here is a particular kind of grief that our side of the world, the so-called Global South, knows too well. A tragedy erupts at a poverty-stricken area. We spend two days consumed by outrage, television panels search for villains, social media fills with prayers and anger, officials promise investigations, and then life resumes until another preventable disaster arrives.

The roof collapse at a tuition centre in Lahore’s Kahna area was one more such tragedy. Children had gathered for an ordinary evening lesson, only for concrete that should have protected them to become the very thing that crushed them. There is no doubt that there will be inquiries into construction standards, licensing, negligence and responsibility. And there should be. But the incident also asks a question that feels far more uncomfortable because it points directly at all of us.

I am a mother; I have been around people raising their children for many years. Many of us became far better at protecting our children’s image than their safety.

South Asian parents are famous for their sacrifices; and rightly so. They will deny themselves comforts to pay school fees, buy the smartest uniform, ensure their children are well-groomed, polite, academically competitive and enrolled in the ‘best’ tuition academy the family can afford. They worry about who their children spend time with; whether they say salaam/ namaste properly; whether they embarrass the family; and what relatives might think if grades slip. We have elevated parenting almost into an Olympic sport.

But how many parents inspect the building where their child spends hours every week? How many notice whether the staircase is too narrow; whether classrooms are dangerously overcrowded; whether there is another exit besides the front door; whether the roof shows signs of water damage; or whether the building was even designed to hold hundreds of students every evening? Not many, and that is not because parents do not love their children. It is because we have spent decades normalising unsafe environments.

Most of us now barely notice the hazards surrounding us. We walk past exposed electrical wiring, cracked balconies, illegal extensions, overloaded commercial plazas, broken footpaths, open drains and buildings that look one heavy rainfall away from disaster… We complain briefly, adjust our route; and carry on. It’s almost like we’ve stopped seeing it.

This is not merely a personal blind spot; it reflects the kind of societies we have inherited. Across much of South Asia, rapid urbanisation has raced ahead of regulation. Cities expanded faster than institutions could keep up. Rules existed, but enforcement was inconsistent, inspections became paperwork rather than practice and informal arrangements quietly replaced formal accountability. We adapted somewhat because we had to and somewhat because we wanted to.

The tuition industry is perhaps the clearest example of this adaptation. What was once occasional extra help has become an unofficial second education system. Countless academies now operate from converted homes, basements, plazas, upper floors of commercial buildings, garages and rented spaces that were never meant to accommodate dozens of children at a time. Many are run by hardworking teachers genuinely trying to fill the gaps left by overcrowded schools. Others exist almost entirely outside meaningful oversight, mostly jumping into the money-making rat race.

Parents rarely choose these places because they are convinced they are excellent buildings. They choose them because they feel they have no alternative. School alone no longer seems enough to survive board exams, university admissions or an increasingly competitive job market. So, tuition has become less of a choice and more of an expectation, and lower-class tuition is a financial constraint. Once every other child is attending, asking questions about infrastructure almost feels unnecessary. Surely, if so many children go there, someone must have checked, right? But as clichéd as it sounds, just because everyone is doing it doesn’t mean it’s right or safe.

The state’s responsibility remains undeniable. Building inspections cannot happen only after lives are lost. Local authorities cannot continue treating enforcement as something triggered by tragedy rather than designed to prevent it. Yet parents have more power than they often realise. Imagine if asking about emergency exits became as much a routine as asking about monthly fees. Imagine if mothers refused to enroll their children in overcrowded classrooms or fathers demanded to see building approvals before paying admission charges.

Markets respond surprisingly quickly when consumers begin expecting different things. No matter how small the consumer, their collective impact can be meaningful.

Education has always been South Asia’s great promise. Entire generations have escaped poverty because parents believed they will invest their savings to make their children sit in classrooms and one more qualification could transform a family’s future. That belief is powerful, and it has my respect. But no dream of a better future should require a child to study beneath a ceiling that may not survive the evening.

The children in Kahna did exactly what every adult had asked of them. They went to class believing the grown-ups had taken care of the rest. That trust should never have been betrayed.

Kiva Malick is an academician and a writer who focuses on education, philosophy, music and culture