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Written by Syeda Ansa Gardezi (Senior Programmes Officer & Trainer) at CfC

In many underserved communities, young girls are taught to shrink themselves, to stay quiet, avoid attention, and leave leadership to others. Their ideas often go unheard, their confidence unspoken, and their voices confined by social expectations. But when girls are given safe spaces to learn, reflect, and express themselves freely, something powerful begins to happen: they start reclaiming their confidence, their voices, and their right to take up space in their homes, schools, and communities.

For years, Cities for Children has been working on the socioemotional development of children through various innovative and community-centered programmes. Believing that education must go beyond academics, CfC creates spaces where children can build confidence, express themselves freely, and develop essential life skills. Through one of its digital learning programmes, Manzil, students were given the opportunity to enroll in interactive modules focused on confidence, creativity, and communication. What began as a digital learning experience soon became a powerful journey of self-discovery and empowerment for girls in underserved communities like Pind Begwal and Bain Nala located on the outskirts of Islamabad.

The modules created by Manzil did more than teach technical skills, they encouraged students to reflect on themselves, express their emotions, and recognize their strengths.

One of the students shared how the “Draw Yourself” activity became her favorite session because, for the first time, it encouraged her to reflect on her own strengths and identity. She shared, “The ‘Draw Yourself’ activity really helped me reflect on my strengths and qualities which I didn’t think about before this session. I realized that I am very brave and I have a lot of confidence to participate in extracurriculars.” For many girls who are rarely encouraged to see themselves beyond societal limitations, moments like these become deeply transformative; they begin to recognize their worth, their abilities, and the power of their own voice.

Communication modules further helped students understand the importance of expressing themselves confidently in different situations. One student shared, “I learnt how to raise and lower the volume of my sound while communicating in different settings. I speak at a lower volume when I am home, and I raise my volume while delivering a speech.” Another student reflected on how the breathing techniques helped her overcome nervousness before speaking publicly: “I delivered a speech in assembly for the first time. I was nervous, but I remembered the three deep breaths steps, did that, and got a lot of appreciation at the end.” After practicing deep breathing and rehearsing in front of a mirror, the girls confidently addressed their schools and began participating more actively in extra curricular and presentations.

These moments capture the true power of socioemotional learning. Girls who once feared speaking in public are now standing at podiums, leading presentations, participating in assemblies, and taking up space with confidence. What was once hesitation is now courage and with every speech, presentation, and raised hand, these girls are reclaiming their voices and redefining what they believe they are capable of.

One of the most powerful aspects of the Manzil program was the opportunity for girls to step beyond their classrooms and engage with real-life role models through interview activities. They spoke to lawyers, teachers, and doctors from their own communities and discovered a shared truth: confidence is built, not born.

A student interviewed a lawyer who admitted he too once struggled with hesitation at the start of his career. Another spoke to her cousin, a teacher inspired by a woman educator in her village, who went on to follow the same path. Reflecting on these stories, a student shared, “Everyone starts with fear, but confidence grows with practice and hard work.”

In these conversations, girls began to see beyond limitations and imagine themselves in spaces they once thought were out of reach.

The journeys of these young girls make one thing clear: socioemotional learning is not an “add-on” to education, it is what makes education meaningful. Confidence, creativity, and communication become more than skills; they become the means through which girls reclaim voice, identity, and power.

And when girls start to believe that their voices matter, silence is no longer their story, change is.

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In Islamabad, a certain language of order is spoken.

Encroachment operations framed as necessary exercises in urban governance have long shaped how the city manages informality. The recent removal of katchi abadis in various areas of Islamabad fits squarely within this tradition. Bulldozers move through the settlements under the banner of encroachment operations, restoring what the city’s maps insist should have always been empty.

That these settlements are technically encroachments is not in dispute. Cities must regulate land use, and the law cannot be selectively suspended. But legality alone is an incomplete measure of governance. The more difficult, and more necessary, question is what such operations disrupt, and for whom.

