Reflections

One of the questions that I often ask myself is: how do we teach design in a world in crisis? For those of us navigating the studio spaces of Pakistani higher education institutions, this is not merely an academic question but an urgent, daily confrontation. Across rural, urban, and semi-urban learning environments in Pakistan, students constantly navigate the tension between globally dominant design theories and local socio-cultural realities. Considering the current deepening crises in the country, it seems less of a primary concern. Still, as a designer and educator, I think one cannot ignore this fundamental question that directly links to our own existence.

While graphic design has historically been closely tied to commerce and systems of power, contemporary design practice increasingly engages with social, environmental, and humanitarian concerns. A truly responsible designer has a humane responsibility to empathize with fellow human beings. Design is a powerful, problem-solving activity, and in a country facing major economic and educational challenges, the opportunities for design-based intervention are endless. To bridge this gap, we must turn to responsive pedagogy: a teaching practice that is responsive, responsible, and grounded in active reflection.

To understand responsible design, we must first look inward. As educators and practitioners, we often find ourselves caught in a routine. This habit of doing things can easily kill the creative spirit and obscure our core objectives. To combat this stagnation, I often employ the Onion Metaphor (not Hannah Arendt’s one). It also helps students to learn their position.

I give an example of an onion to my students, suggesting that we operate within multiple interconnected layers: The Self: our physical, psychological, and historical core. The Studio/Classroom: the immediate environment where learning and experimentation occur. The Institution: administrative structures, policies, and power dynamics. Society: the broader cultural, political, and economic context in which design functions.

By peeling back these layers, we move beyond simple reporting and enter the realm of reflexivity. While reflection involves looking back on an event, reflexivity is action-oriented. It demands that we critically examine our own positions and biases, acknowledging how our socio-economic and cultural backgrounds shape our teaching and design practices. This self-exploration is demanding and requires stepping out of our comfort zones, but it is the only way to pave the way toward responsive, transformative teaching. One can explore Donald Schön's reflective practice model and Stephen Brookfield's proposed lenses for further investigation.

These ideas are only meaningful if they can shape what happens in the classroom. Over the past several semesters, I have sought to embed real-world social concerns directly into communication design projects, replacing purely commercial briefs with opportunities for civic engagement and critical reflection.

Three projects from my teaching practice stand out as particularly meaningful examples of responsive and responsible design education. When devastating floods displaced over 11 million people in Pakistan, leaving sixty percent of the country underwater. Following the devastating floods in Pakistan, I introduced an Urdu Expressive Typography project that invited students to respond creatively to the crisis through language and form.

To push students to focus on raw, conceptual thinking, we implemented two strict constraints: students had to design in Urdu script, which significantly reduced the risk of online plagiarism and connected them directly to local discourse. For the visual constraint, the deliverables had to be flat, black-and-white designs. By stripping away the seductive distraction of color, students were encouraged to think deeply about limited typographic possibilities, legibility, and structural meaning.

The results were transformative. Students produced highly expressive visual interpretations that revealed both technical skill and a deep engagement with the social realities surrounding them. For a deeper discussion of the project, the full case study can be accessed here Urdu Expressive Lettering.

In another studio iteration, we challenged students to address current global humanitarian crises through the lens of Deconstructionist Typography. Deconstructionism in graphic design challenges conventional typographic rules by treating letterforms as fluid, unstable, and open to reinterpretation.

Students designed typographic messages (combining English and Urdu in bi-scriptural layouts) to register their voices against international crises. By utilizing deconstructionist techniques, they broke fixed associations of meaning and context, driving the audience to engage with the message actively. This project demonstrated that typography is more than an aesthetic exercise. It can serve as a powerful vehicle for public expression, critique, and social commentary.

The third case involves an Integrated Design Learning project. Students conducted a field visit to the Horizon: House of Light School (HOLS) in Pind Begwal, a free school serving underprivileged children. HOLS provides free education, meals, and uniforms, but faced severe budget constraints due to the country's economic downturn.

This visit served as a profound "critical incident" that awakened an ethical impulse in our students. Seeing children who motivated themselves to study despite extreme adversity made our students realize their duty as ethical designers. Returning to the university studio, they worked on concrete design interventions. This project integrated real-life problems into design learning, demonstrating that the best design solution is one that is practical, cost-effective, and directly serves the community.

Integrating social action into the design studio is not without its challenges. Students often experience a sense of fatigue or boredom when transitioning from commercial work to rigorous, community-centered design. As educators, we must also battle institutional space constraints, administrative delays, and lack of human and material resources.

