As I sit here today, reading and reflecting on Surah Al-Furqan, on a day when teachers are being celebrated, I find myself seeing this Surah in a way I had not noticed before. Surah Al-Furqan begins by describing the Qur’an as Al-Furqan, the Criterion, that which distinguishes truth from falsehood. As I was reading it, I started thinking about the deeper purpose of teaching. A teacher is not simply someone who transfers information from one person to another. A truly meaningful teacher helps a person learn how to distinguish, how to question, how to think, how to recognise what is right, and how to find their way when life becomes confusing. In a world where children are exposed to more information than ever before, perhaps this is one of the greatest responsibilities of a teacher. Information is everywhere, but wisdom is not. A child can search for an answer within seconds, but learning to understand that answer, question it, apply it ethically, and use it responsibly is something that requires guidance.
As I was sitting with these thoughts, I suddenly remembered something that happened to me when I was about nine years old. I was once a little Brownie Guide, and as part of completing our activities, we had to fulfil different tasks to earn badges. One of those tasks was to cook a curry and take it to a teacher to taste. Cooking was definitely not something I was good at. In fact, I had never even touched a knife before. This was one of the first times I was actually trying to cook something on my own. I remember making a potato curry and feeling quite proud of myself. I had done something I had never done before, and I took that curry to one of the teachers who was guiding us.
The first thing she asked me was whether I had bread or rice. I said no. At nine years old, that itself became a little lesson for me because I remember realising that people eat curry with rice or bread. But then she laughed, together with some of the other teachers, making comments about who could possibly eat that curry with anything. I remember that moment even now. The task was simply to cook a curry and let the teacher taste it. I was a child who had never cooked before, who had never even held a knife before, and I had genuinely tried my best. Yet the response I received made me realise that sometimes adults can be unappreciative of a child's effort. Sometimes people will look at what you have created and see what is missing rather than what it took for you to create it. At that young age, I learned that it was alright. I had done my best, and someone else's reaction did not change that.
But as I was walking away, another teacher who had been observing the whole situation came towards me and said, "Come, I will taste that." She tasted my curry, praised the cooking and told me, "You nailed the cooking." I don't remember exactly what the curry tasted like, but I remember how I felt. I remember the kindness in that moment, and somehow those words stayed with me all these years. Looking back now, I realise that both teachers taught me something, although perhaps neither of them realised it. One taught me that not everyone will appreciate my work and that I cannot allow someone else's reaction to determine the value of my effort. The other taught me the power of encouragement, kindness and appreciation. She could have simply walked past me, but instead she stopped, tasted what I had made, and noticed my effort. She gave a nine-year-old child words that stayed with her for decades.
That experience also taught me something about human beings that I have carried throughout my life: not all people are the same. Some people will focus on what is missing. Some will laugh at your first attempt. Some may not appreciate the courage it took for you to even try. But there will also be people who notice your effort, people who understand that you are learning, people who choose kindness and people who appreciate what you have done rather than simply pointing out what you have not done. Perhaps that is also education. Sometimes the most important lessons we learn are not the ones written in a textbook, but the ones we experience through the way people treat us.
This is why I think so deeply about the responsibility teachers carry. A teacher may think they are simply commenting on a child's work, but the child may be building an understanding of themselves from those words. A teacher may say something casually and forget it within minutes, while the child may carry those words for years. A child who is told that they are not good at something may begin to believe it. A child who is laughed at when they are learning may become afraid to try again. But a child who hears, "You tried," "You are learning," or "You did well" may begin to develop the confidence to keep going. Sometimes, a teacher's words become part of a child's inner voice.
As I continued reading Surah Al-Furqan, another verse stopped me. In verse 30, the Messenger ﷺ says, "My people did indeed discard the Qur'an." It made me reflect on something uncomfortable. What happens when we have access to knowledge but fail to live by it? What happens when we teach lessons but do not embody them? What happens when education becomes mostly about examinations, grades, certificates, and achievement, while the development of character slowly becomes secondary? A teacher teaches far more than what is written on a board. Students watch how a teacher responds when frustrated. They watch how they treat the student who struggles. They notice whether mistakes are punished with humiliation or treated as opportunities to learn. They notice whether the teacher listens, whether the teacher is fair, and whether the teacher respects them. Sometimes the most powerful lesson a teacher gives is not the lesson they planned; it is who they are while teaching it.