For the past year, I have worked with Cities for Children, an organisation engaged in educational programmes in schools attended by children from these settlements. One such programme, ‘Seekho Sikhao Saathi’, uses peer-based learning, with older students, known as bari saathis, training younger children in the classroom. These are students who take on additional responsibility within already constrained circumstances, often balancing school with domestic and caregiving roles.

Some of these Bari Saathis were among those displaced when homes in Bari Imam were affected by the operation. Entire communities have been uprooted in some other places, with the older girls attending government or community schools moving to their village.

The impact of forced displacement on the education of children has been extensively documented and shows increased school dropouts, deterioration in academic achievement, and interrupted school attendance. In Pakistan, where learning poverty and access gaps are already severe, housing insecurity compounds existing vulnerabilities. A child who does not know where she will sleep tonight is unlikely to worry about tomorrow’s lesson.

Girls’ educational pathways in Pakistan are influenced by a host of limitations even in stable circumstances: the lack of mobility, unpaid care, early marriage, and societal perceptions of the schooling process as a contingent one, instead of a necessity. Displacement is another instability factor in an already unstable pathway. In cases where a family has to move, girls are first taken out of school, asked to take care of the house, or considered incapable of commuting to faraway classrooms.

There is a deeper irony here. The same state that struggles to retain children in schools is actively destabilising the conditions that allow learning to continue. Education policy speaks of access, retention, and community engagement, yet housing policy proceeds as if children exist independently of their homes, their neighbourhoods, their social worlds. International human rights standards are clear that, where unavoidable, evictions must be accompanied by resettlement planning and safeguards to ensure continuity of essential services, particularly education (UN Committee on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, General Comment No 7).

This is where comparison becomes unavoidable. While informal settlements are cleared quickly and with visibility, more profitable land violations persist across the city and country. The contrast suggests not simply a commitment to legality, but a hierarchy of enforcement. Urban governance that only disciplines the powerless risks becoming performative rather than principled.

Islamabad does not need fewer poor people to look orderly. It needs policies that recognise that informality is not a moral failure but a symptom of exclusion from affordable housing, secure livelihoods and meaningful urban citizenship.

A city is not just its zoning maps. It is its children, its classrooms, its fragile but persistent attempts at learning under difficult conditions. When we clear land, we should ask: what futures are we also clearing away? And whether the order we are restoring is worth the costs we refuse to count.

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1. Sadia* – Finding Resilience

Just two weeks before programme started, Sadia faced a devastating personal tragedy – she lost her mother. According to her teacher, before this Sadia was a kind, cheerful girl who loved to joke and make her friends laugh. After her mother’s passing, she withdrew into herself. She became quiet, distant, and stopped participating in classroom discussions. Her grief seemed to have taken her confidence.

“I selected her as a Bari Saathi specifically so that she could engage with younger children. Through these playful activities, I hope she might begin to feel happy at school again and not feel left out.” – Teacher

In the beginning, Sadia struggled. During the first two sessions, she found it hard to guide the younger children and couldn’t manage the group as well as the other Bari Saathi. The teacher often had to step in and help her take charge. But despite her challenges, Sadia didn’t give up. She kept showing up, session after session, carrying on even with the weight of her recent loss.

By the third session, something began to shift. Little by little, glimpses of the old Sadia started to reappear. She began to lead the younger children with kindness and patience. By the end of the fourth session, she had formed beautiful bonds with her Chotay Saathi. Her caring attitude and growing confidence made her a friend and role model to them.

As she found her rhythm, Sadia’s creativity blossomed. She started bringing new ideas to the sessions. She recited poems, told stories, and made learning fun for the Chotay Saathi. During one session, she prepared placards to explain the classic “cat and mouse” story and encouraged her group to mimic the sounds of cats and mice, making the story lively and interactive. She even built a model to help the Chotay Saathi understand how plants grow, simplifying a complex process in a way they could easily grasp.

When asked to create a superhero, Sadia designed one with the power to fix everything, both at home and at school, a quiet reflection of her own wishes.