Yet, the reward of responsive pedagogy is the creation of a democratic and autonomous practice. By inviting feedback, encouraging students to write reflective journals, and engaging with real-world communities, we break the capitalistic monopoly over visual communication. Responsible design is not a static set of rules; it is an active, evolving dialogue. It demands that we step out of our comfort zones, look through unfamiliar angles, and use our visual skills to build brave, socially conscious spaces.

Bibliography

Thorpe, A., & Gamman, L. (2011). Design with society: why socially responsive design is good enough. CoDesign, 7(3–4), 217–230. https://doi.org/10.1080/15710882.2011.630477

Willemien Visser. Schön: Design as a reflective practice. Collection, 2010, Art + Design & Psychology, 2, pp.21-25. ⟨inria-00604634⟩

Turning the lens on your teaching: Brookfield's approach to critical reflective practice, Dr Jo Elliott
https://www.qmul.ac.uk/digital-education-studio/news-events/de24/july/digital-education-story1/

Carter, R., Maxa, S., Sanders, M., & Meggs, P. B. (2018). Typographic Design: Form and Communication. Wiley.

Ellen Lupton, Deconstruction and Graphic Design: History Meets Theory (2004)
https://www.typotheque.com/articles/deconstruction-and-graphic-design-history-meets-theory

One fine day in March, I decided to take a small pedagogical risk. For several years, I had been questioning whether design education could move beyond simulated classroom briefs and engage with the complexities of the real world. While hypothetical projects are useful for developing technical skills, I often wondered whether they truly prepare students to navigate uncertainty, communicate with stakeholders, and frame problems situated within social and institutional realities. This question led my students and me to the Technical Education and Vocational Training Authority (TEVTA) in Gujrat, Pakistan.

Our visit began as a simple field trip, but for me it represented something much larger. We met the leadership team, discussed TEVTA's objectives, and explored the possibilities for collaboration. During our conversations, it became clear that the institution was managing numerous initiatives and facing a range of communication and design challenges. As a design educator, I immediately saw opportunities for students to work with authentic constraints rather than artificially constructed assignments.

Walking through the wood workshop was particularly revealing. Students observed the entire production process, from raw timber storage to cutting, sanding, assembly, and finishing. They photographed machinery, documented workflows, and spoke with technical staff. What might have appeared to be an ordinary vocational facility suddenly became a site of inquiry. Students were not simply gathering visual references; they were learning how to observe systems, understand users, and recognize the relationships between people, processes, and environments.

Yet the most significant learning was happening within me.

I remember questioning whether I should even proceed with the project. Would students be willing to work on a real client brief? Would they embrace the uncertainty and responsibility that comes with external collaboration? Was I prepared to take on the additional workload and unpredictability that such projects demand? At the time, these concerns felt very real. Few people around me were integrating industry-facing projects into studio teaching, and leaving the comfort of conventional assignments felt risky.

A few days later, I brought TEVTA's publications into the classroom and posed a direct question to my students: Are you willing to leave your comfort zone? I made it clear that participation required commitment, curiosity, and resilience. To my surprise, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Their enthusiasm reassured me, although I still wondered whether they fully understood the challenges ahead.

What followed was one of the most rewarding studio experiences I had witnessed. Students began discussing ideas, identifying opportunities, and framing design problems from multiple perspectives. Rather than asking what looked visually appealing, they started asking what would be useful, meaningful, and relevant. Their conversations shifted from aesthetics alone to purpose, audience, communication, and impact.

The experience reinforced an important lesson for me: design education is not merely about teaching students how to make things. It is about helping them understand why things need to be made, for whom, and under what circumstances. Real-world projects expose students to ambiguity, negotiation, collaboration, and responsibility, all of which are essential dimensions of professional practice.

Looking back, the project marked an important moment in my teaching journey. It demonstrated that when students are trusted with authentic challenges, they often exceed our expectations. More importantly, it reminded me that meaningful design pedagogy begins when educators are willing to step beyond familiar routines and create opportunities for students to engage with the world as active contributors rather than passive learners.

I am grateful to Prof. Muhammad Asif Sharif, FADFA, UOG, Gujrat and TEVTA team for their support.

One recurring challenge in design education is helping students move beyond identifying problems and toward creating meaningful, practical solutions. In 2021, while teaching a Design studio, I found myself reflecting on a concern that had surfaced repeatedly in student projects. Despite being surrounded by complex social realities, many students tended to focus only on the issues immediately affecting their own lives. Their concerns were valid; this observation prompted an important question: How can design education encourage students to look beyond themselves and engage with the wider community?

