In the discourse on Pakistan’s education emergency, the spotlight is almost exclusively fixed on the “outsiders”, the estimated 26 million out-of-school children. It is a staggering statistic that rightly demands national anxiety. Yet, in our obsession with getting children through the gates, we have largely ignored the tragedy unfolding inside them.
Once a student enters the university system, we presume that they have already won the battle. We assume that a degree is a proxy for competence and a ticket to social mobility. But the reality of 2026 suggests otherwise. Pakistan is not just failing those outside the classroom; it is systematically failing those within it.
We are witnessing the proliferation of a higher education sector that functions less like an incubator for intellect and more like a commercial franchise, churning out graduates who are credentialed but uneducated.
The most visible symptom of this decay is the physical infrastructure of our universities. The Higher Education Commission (HEC) has clear guidelines regarding “purpose-built campuses,” which mandate minimum land requirements, libraries, and laboratories. However, a stroll through the bustling commercial areas of Karachi, Lahore, or Islamabad presents a distinct image.
Universities have changed into corporate tenants. We see “campuses” established in rented spaces, converted marriage halls, and commercial plazas.
These cramped environments reduce the “university experience” to a transactional exchange: fees in, degree out. There are no sports grounds to foster team spirit, no common rooms for debate, and no silence for contemplation.
When a university is indistinguishable from a coaching centre or a corporate office, it ceases to be a place for higher learning. It becomes a degree mill. This infrastructural poverty is symptomatic of a deeper malaise: a profound lack of vision.
Ideally, a university is defined by its mission, a unique philosophy of what it contributes to society. In Pakistan, particularly in the mushrooming private sector, mission statements are generic copy-pastes, filled with buzzwords like “global excellence” and “innovation”, while the institution lacks the roadmap to achieve either. Without a clear “why”, these institutions operate solely on the “how”, how to maximise enrolment and minimise overheads.
This lack of vision trickles down into the classroom, creating a pedagogical disaster. In an era where AI and critical thinking define the global job market, Pakistani classrooms are preserved in aspic. Teaching methods remain archaic, reliant on rote learning and dictation. Assessment models test memory rather than understanding.
Furthermore, the obsession with the “PhD” title has created a warped incentive structure. The HEC’s policies have historically rewarded the quantity of research over quality. The result is the “Paper Doctor” phenomenon: academics who churn out research papers published in predatory journals to secure promotions but whose work offers zero value to the local economy or society.
We have volumes of research, yet we have no solutions for our energy crisis, our agricultural stagnation, or our urban planning nightmares.
As a result, we have severed the link between academia and industry. This is the most damning indictment of the system: the market does not trust the university. According to recent data from PIDE, over 31% of university graduates are unemployed, the highest rate among all educational demographics. The outcome is a paradox: we have thousands of graduates desperate for work, and hundreds of employers complaining they cannot find skilled talent. The industry requires problem-solvers; the universities are producing rote learners. There are no mandatory feedback loops where industry leaders help shape the curriculum. As a result, students graduate with degrees in computer science without coding proficiency or degrees in management without the soft skills to lead a team.
The regulatory body, the HEC, sits at the heart of this crisis. While it has successfully expanded access, it has failed as a watchdog.
The Quality Enhancement Cells (QECs) established in universities have largely become bureaucratic rubber stamps, focused on satisfying paper checklists rather than enforcing genuine academic rigour. Accountability is nonexistent. When was the last time a major university was shut down for failing to meet quality standards? The lack of punitive action signals to educational entrepreneurs that mediocrity is acceptable.
We are misleading our youth. Across Pakistan, middle-class parents are selling family gold and liquidating assets to buy their children a future. In return, the university system hands them a receipt, a degree that is effectively dead on arrival in the job market. This isn’t education; it is a generational Ponzi scheme. If the 26 million out-of-school children represent a tragedy, the millions of “in-school” youth who graduate into unemployment represent a rapidly approaching crisis.
Fixing this dilemma requires a moratorium on new university licences until existing ones meet strict “purpose-built” criteria. It requires the HEC to shift from being a funding body to a ruthless regulator that prioritises employment outcomes over enrolment numbers. And it requires universities to stop renting spaces and start building institutions.
Until then, we are not building a knowledgeable society; we are merely constructing a facade of education, behind which lies a generation of wasted potential.