In one of the debrief sessions, she shared: “Initially, I didn’t want to be part of this programme, but after the first session, I began to enjoy it. I especially liked interacting with the children.”

By the end of the programme, Sadia proudly said that the most important skill she gained was “confidence” and that she had become a good listener.

Her teacher noticed the transformation too: “She has improved so much. She’s made new friends and has started participating in classroom discussions again.”

Sadia’s journey is a testament to her strength, resilience, and compassion. In spite of the deep loss she faced, she chose to rise, to heal, and to grow. With her newly rediscovered confidence, she now dreams of becoming a doctor to help the people in her village where no doctors are available.

Hadia’s story reminds us that even in the face of pain, hope lies below the surface. Sometimes, all it takes is a chance to reconnect, to belong, and to lead with kindness.

2. Aimen – Daring to Dream

Aiman, a 7th grade student at IMCG Lohi Bher, was one of the six students selected to become a Bari Saathi. From the very beginning, Aiman stood out. She was full of energy, always eager to lead, and guided the Chotay Saathi not just with care and kindness, but with creativity and joy. Her positive attitude and friendly nature made it easy for her to form strong bonds, both with the Chotay Saathi and her fellow Baray Saathi.

When asked about her experience in the programme, Aiman shared: “I have learned how to be kind and independent. I used to rely on teachers and couldn’t do much on my own, but now I can lead and complete tasks by myself.”

From the start, Aiman expressed that she loved teaching others and taking charge. She believed these skills would help her in the future, especially as she dreams of becoming an entrepreneur and a successful businesswoman. Her passion to lead and her eagerness to grow were evident in every session. She didn’t just guide the younger children, she inspired them.

The programme also sparked a beautiful dream in Aiman’s heart.
“Because of this programme, my dream of teaching others has come true,” she said with pride. “I will work with my mother to open a tuition centre for children who have no access to education. I want to help them however I can.”

Aiman didn’t just talk about making a difference, she started taking steps to make it happen. She spoke to her parents, got their permission, and even included her mother in her mission to support children who are deprived of educational opportunities. Her drive to work for her community and to create space for others to learn is both inspiring and humbling.

Her journey is a powerful reminder that leadership isn’t just about taking charge, it’s about lifting others up and making sure no one is left behind. Aiman’s energy, compassion, and dedication push us all to try, just try, to build a world where every child has equal access to education.

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“Hiya!”

One small word, which has grown to mean a lot. It was one of the first words that the children that we work with in transitional accommodation picked up from me. I wasn’t even aware that this word was how I greeted the children every week, yet overtime it has become how they greet me too, often whilst sitting by the door waiting for the session to start. It is such a minor detail, yet one which has made me feel so accepted and welcome.

As this week is Refugee Week, and the theme is Community as a Superpower, it seems like the perfect opportunity to reflect on the communities that exist within the transitional accommodations and the way that we have been welcomed into them. In a political climate that is determined to segregate and punish the most vulnerable members of our society, we could all learn from the kindness and enthusiasm that radiates from these children.

One of the first Farsi words that I picked up from these children was “dost,” meaning friend. At first it was a question, now it is a statement. The children include us in games from their home country. They pick up books to read with us, teach us local songs, and include us in their creations. These small acts of kindness, another of the themes of Refugee Week, have made us outsiders feel at home in these often un-homely spaces. 

A moment that really demonstrated how these small acts of kindness build community was during a conversation about emotional regulation. I was working with a group of about ten children, and asked them the question “what helps us to calm down?” Many different approaches were taken to answering this, from role play, to imagery, to shouting Farsi words in the hope that I would understand if they were loud enough. 

One child in particular was determined to answer the question in English. He started “when I am..” and then trailed off, looking like he might give up when a second child offered “angry” as a suggestion. The first child started again “when I am angry I..” and once again trailed off, starting to get frustrated with himself. Here the children worked together, each tackling individual words, allowing the boy to finish his sentence; “when I am angry I like to go to sleep to calm down.” This collaborative action might seem small, but demonstrates perfectly how combining individual efforts creates a group win.

