The Middle Ground Shifts: How Gaza, Riyadh, and Te…

Some things become part of your identity long before you understand why.   My love for Kashmir is one of them.   I have never had to convince myself that Kashmir mattered. It simply did. I suspect most Pakistanis would say the same. We grew up believing that Kashmiris were not strangers separated by a Line of Control, but brothers and sisters separated by circumstance.   Over time, that state narrative became something far more personal. It became brotherhood.   And brotherhood, if it means anything at all, means respecting the other’s right to make decisions for themselves.   That is why I find myself standing with the people of Azad Jammu and Kashmir today.   Not because I oppose Pakistan.   But because I support Kashmir.   The public conversation has been reduced to “twelve seats,” as though the protesters have suddenly developed an irrational dislike for a number.   They haven’t.   This has never been about twelve seats.   It is about who gets to decide the political future of Azad Jammu and Kashmir.   For those unfamiliar with the issue, the Legislative Assembly of Azad Jammu and Kashmir consists of forty-five directly elected seats. Twelve additional seats are reserved for refugees from Indian-occupied Jammu and Kashmir who now reside in Pakistan.   On paper, the idea is understandable. Pakistan’s position has always been that the people displaced from their homes remain Kashmiris and should not lose their political voice merely because conflict forced them across the border.   No reasonable person would dispute that displaced Kashmiris deserve representation.   But representation is one thing.   Control is another.   Of those twelve refugee constituencies, nine are elected from Punjab and three from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. In practical terms, this means that more than a quarter of the directly elected Assembly is chosen by voters living outside Azad Jammu and Kashmir.   The question almost asks itself.   How can the government of a people be decided, in such significant part, by those who do not live under its administration?   Imagine if overseas Pakistanis not only voted in Pakistan’s general elections, but their constituencies alone regularly decided who became Prime Minister. Imagine if governments in Lahore or Karachi depended upon votes cast by people who did not live there. We would immediately recognise the democratic tension.   So why is it unreasonable for Kashmiris to ask the very same question?   Supporting that question does not weaken Pakistan’s position on Kashmir.   If anything, it strengthens it.   For decades, Pakistan has argued before the international community that Kashmiris possess the right to determine their own political future. Self-determination has been the moral foundation of our case.   That principle cannot stop at the Line of Control.   If we genuinely believe Kashmir belongs to the Kashmiris, then we must also believe that Kashmiris deserve the greatest possible ownership over their own democratic institutions.   Yet the debate does not end there.   Many voices now demand the immediate abolition of the refugee seats.   The law, however, is more complicated than the slogans.   In June 2026, the Supreme Court of Azad Jammu and Kashmir reaffirmed that these seats are entrenched within Article 22 of the Interim Constitution. The Court described any alteration to the Assembly’s composition as a solemn constitutional act, not something to be extracted through political pressure. Moreover, Article 33 requires prior approval from the Government of Pakistan before amendments affecting core constitutional structures may even be introduced in the Assembly.   And perhaps that raises an even bigger question than the twelve seats themselves.   Why should a legislature elected by the people of Azad Jammu and Kashmir require Islamabad’s permission before debating changes to its own constitutional structure?   If our answer is that Pakistan has always stood by Kashmir, then I ask another question.   Since when has standing beside someone entitled us to stand over them?   Brotherhood is not guardianship.   Solidarity is not supervision.   Support is not control.   Pakistan has sacrificed diplomatically, politically and morally for the Kashmiri cause. That history deserves recognition. But history cannot become a perpetual licence to decide what is best for Kashmiris without listening to Kashmiris themselves.   The protests are not asking Pakistan to abandon Kashmir.   They are asking Pakistan to trust Kashmir.   Those are two very different things.   Whether the present constitutional arrangement ultimately changes is a matter for constitutional process, not street pressure. But constitutional process should never become an excuse to avoid constitutional questions.   The protesters have asked one.   It deserves an answer.   Because this was never about twelve seats.   It was always about whether we truly believe that the future of Kashmir should be written by Kashmiris themselves.