To explore this, I restructured the final project around a simple premise: design as a problem-solving activity. Rather than assigning a predetermined brief, students were asked to identify real issues, conduct research, and develop practical solutions that could be implemented within existing constraints. Through a series of discussions and presentations, five broad themes emerged: education, civic services, poverty, pollution, and business development. The objective was not merely to produce visually appealing outcomes but to understand how design can create value in everyday life.

The process, however, was far from smooth. Students struggled with research methods, presentation skills, and translating observations into actionable ideas. Many were accustomed to searching for immediate answers rather than investigating deeper causes. There were moments of frustration, disengagement, and uncertainty. Yet these challenges became an important part of the learning experience. Design, after all, rarely unfolds according to a perfect plan.

While the studio projects were evolving, I began exploring the possibility of connecting one group (working on education) with a local government school near the university. The idea was simple: instead of designing for a community from a distance, students would work with children through creative learning activities. On the day of the activity, two student groups accompanied me to the school. After a brief introduction by the principal and teachers, the groups were assigned to separate classrooms. Initially, the schoolchildren were quiet and hesitant, carefully observing their visitors. Within minutes, however, the atmosphere changed. Drawing sheets, colored papers, clay, and craft materials transformed the classrooms into spaces of experimentation and play.

What struck me most was not the quality of the final artifacts but the quality of the interactions. Students who were often quiet in the university studio suddenly found themselves leading activities, managing groups, encouraging creativity, and responding to unexpected situations. Some demonstrated remarkable organizational and communication skills. Others struggled to coordinate their sessions, learning firsthand that good intentions alone are not enough. Effective design practice requires preparation, flexibility, and teamwork.

The schoolchildren, meanwhile, continually surprised us. Their drawings, paper crafts, and imaginative creations revealed a level of creativity that reminded me why community engagement matters. Many of my students arrived expecting to teach; instead, they discovered they had much to learn themselves.

The remaining project groups also explored real-world interventions, from redesigning university transport systems and developing solutions for local businesses to creating anti-littering campaigns across campus. None of the proposals were perfect, yet each represented an attempt to connect design thinking with everyday realities.

Looking back, the most valuable outcome was not the final presentations or grades. It was the shift in perspective. Students began to understand that design is not simply the production of visual artifacts but a way of engaging with people, systems, and communities. When learners encounter real users, real constraints, and real consequences, design stops being an academic exercise and becomes a civic responsibility.

This experience reaffirmed my belief that meaningful design education happens when the boundaries of the classroom dissolve. Sometimes the most important lessons emerge not from perfect briefs or polished presentations, but from stepping into unfamiliar spaces, embracing uncertainty, and discovering how design can contribute to the lives of others.

The year 2022 arrived as a period of transition. I had just joined a new university, and, like many beginnings, it was accompanied by a mixture of hope, uncertainty, and self-doubt. On paper, a new academic appointment appeared straightforward. In reality, it felt like stepping into an unfinished sketch. There were new colleagues, unfamiliar systems, office space challenges, research deadlines, and the constant responsibility of teaching. Beneath all of this was a simple question that followed me throughout the year: What does it mean to be a teacher, researcher, and designer at the same time?

Alongside teaching, I was wrestling with a research project exploring the Pakistani design economy. Managed interviews with senior resources at PBS in Islamabad. The deeper I went, the more I encountered a frustrating reality: we have very little data about the contribution of communication design, the number of professional designers, or the broader value of design within our national context. This uncertainty was discouraging at times, but it also reinforced my belief that meaningful research often begins where information is scarce. Instead of abandoning the project, I found myself becoming more committed to asking difficult questions.

Teaching, however, remained at the center of my daily life. When the new semester began, I entered the classroom with carefully prepared plans only to discover that students rarely fit neatly into our expectations. Some were enthusiastic, others hesitant, and many were carrying struggles invisible to the teacher standing at the front of the room. I learned quickly that effective teaching is not simply about delivering content. It is about reading the room, understanding people, and adapting to circumstances.

Throughout the semester, I experimented with projects designed to move students beyond software proficiency. We explored Cubist self-portraits, pattern design, packaging, future speculation, and visual storytelling. One project, Design 2072, asked students to imagine the world fifty years into the future. Their responses reminded me that imagination is not evenly distributed. Some students approached the brief cautiously, while others embraced uncertainty and proposed provocative visions of future technologies, environments, and societies. The project became less about predicting the future and more about understanding the hopes and anxieties of the present.

