exist for the marginalised. For families struggling with soaring inflation, a laptop and high-speed internet are not priorities — survival is. When petroleum prices rise, they trigger a chain reaction: the cost of flour, milk and basic necessities climbs, turning every meal into a financial struggle. These families are not demanding school closures for convenience; they are navigating a reality where their primary anxiety is the rising cost of survival.

We have normalised the chaos of the “new normal”. While the government implements ‘Track and Trace’ systems for fuel and initiatives such as ‘Maryam Ki Dastak’ for digital services, our public-school infrastructure remains stuck in a pre-digital era. As this divide deepens, the future dims for those already on the margins.

The current conflict and the resulting petroleum crisis have turned “energy conservation” into a recurring disruptor, yet policy responses remain one-size-fits-all. Announcements of online classes are uniform, but the consequences are not. Affluence insulates against the crisis, while poverty absorbs the full shock.

This period of “unity, patience and wisdom” will pass, as all crises do. Fuel supplies will eventually stabilise and “work from home” orders will be rescinded. But the inequality exposed by these repeated closures will remain—quietly, steadily and dangerously.

All in all, the government’s response is crucial. It must prioritise equitable solutions and address these inequalities. Strong nations confront difficult times with unity, but that unity is only possible when infrastructure gaps are addressed — when half our children are not left in the dark while the other half stays online.

Aima KhanThe writer is an educationist and a freelance journalist. Twitter: @aimaimrankhan

© The Nation