PUBLISHED
November 16, 2025
I never had a chance to meet Dr Arfa Sayeda Zehra in person, yet I have always felt a deep and personal connection with her. It was in the early 1980s, during my years at the Oriental College, Punjab University—where I was pursuing my master’s in Urdu Literature—that I first heard her name from my revered teacher and literary guide, Dr Sajjad Baqar Rizvi. At that time, as I recall, Dr Zehra was in the United States.
Baqar Sahib had taught thousands of students over the decades, yet there were only a handful whom he remembered with such warmth and pride—and among them, he often spoke of Arfa Zehra. Whenever he mentioned her, his eyes glimmered with affectionate admiration. I still remember him describing her brilliance and conviction as a student, and later, I came across her own remark: “Maĩ Bāqar Sāḥib kī sar chaṛhī shāgird thī..” (I was Baqar Sahib’s fondly pampered student.)
There was a considerable temporal distance between her student years and mine, yet in my heart, I always considered myself her Khwājatāsh—a fellow disciple of the same teacher. Perhaps it was because, in the final years of Baqar Sahib’s teaching life, I was among the few who remained close to him, often engaging him in spirited discussions—what he affectionately described as “locking horns.”
Dr Arfa Sayeda Zehra’s first love was always literature. She earned her master’s degree in Urdu literature and later pursued a doctorate in history. This academic evolution reflected her expanding intellectual horizons. As an educationist, she embraced the wider landscape of the humanities and social sciences, enriching her scholarship with depth and diversity. Yet, despite all her scholarly engagements, she never lost her touch with literature.
Her language remained refined, gentle, and melodious—her words imbued with clarity and grace. The manner in which she spoke carried a rare calmness and dignity, her voice measured, her expressions lucid, and her lips often adorned with a knowing, benign smile. She had the rare gift of turning intellect into empathy and knowledge into illumination.
Her intellectual strength lay not in providing answers but in inspiring questions. In an age saturated with information—where everyone seems eager to offer conclusions—she reminded us of the deeper wisdom of inquiry. She believed that genuine understanding begins not with answers, but with the courage to ask. As Firaq Gorakhpuri beautifully put it:
Maĩ pūchta to hū̃, magar javāb ke liye nahī̃..
(I do ask questions, but not merely for the sake of answers.)
Her reflections on modern indifference often returned to this same theme: that we have learned to ask the grand, metaphysical questions but forgotten the simplest, most human ones—whether another person is well or in need of care. Beneath such observations lay her moral conviction that knowledge and piety are hollow if they do not give rise to compassion.
Born in Lahore around 1942, Dr Zehra spent most of her life in that historic city, shaping minds and spirits alike. Her educational journey reflected both intellectual rigour and spiritual depth: besides a master’s in Urdu literature, she held a master’s in Asian Studies and a PhD in History from the United States. Her professional life was no less distinguished: she served as Principal of Lahore College for Women and later of Government College, Gulberg, and in her later years as a professor at Iqra University. Yet, it was never the positions she held but the purpose she served that defined her.
She often said that teaching, for her, was not about transmitting information but transforming perception. “If even two of my thirty-five students are influenced by me,” she once reflected, “I would consider that success. I never wanted merely to teach subjects, but to teach how to live. Education is not for employment; it is for life.” This conviction—rooted in humility and purpose—defined over four decades of her teaching career.
Dr Zehra also stood out as a voice of reason amid rising extremism. Her critique was fearless yet never harsh. With her characteristic wit and calmness, she once remarked that in today’s world, everyone seems ready to call the other an unbeliever—proof, she said with irony, that no true believers are left. Behind such comments was not cynicism but pain—a lament for the loss of tolerance and self-reflection in society.
She was an enlightened scholar who sought to bring vital and elemental changes to Pakistani society—in its manners of thought and its structures of feeling. Yet she was never a “motivational speaker” in the shallow, performative sense this term has come to signify. Her influence stemmed from ethical reasoning, not theatrics. For her emphasis on values and her didactic clarity, some critics aligned her with Ashfaq Ahmad and other so-called Baba intellectuals who drew on esoteric traditions. But unlike them, Dr Arfa was in no way an obscurantist. Her ideas were lucid, forward-looking, and grounded in modern sensibility. Because she occasionally quoted scripture or drew moral insight from religious sources, some liberal or left-leaning commentators mistakenly placed her within right-wing thought. In truth, she consistently illuminated the humanist and pragmatic dimensions of religion, distinguishing her vision from both sentimental piety and ideological rigidity.
It was this balance of moral firmness and intellectual grace that made her respected across ideological divides. Those rooted in traditional thought admired her grounded approach, while liberal voices, even when they disagreed, acknowledged her sincerity. She belonged to no faction; she belonged to thought itself.
Spiritually, she found guidance in the vision of Rumi, whom she called her murshid. She often echoed his insight that the greatest power belongs to the one who can renounce, for whoever cannot let go owns nothing—whether in a treasury or a kitchen. Through Rumi’s lens, she cultivated detachment without denial and conviction without arrogance. Her inner life was one of spiritual discipline and moral clarity.
Dr Zehra’s literary pursuits extended beyond her lectures and essays. She translated several important works that brought world literature closer to Urdu readers—Ababeel (a Moroccan novel), Sultana’s Dream, Darya Bibi (Bangladeshi works), and Aurat, a selection of stories centred on women’s lives. These translations were not just linguistic exercises; they were acts of cultural empathy, bridging voices across geography and gender.
Dr Arfa Sayeda Zehra questioned assumptions and invited reflection on the cultural, ethical, and social dilemmas of our times. Her insights into our collective behaviour and intellectual stagnation often provided both critique and clarity. Even for those who did not always agree with her views, her words compelled serious thought and self-examination.
In a society that is becoming increasingly hollow and superficial, Dr Arfa Sayeda Zehra stood as an intellectual of both substance and style. Her eloquence was never ornamental; it carried conviction, rooted in knowledge and moral awareness.
With her passing, Pakistan has lost one of its most luminous voices: an educationist, scholar, and humanist whose contributions transcended disciplines. She was not only a teacher but also a moral and cultural force, nurturing minds and shaping characters. Her presence was a blend of intellect and compassion; her discourse, a confluence of wisdom and humanity.
Her departure leaves a silence that feels larger than loss. Yet her voice—soft, thoughtful, unhurried—continues to echo in every conversation where knowledge meets conscience.
Aftab Husain is a Pakistan-born and Austria-based poet in Urdu and English. He teaches South Asian literature and culture at Vienna University
