Qamar Bashir
There is a near-universal consensus in Pakistan on one key principle: the country must
progress. No matter which province or ethnicity one belongs to—Punjabi, Sindhi,
Baloch, or Pashtun—every citizen yearns for a future where poverty is defeated, dignity
is restored, and opportunities abound. This shared national aspiration should have been
the most powerful unifying force in Pakistan’s journey toward nationhood. Yet, the
question persists: why, despite this common desire, has Pakistan struggled to achieve
sustained progress?
The answer lies in the fractured relationship between the state, the Constitution, and the
people. The Constitution of Pakistan is not merely a legal document—it is a solemn
covenant. It lays down the rights of individuals, the responsibilities of the state, and the
mechanisms that bind both in a democratic order. At its heart, the Constitution grants
citizens the freedom to dream, to pursue meaningful opportunities, and to live with
dignity. But when this foundational contract is ignored or manipulated—whether by state
institutions, non-state actors, or even by segments of the political class—societal unrest
becomes inevitable.
Justice must form the cornerstone of any thriving nation. Without it, the moral and
institutional fabric begins to unravel. When citizens feel deprived of their rightful place in
national decision-making or believe that their resources are being unjustly distributed,
resentment takes root. These grievances are not abstract—they manifest in broken trust,
in mass disenfranchisement, and, ultimately, in resistance against the very institutions
meant to serve the people.
This has been particularly evident in regions like Balochistan. It is an uncontested truth
that the Baloch people deserve equal access to education, employment, and economic
opportunities. They must be seen not as passive recipients of state policy, but as active
partners in the development of their land and its vast resources. If some among them have
chosen the path of armed resistance, it is not necessarily rebellion—it is, more accurately,
a cry of anguish stemming from decades of neglect and perceived injustice. The only sustainable resolution lies in dialogue, inclusion, and the empowerment of local
populations. Force has never resolved discontent rooted in genuine grievances.
A similar principle applies to other regions. In Sindh, for example, disputes over water
distribution—such as proposed diversions to irrigate the Cholistan desert—must be
addressed through transparent dialogue and scientific analysis. These issues should never
be approached as top-down decrees from Islamabad but rather as subjects for national
consensus. Development must not proceed at the cost of alienation. It must be for the
people, by the people—with the people.
At the heart of this debate is the question: who is development for? Infrastructure
projects, resource extraction, and even military installations mean little if they do not
result in tangible improvements in the lives of citizens—better schools, functional
hospitals, dignified housing, and reliable jobs. Development cannot be an instrument of
control. It must be a vehicle for upliftment.
Here, we can learn from global examples. China, once grappling with vast poverty and
regional inequality, made human development its primary goal. By investing aggressively
in education, healthcare, poverty reduction, and skill-building, it laid the groundwork for
rapid economic transformation and social cohesion. Pakistan must do the same. We must
realize that our greatest national asset is not our minerals, mountains, or motorways—it is
our people.
Indeed, when we assess our strengths, it becomes clear that Pakistan’s most valuable
resource is its human capital. The second is its institutions. Among these, the Pakistan
Armed Forces stand as a powerful guardian of national sovereignty. Their strategic
acumen has been demonstrated on multiple occasions—whether in 2019, when they
responded decisively to Indian aggression by downing a hostile aircraft, or more recently,
when they responded proportionately to Iranian incursions targeting terrorists within
Pakistani territory. The message has been clear: Pakistan will defend its sovereignty, but
it will do so with discipline and precision.
The enduring strength of our armed forces has served as a deterrent to external threats for
decades. Similarly, Pakistan’s civil bureaucracy, though often maligned, is among the
most talented in the developing world. However, despite these institutional strengths, the
overall system appears paralyzed. Why?
Because we have consistently failed to invest in our people. We have allowed internal
divisions to fester instead of resolving them. We have launched projects without
community consent. We have designed policies in isolation rather than in partnership
with those most affected. This disconnection is eroding not just the legitimacy of
governance, but the very cohesion of the state.
For progress to be meaningful, every citizen—regardless of ethnicity or location—must
feel that they have a fair stake in the system. When people are heard, respected, and
empowered, they become guardians of the state, not agitators against it. It is only through
the inclusion of marginalized voices that we can move toward a more democratic,
peaceful, and prosperous Pakistan.
To do this, we must reimagine how we govern and whom we serve. We must move
beyond centralization and embrace participatory governance. We must institutionalize
consultation, particularly for major development projects, so that controversies are
addressed before they erupt into crises. We must dismantle the notion that the state
knows best, and instead acknowledge that it is the people—especially those closest to the
problems—who often hold the best solutions.
We must also end the toxic cycle of exclusion and marginalization. When citizens believe
that their voices don’t matter, they retreat from civic life—or worse, they resist the
system itself. But when they are brought into the fold, when they see the dividends of
peace and participation, they become its most ardent defenders.
Let us think of Pakistan as a tree. For it to grow strong and weather storms, its roots—our
people—must be nurtured. Its trunk—our Constitution—must be solid and unyielding. Its
branches—our institutions—must be firm yet flexible. And its leaves—our
provinces—must flourish in harmony. Only then will future generations inherit a country
that is not merely a territory, but a shared, thriving dream.
This is not idealism—it is necessity. We can no longer afford to treat justice as optional,
or inclusion as cosmetic. The survival, strength, and success of Pakistan depend on a
renewed covenant between the state and its people. A covenant based on dignity, on
participation, and above all, on trust.