It appears to me that for these children community isn’t just a superpower, it’s their superpower. It’s a choice that they make to do better for each other, rather than themselves. It’s something that lives inside every child I have come across during this project, and yet something that is overwhelmingly lacking from our political leaders. This Refugee Week, and every week going forward, we should look to include and learn from these children wherever we can. If they can choose community as their superpower in the most challenging of environments – what is stopping the rest of us?

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Click, click, click.

The sound of plastic snapping into place bounced off the walls of the otherwise quiet classroom. A group of “Bari Saathis” in our Seekho Sikhao Saathi programme with 20 FDE schools sat in a semi-circle, brows furrowed in concentration as they carefully pieced together bits of a creative play kit. Toyi has long been a staple at Cities for Children—used as a fun icebreaker and as a tool for prompting deeper conversations. 

As they returned to schools and restarted programme sessions for younger children, this was the first of a series of coaching sessions planned specifically for the older girls who are emerging as education champions in their communities, to intentionally build socioemotional skills such as confidence, communication and creative agency.

The day’s activity was to create a superhero, prompting reflection on what qualities and characteristics they aspired to emulate. Ultimately, the exercise pointed to a broader yet more personal question: what are the problems they seek to solve in the world around them and how do they go about doing so? 

Caped Creativity – Superhero Stories

While it took some time to express themselves, Baray Saathis allowed their imaginations to take hold and came up with fascinating superpowers. One superhero had the power to repair everything and fix things inside the house and at school, while another was super strong and helped children lift their bags. Deeply concerned about everyday struggles, their powers were designed to help people they know and love, from parents and siblings to their peers and teachers at school. 

Sometimes, superhero powers were more comic book-esque, with superheroes defeating ‘bad guys’ in their neighbourhoods. Others strategically used features with creativity and an eye for detail. One Bari Saathi, for example, created a superhero with three legs so it could dance toward people in trouble—bringing them joy even in dark times. Another Bari Saathi thought long and hard about what features her superhero would need to help those around her, and gave her creation a big mouth, one that could help reason with and persuade evildoers to mend their ways. 

Other creations hit closer to home. One Bari Saathi modelled her superhero after her mother, with legs and hands that she uses to walk toward people and help them. Meanwhile, a Bari Saathi at the same school chose her father as inspiration – using the small hand-shaped pieces to make an image of him with hands extended. She explained that, despite the fact that none of the other women in their family worked, he supported her dream of becoming a doctor. The kindness and strength of parents, siblings, relatives and teachers were the foundation of what they hoped their superheroes could be. 

Cleverly blending their observations of surrounding creatures with their personal aspirations, Bari Saathis displayed both care and creativity. A spider with many legs was able to help multiple people at once. A talking crab, who sought to join the army, was able to expertly copy the movements of its superiors. 

Stepping Forward with Care

The thoughtful creations and heartwarming narratives gave their programme officers insight into the values they held dear (kindness, empathy, etc.), as well as who in their lives were making the greatest impact on them. The fascinating symbolism of their creations, with their big mouths and multiple limbs, highlighted how they had begun to think of the tools they would need—what skills/limbs would be necessary—to help their communities and how. All-in-all, the Toyi kit opened the door to both a joyful session and plenty of reflection on the kind of people the girls would like to become. 

Over several iterations of Seekho Sikhao, we have identified the domains of Socioemotional Learning (SEL) that we want to work on with intention, and over the course of the next few sessions we will be working to support these girls to set their goals and begin to think about facing challenges with resilience. Exercises like this help build confidence, communication, and self-awareness—skills that are necessary for them to thrive in the school system and beyond it. 

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The Power of Connection – SEL as a Journey

On World Mental Health Day, our Programme Officer Syeda Ansa reflects on her own personal journey to resilience, and how we embed Socio-Emotional Learning (SEL) in our work at Cities for Children.