An unexpected challenge emerged when a student submitted work generated through artificial intelligence. This was my first experience with an entirely AI-designed project, yet the student claimed its authorship. The experience forced me to confront questions that many design educators are now facing. What constitutes authorship? How should creativity be assessed when machines can generate compelling images within seconds? Rather than rushing toward a definitive answer, I chose to treat the moment as an opportunity for dialogue. The discussion revealed that design education is entering a period of profound change, one that demands reflection rather than reaction.

Outside the classroom, I attended workshops on emotional wellbeing, research writing, and design pedagogy. I spoke at a symposium on reflective practice and exchanged ideas with architects, researchers, and educators from different disciplines. These conversations reminded me that teaching is rarely an individual endeavor. It is a collective process of learning, questioning, and sharing experiences. The most valuable insights often emerged not from formal presentations but from casual conversations between sessions, where people spoke honestly about their successes, frustrations, and aspirations.

The year was equally transformative on a personal level. Balancing research, teaching, finances, and family life was exhausting at times. There were moments when burnout seemed closer than inspiration. Yet those moments also encouraged me to slow down and reconsider what truly mattered. Progress, I realized, is rarely dramatic. More often, it is found in small acts of consistency: preparing a lecture, refining a research question, reading a book, helping a student, or simply showing up despite uncertainty.

Looking back, 2022 was not a year of grand achievements. Instead, it was a year of learning how to navigate complexity. It reinforced my belief that design is far more than the production of artifacts. Design is a way of thinking through problems, relationships, systems, and futures. Likewise, teaching is more than transferring knowledge. It is an ongoing practice of reflection, empathy, and growth.

Perhaps that is the lesson I carry forward: both design and education are unfinished journeys. The goal is not perfection, but a willingness to keep questioning, learning, and moving forward.

Have you ever wondered what designers contribute to Pakistan's economy? The problem isn't a lack of design activity, but a lack of visibility. Design is everywhere, from advertising to Gen-AI and spatial design creation, yet it remains largely uncounted. When we try to locate design in economic statistics, it often disappears into broader categories such as information technology, communication, services, media, or creative industries.

In exploring this issue through policy documents, academic literature, and interviews, including a consultation with a senior Pakistan Bureau of Statistics (PBS) official, two structural data gaps emerged. First, Pakistan has conducted a comprehensive national economic census only once since its inception, severely limiting baseline macroeconomic analysis. Second, quantifying the 'design' economy is methodologically complex. Standard economic surveys anchor to traditional sectors through established industrial classifications. While design is formally categorized under Cultural and Creative Industries (CCIs), it functions as a cross-cutting intermediate service embedded across multiple sectors rather than a standalone, easily measurable industry.

This raises an uncomfortable question: if we cannot measure design, how can we understand its value?

The absence of data creates a peculiar situation. We know that Pakistan has a growing digital economy and has performed strongly in freelancing markets. A significant number of communication, graphic, and digital designers enter the workforce each year. Yet we do not know how many people are working in design-related professions, how much value they generate, or how much of that value contributes to the national economy. The issue is not merely economic. It is educational, cultural, and political.

For decades, design education in Pakistan has existed in an ambiguous space. Design is often treated as an extension of art, a technical skill, or simply a pathway to employment. Rarely is it discussed as a discipline that shapes culture, innovation, public services, and economic development. Research on Pakistani design education repeatedly points to challenges ranging from limited public understanding of design to weak connections between education, industry, and policy. This is where the conversation about the design economy becomes important.

When a field is not measured, it is difficult to advocate for it. When its contribution is unclear, it struggles to become a policy priority. Funding remains limited, industry data remains fragmented, and educational institutions are left making decisions without a clear picture of future opportunities. Developed countries already rely on a knowledge-driven economy. For instance, large-scale studies in the United Kingdom successfully map design not just as a profession, but as a value-creating capability distributed throughout the entire economy.

At the same time, I worry that an economic argument alone is insufficient. Design education should not be reduced to merely producing market-ready workers; its deeper purpose is to cultivate thoughtful, culturally aware, and socially responsible individuals capable of navigating complex human problems. Instead of looking only for the number of designers deployed in design firms, we might examine how design operates within technology companies, government services, manufacturing, education, healthcare, and entrepreneurship. The boundaries of design have expanded, but our understanding of its economic role has not kept pace.

Until we document, survey, and study the field more carefully, discussions about design's contribution will remain estimates. Yet the absence of evidence should not be mistaken for the absence of value. If anything, it signals an important area that deserves greater attention. Before we can expand the design economy, we need to understand it. And before we can understand it, we must first learn how to count what has long remained invisible.

.