Later in the Surah, Allah describes the creation of the heavens and the earth, the alternation of night and day, the rain that brings life to dead land, the flowing water and the many signs placed throughout creation. There is something deeply educational about this. Allah repeatedly draws our attention to observation, reflection, and awareness. The Qur'an does not merely tell us what to know; it repeatedly invites us to look, notice, and reflect. Perhaps that is another lesson for educators. Good teaching awakens curiosity. A teacher does not have to fill every empty space with answers. Sometimes the greatest teacher is the one who helps a student develop the courage to ask better questions.
I was also drawn to verse 63, where the servants of the Most Merciful are described as those who walk upon the earth with humility, and when they are addressed by ignorant people, their response is peace. What a powerful lesson for anyone who teaches. Knowledge should not make us arrogant. The more we know, the more we should recognise how much we do not know. A teacher may stand at the front of a classroom, but that position should never become a position of superiority. The role carries authority, but authority without humility can create distance. The teacher who continues to learn, who admits mistakes, who listens to students, and who treats every learner with dignity teaches something much greater than a subject. They teach humanity.
The Surah also speaks about those who spend part of the night in worship, those who ask Allah to protect them from the punishment of Hell, those who do not waste, those who do not bear false witness, those who turn away from what is meaningless, and those who ask Allah, "Our Lord, grant us joy in our wives and children and make us a model for the righteous." Reading these verses made me think about what it really means to educate a child. We often say that we want children to become successful, but successful in what? Perhaps the deeper question is what kind of human being we are helping them become. Can they achieve without becoming arrogant? Can they disagree without becoming disrespectful? Can they succeed without losing compassion? Can they stand up for themselves without putting others down? Can they recognise injustice? Can they take responsibility for their actions? Can they remain humble when they are praised and hopeful when they fail? Can they use what they know to make life better for someone else? These are also educational outcomes.
Perhaps this is why teachers hold such a special place in society. A teacher may teach a child for one year, but the lesson may remain with that child for fifty years. A teacher may say one sentence without realising that it becomes the sentence a student remembers during one of the most difficult moments of their life. A teacher may see a struggling child as a problem, or they may see a child who has not yet discovered their potential. A teacher may simply teach a curriculum, or they may help a human being discover themselves. That is a responsibility that goes far beyond a classroom.
Reading Surah Al-Furqan today reminded me that education is not only about putting knowledge into someone's mind. It is also about helping them develop a criterion within themselves — the ability to distinguish truth from falsehood, right from wrong, wisdom from noise, humility from arrogance, and purpose from distraction. Perhaps the greatest teachers are those who do not make us dependent on them for answers, but instead teach us how to seek, how to think, how to reflect, how to question and eventually how to walk our own path.
Today, on Teachers' Day, I want to honour not only the teachers who taught us mathematics, science, languages, or history, but also the teachers who taught us patience, courage, kindness, discipline, resilience, curiosity, and faith. I want to honour the teachers who saw something in us before we could see it ourselves, the teachers who corrected us without breaking us, the teachers who challenged us without humiliating us, and the teachers who understood that education is not simply about producing successful students but about nurturing good human beings.
That is probably one of the most beautiful lessons I took from Surah Al-Furqan today: knowledge is a trust. Those who carry it have the opportunity to become a source of light in someone else's journey. That little nine-year-old girl who carried her potato curry to her teacher did not know that she was learning lessons about human nature, kindness, resilience, appreciation, and the power of a teacher's words. She only knew that she had cooked something for the first time and wanted her teacher to taste it. Yet decades later, that moment still lives somewhere inside her.
Perhaps that is the beauty and the responsibility of teaching. We may never know which moment will stay with a child. We may never know which words will become part of their inner voice. We may never know whether something we thought was small will become something they carry for the rest of their lives. The teacher who told me, "You nailed the cooking," probably had no idea that a nine-year-old girl would remember those words decades later. But I did. And perhaps that is what teaching really is: leaving something of yourself in another human being, sometimes without ever knowing the depth of the impact.
To every teacher who has ever changed a life, even without knowing it, thank you. May Allah bless the knowledge you share, the hearts you touch, the patience you practise, and the lives you influence. May He give teachers the wisdom to remember that every child standing before them is carrying a story, a potential, and a heart that can be shaped by the way they are treated. And may we all remember that, in one way or another, we are all teachers to someone.
Happy Teachers' Day.
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