In a fast-paced world where daily noise can drown out our inner voices, creating space for emotional openness is essential. My journey with emotions began in childhood when I was often labelled “too sensitive.” I viewed my sensitivity as a burden, feeling different in a negative way. I experienced emotions more deeply than others but struggled to navigate them. My difficulty managing feelings affected my relationships, making it hard to connect and communicate effectively.

 

After university, I joined Teach for Pakistan as a teaching fellow in a remote school in Nilore. Soon I started seeing the reflection of myself in my students. One student, Aneela*, stood out—quiet but often disruptive, seemingly seeking attention. I worked to connect with her by learning about her family and building trust. Gradually, she became more attentive, engaged with peers, and started expressing herself through letters and cards for teachers and friends. This experience profoundly impacted me, highlighting the importance of creating connections and safe spaces where individuals feel comfortable expressing their emotions. It reinforced the idea that making someone feel seen and heard can unlock their true potential.

 

When I joined Cities for Children as a Programme Officer, what drew me to it was the way the organisation places a deep emphasis on socio-emotional learning (SEL), embedding it in every one of our signature programmes. This commitment became even more meaningful to me during my involvement with the Partners in Learning programme in FDE schools, implemented with Malala Fund support, where I provided coaching support to younger girls.

At Cities for Children, socioemotional learning (SEL) is central to our work, especially in the Seekho Sikhao Saathi programme. This initiative pairs older and younger students in a child-to-child learning model, using play-based activities to foster personal growth and connection. For younger children, it creates joyful memories that make school enjoyable, while older students develop key SEL skills like communication, confidence, and leadership.

We often spent the last 20 minutes of each session reflecting on goal-setting, lessons learned, and the overall impact of the program. During one of these discussions, a 7th-grade student shared something that stopped me in my tracks. She said, “I want to join the army because my uncle was martyred, and I want to take revenge on our enemies.” The weight of her words was overwhelming—it made me realise just how much she was struggling with her grief. For her, the only way to make sense of that pain was through vengeance. 

It was a stark reminder of the emotional burdens children carry, often without the tools to process them. This experience highlighted for me the critical role SEL plays—not just in helping students articulate their feelings, but in guiding them toward healthier, more constructive ways of coping with their emotions. It reinforced why programmes like ours, which prioritise emotional learning alongside academics, are so crucial for students who are navigating complex emotional landscapes at such a young age.

In the project with Federal Directorate of Education (FDE) schools, we focused on building socioemotional skills, particularly through a session where younger students learned to identify and express emotions like happiness, sadness, and anger. The children were encouraged to present their work, share materials, and resolve conflicts with guidance from older peers. These interactions helped foster empathy, confidence, and cooperation. By the end, we saw significant improvements, with confidence and communication scores rising from 1.63 and 1.61 to 2.58 and 2.6, respectively, showing the powerful impact of SEL when supported in the right environment.

My experiences with Cities for Children have strengthened my belief in the power of socioemotional learning (SEL). By providing space for emotional expression, we empower children to understand themselves and their world, helping them recognize that their feelings matter. Ultimately, SEL is crucial for cultivating resilient, empathetic individuals who can shape a compassionate future.

I’ve witnessed firsthand how a safe, supportive environment can transform a child’s sense of self. A once-quiet student now confidently shares their work, and a child struggling with grief learns healthier ways to process their pain. These are the moments when socioemotional learning becomes more than just a part of the curriculum—it becomes the foundation for lifelong growth.

All these experiences helped me to transform what once felt like a burden into an asset that enriched my personal and professional life. This journey not only helped me embrace my sensitivity but also inspired me to help others do the same, demonstrating that emotional awareness and expression are fundamental to personal growth and resilience.

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By Madeeha Ansari

AS part of a global research project on forced migration, I was able to listen closely to the stories of children who had perhaps one, perhaps two parents of Afghan origin, and whose only memories were of life in Pakistan. The most powerful, common motif reverberating through their experiences was: ‘I was born here’.

