A Tribute to Dr. Ahmed Bilal Awan

Two years ago, Dr. Ahmed Bilal asked me to take a seat in his office. He put aside a copy he was checking, and began to ask me questions about myself. He asked me about my childhood, and where I had grown up; where I had gone to school, and what it was like; about my major at LUMS, and what I thought of it; my other interests, my other hobbies.

As I spoke, Dr. Ahmed Bilal listened intently. In my head, I was taken aback: I had never imagined that at university a professor would ever take an interest in who I was, or in my story – let alone before I even enrolled in their course. But as I would soon learn, this was exactly the kind of personal interest Dr. Ahmed Bilal took, in every student he ever met.

I often felt, in my heart, that Dr. Ahmed Bilal didn’t fit in at a place like LUMS. In a world of grades, recommendations, publications, research, politics, and academic prestige, Dr. Ahmed Bilal had a weakness: he simply cared too much. About all his students, and his responsibilities to them – not as an instructor, but as a teacher.

Those who knew sir will affirm that sir’s office overlooking the central courtyard was a place of joy. When I went to see him, I would climb the stairs of the academic block, secretly hoping that I would find sir all to myself. Usually, I would hear the sound of laughter before I reached the door. Inside, I would find several students laughing, and sir wiping a tear from his eye. The joke was usually at someone’s expense, and even being on the receiving end of sir’s warm humour was an honour. It was one of sir’s candid ways of showing that he didn’t see you as a student, but as a friend, and an equal.

Sir’s office was also a place where time stood still, and moments of mirth would give way to ones of contemplation. Sometimes, Sir’s smile would fade and he would look out of the window, at the students rushing to their classes. He would wave a hand at the administrative paperwork on his desk, and the emails that needed sending. “If I could,” he said, “I’d spend all day with my students. Teaching isn’t supposed to be a job.” Dr. Ahmed Bilal was a romantic, who understood that the most precious gift you can give another person is your time. Dr. Ahmed Bilal gave so much of it to his students – I just wish he’d had more for himself.

“When we were students at government college, we never went to our classes. But we’d spend our entire afternoons with the same teachers whose classes we’d missed in the morning, sitting outside, discussing literature, drinking tea.” At this point, Dr. Ahmed Bilal would straighten, smile, and become his usual, cheerful self. “Just let this semester be over, and we’ll start having sessions where we can actually enjoy poetry. With chai. But not here,” he would say emphatically. “At the khoka”. To this I would laugh and promise, “I’ll be there.”

I meant it.

Somehow, Dr. Ahmed Bilal was able to teach me a lesson that no other course, classroom, or teacher ever has, especially at lums:

That it is okay to not know something.

Dr. Ahmed Bilal’s office was a place of learning – where you didn’t have to feel ashamed to admit your ignorance. You didn’t have to pretend to know, when you didn’t. It was okay to ask. It was okay to learn. It was a place where you could be comfortable: making mistakes; being vulnerable – being human. In Dr Ahmed Bilal’s office, I would struggle and stammer, and use big words I did not know how to pronounce. When I used a word incorrectly, Dr. Ahmed Bilal would offer a correction, but not before offering a gentle smile, and a biscuit.

Dr. Ahmed Bilal taught me, but he was also the only instructor who hugged me like a parent, and gave me a shoulder to cry on.

If you have any memories or experiences with Sir, please share them.

– Zain Hamayun, LUMS.

بہت سادا و معصوم ہو تم
خدا کرے کہ شہر کی ہوا نہ لگے