It’s odd how a single ringing bell can turn an entire classroom from learning to lockdown, from calm concentration to quiet fear.
After the APS attack in Peshawar in 2014, schools across Pakistan drastically tightened their security measures and introduced lockdown drills. At my well-resourced school, we already had fire drills—which we were often scolded for not taking seriously—but lockdown drills became a new norm, and strict security measures were implemented. Bulletproof windows were installed, and a few former SSG commandos were hired, stationed in elevated watch-posts around the campus, while pages listing all necessary emergency contacts were plastered on walls in every area, from the cafeteria to the washroom stalls.
Some drills were announced in advance, allowing us to prepare, but often, they came without warning, suddenly shifting us from study mode to survival mode in a matter of seconds. However, even when I knew it was just practice, my heart would race, and goosebumps would rise on my arms as we moved from a sense of safety to a sense of imminent danger. Some classmates muttered prayers, and would be visibly fearful and anxious that this might be real, while others laughed nervously and joked in an attempt to mask their own fears.
Though these extreme security measures and drills were meant to reassure and prepare us, they often had the opposite effect, replacing our sense of safety with a constant, uneasy awareness that danger might be near even though our school was located in a safe part of Lahore, a city which is comparatively safer than many others in Pakistan.
The drills had contrasting impacts on students depending on their age and how the drill was conducted. In my school for younger children in preschool, the lockdowns were described as “surprise hide-and-seek” games. My younger brother would come home giggling as he described how they “played” when the alarm went off, unaware of the purpose behind it.
This approach effectively prevented anxiety, but it made me wonder about students in other schools, where teachers might not be adequately trained and where such measures to shield children from fear were not considered. If we, in a privileged environment, felt nervous about these drills, what must it be like for children in less-protected schools or areas affected by violence? Would they experience these drills with even sharper anxiety, or worse, feel unprotected by the lack of visible security measures?
For example, my cousins also went to a well-known private schools, and even though their schools were safe, they didn’t implement such rigorous security measures—no bulletproof windows, and no new guards. This spared them from some of the anxiety that these visible security measures caused us, yet it also made them feel less prepared. I questioned whether it was better to have such constant reminders of potential danger or to feel less prepared without those visible security measures
The impact of these drills isn’t unique to Pakistan. In the United States, frequent active shooter drills have similar effects on students. A study by Everytown for Gun Safety, a leading U.S. gun violence prevention organization, shows that these drills correlate with a 39% rise in depression, a 42% increase in stress and anxiety, and a 22% increase in concerns about death, even among young children.
These experiences and insights raise an important question: Do these security drills truly prepare students, or do they instead foster a culture of fear? My own experience suggests that, while drills do serve an important purpose, they can create lasting anxiety, especially in schools with limited resources or those located in less safe areas, where children may already feel vulnerable or are more exposed to violence. For other students who attend schools with fewer precautions, the absence of these rigorous security measures might feel comforting in one sense, yet it might also leave them feeling unprotected.
Therefore, it is essential to find a way to ensure safety without negatively impacting students' mental well-being. While the intent of these drills is undoubtedly to prepare students for emergencies, they also shape how students perceive their environment—instilling either a sense of security and preparedness or, more often, a lingering sense of fear.
Additionally, one potential solution for schools is to adopt trauma-informed approaches to drills, particularly for younger students. This might include using age-appropriate language—such as “hide and seek” instead of “lockdown” for preschoolers—preparing students gently and covertly for what to expect, and offering supportive counseling for those who find the drills distressing. Schools may also involve parents and encourage them to engage in conversations regarding these drills with students so that their fears and can be addressed effectively.
Conclusively, while schools must ensure that students are prepared for emergencies, they must also care for the emotional well-being of students and therefore, these drills need to be handled with a balance of preparation and compassion, ensuring that fear doesn’t overshadow learning. This challenge lies in creating a system that helps students feel secure, prepared, and resilient without instilling an enduring sense of vulnerability.