In September 2023, an announcement was made giving undocumented families and individuals of Afghan origin a deadline of Nov 1 to exit the country. This impacts an estimated 1.7 million people, and includes communities that have experienced protracted displacement since the 1980s. For many, a second and often a third generation of children has grown up in Pakistan. However, without pathways to citizenship, their position has remained insecure — even for registered refugees, Proof of Registration (PoR) or Afghan Citizen cards have been subject to renewal after a certain time period.

What, then, is identity? If identity is a document, then it could be a valuable key opening doors to education, livelihoods, the dream of a future different from that of an uprooted generation. The PoR or Afghan Citizen card fit into some doors, enabling bright-eyed young people to enter formal schools and build, brick by brick, those imagined futures. But identity as a document can be a vanishing key, as many now fear deportation in the second phase of the plan as currently shared.

The fear of repatriation was one reason why some of the most vulnerable communities — often in informal, urban contexts — chose to remain invisible, even if that meant giving up even the most basic rights. There was nothing promised to them, yet they fought to stay — moving multiple times, even from the rubble of bulldozed settlements. Perhaps, then, identity is more than a piece of paper, and has something to do with homes built and rebuilt, relationships forged, children born and raised.

They were born here. When embracing friends, saying goodbye, tearing up at the border while facing uncertainty ahead, a voice somewhere whispers: they belong here.

In a parallel reality, children born in Pakistan would have had access to the same kind of birthright citizenship, according to the 1951 Citizenship Act, as those who came as refugees to the country in 1947. They would be able to open bank accounts, own property, enrol in schools with the confidence that comes from a secure national identity. In this alternative vision, they would have the responsibilities that come with citizenship rights, part of a social contract and contributing to a shared and harmonious future.

But our reality is less than utopian, with a crippling economic crisis and worsening security conditions driving both public and policy reactions. One question is whether the sudden exodus of Afghan communities will truly impact, for the better, the fuel prices having a paralytic effect on families in Pakistan — or the rising threat of violence from angered Taliban neighbours.

For the children and families now being sent to holding centres or across the border, the signs are pointing to a humanitarian and “human rights catastrophe”, according to the UNHCR, the UN refugee agency. It will be the latest wave of disruption and displacement, this time to a barely post-war pariah country with little international support, and few or no remaining personal networks to moor them. The likely scenario will be the setting up of yet more camps during a harsh winter, with little time to prepare for their arrival and basic survival in terms of food and shelter, let alone livelihoods and education. The journey itself is fraught with physical protection risks for women and children, who are ever the most vulnerable in a crisis. Once there, unless there are provisions for protection, sanitation and hygiene in camp conditions, there will once more not only be risks in terms of disease but also physical and sexual violence.

They were refugees here. And if they go ‘back’ to Afghanistan in this way, they will be refugees there. In the medium term, there are big question marks surrounding livelihoods and education, and whether Afghanistan has the capacity to absorb such a large number of people. For children, sudden and involuntary migration can have a deeply traumatic impact for which there are unlikely to be psychosocial support mechanisms, or the provision of safe and child-friendly spaces that can provide stability. In fact, there is a high likelihood of families relying on negative coping strategies such as early marriage and child labour to survive. Girls are expressing terror at the prospect of losing their chance to go to school, in the only country where female education is banned.

As of Nov 5, an estimated 128,000 people have left via Torkham. While this is a fraction of the intended numbers, there are reports of minors being separated from caregivers, and of Pakistani Pakhtun minors being mistakenly sent across the border. If anything, all this indicates that an undertaking of this magnitude needs more time, careful planning and communication across stakeholders — including governments, UN agencies, civil society and individuals at risk — to ensure that any return is truly what we as a country have for decades promised it will be: voluntary, safe and dignified.

Identity is a tangled mesh of past and present. For third-generation children, growing up in a ‘host’ country means their identities are informed by transmitted memories and culture — but also very much by their lives and experiences in the only home they have known. We owe it to them to consider them, their protection and rights in any next steps, so they can say with pride that they were born in Pakistan.

Featured Photo by Kevin Kremer

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