Federal Minister for Planning Ahsan Iqbal announced that the government will place the National Flood Protection Plan IV before the Council of Common Interests for approval. The price tag is now Rs 700 billion. The same plan was approved by the CCI in 2017 at roughly half that amount. The minister was candid: the previous governments failed to implement it, and the 2022 floods forced a revision. Nearly a decade and a half after the plan was first conceived after the 2010 floods that devastated the country, we are back where we started, except the bill has grown by Rs 360 billion. But there is a problem with the numbers, and it is not a small one. In November 2025, Secretary Water Resources Syed Ali Murtaza testified before the Senate Standing Committee on Water Resources that NFPP-IV comprised 375 schemes with a total cost of Rs 824.493 billion. The provincial component alone stood at Rs 746.961 billion, while the federal share was only Rs 77.533 billion. He told the committee that provinces had refused to contribute their shares, escalating the matter to the CCI. Eight months later, the same plan is being presented at Rs 700 billion with a 50-50 federal-provincial split. The total has been trimmed by roughly Rs 124 billion despite inflation and rising cost of construction, and the provinces’ burden has been halved. A plan that shrinks by fifteen percent despite the increased costs and flips its cost-sharing formula in eight months is not rigorously costed. It is still being negotiated politically, not finalized technically. After the 2022 floods, international donors pledged $11 billion for reconstruction and flood protection. Three years later, Pakistan had utilized less than $3 billion. Finance Minister Muhammad Aurangzeb admitted that Pakistan failed to prepare a single credible, bankable project to access the funds. The money sat in files while the people sat in mud and water. It is one thing to lack funds. It is quite another to hold the funds and lack the institutional capacity to spend them. So when the government now asks for Rs 700 billion, the question is not whether we need the plan. We do. The question is whether we have earned the right to spend it, or are simply paying compound interest on a decade of negligence. In 2017, When the CCI approved the National Flood Protection Plan in 2017, the Punjab Assembly had already passed the Flood Plain Regulation Act of 2016. That Act designated flood plains, mandated annual surveys, prohibited all construction without written permission, and criminalized unauthorized building. Section 20 gave it overriding effect over all other laws. It was a good, careful law. And for ten years, we ignored it. Then came the 2022 floods, killing more than 1,700 and displacing 33 million. The 2023 Punjab Irrigation Act, strengthened the framework further. . Then came the Infrastructure Audit Programme of January 2026, promising to inspect and certify every embankment before the rains. The NDMA had warned in November 2025 that the 2026 monsoon would bring 22 to 26 percent above-normal rainfall. In May, Chairman Lt Gen Inam Haider Malik was briefed the Emergency Response Committee. The warnings were not classified. They were reported in media across the country. And still, on July 31, as the Sawan rains continue and Bhadoon approaches, we are told that a Rs 700 billion plan is about to be placed before the CCI. The human cost of this incompetence is measured in lives, not spreadsheets. Between June 26 and July 25, 2026, NDMA recorded 97 deaths and 297 injuries in rain-related incidents. House and roof collapses were the leading cause, with Khyber Pakhtunkhwa reporting the highest toll, followed by Punjab. The authority evacuated 3,841 people. These are not abstract figures. They are preventable losses and deaths in a country that had years to prepare. Meanwhile, last year’s federal budget slashed water sector allocations by 27 percent, from Rs 184.6 billion to Rs 133.4 billion for the water sector. Even the flagship Diamer-Basha Dam saw reduced priority. The message is clear: politically visible projects win funding; invisible embankments lose it. We are also building vulnerability into the landscape faster than we are building protection. The hundred-arch bridge near Shahdara was designed a century ago to let Ravi floodwater pass freely. In September 2025, the M5 motorway near Jalalpur Pirwala collapsed after the Sutlej River breached its banks, blocking natural channels with inadequate culverts. Modern infrastructure is failing where century-old engineering succeeded because hydrology is no longer part of the design brief. Every stakeholder knows what needs to be done. District officials know where encroachments choke flood channels. Engineers know where embankments need reinforcement. Satellite imagery can map floodplains with precision. Yet these tools are shelved while development authorities continue to approve new roads, schools and BHUs for permanent dwellings that should not have been there to begin with.  New high profile housing schemes are regularized in natural river basins. The National Water Policy, approved by the CCI in April 2018, promised real-time telemetry by the end of 2021 and a National Water Council chaired by the Prime Minister to meet annually. Seven years later, the Council has convened only once, in October 2018. The telemetry system is five years past its deadline. The unfinished cost of ongoing water schemes stands at approximately Rs 1.27 trillion. What would it take to believe this time will be different? Not more money. We have enough money to drown in. What we lack is accountability that lives on the riverbank. The Infrastructure Audit of 2026 must be opened to the public, if it was ever done. The names of every certifying officer who signed off on an embankment must be known, and if a structure fails, the officer must stand beside it and explain. And if not, we need to ask why not? The early warning system must learn to speak to the village, not the province. Alerts must name villages and localaties, expected water levels, and designated evacuation routes. They

On August 14, 2026 the independence day was celebrated with great fanfare. This year a Norwegian team was also here to foster business opportunities. Norway is one of the five Nordic Welfare states (Norway, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Iceland). Foreign Minister Espen Barth Eide arrived in Islamabad on August 13, 2026 on a commercial flight. He carried his own luggage. The embassy staff received him and drove him to his hotel. He then held meetings with the foreign minister, prime minister and the chief of defense forces. Being a welfare state, every citizen there is covered from cradle to grave, with no worries. No one is left out to rot in the cold. The Government Pension Fund Global of Norway is valued at $2.39 trillion. Surplus oil and gas revenues are invested to support public services and pensions. During my days at the Literacy Commission, we received a telephone call from the Embassy of Norway. A visiting delegation wanted to meet the Director of the Punjab office. As adviser I was present in the meeting. We were surprised by their agenda. About 40,000 Pakistanis reside in Norway who get married to girls of their own village. These brides then join their husbands to live in the new land. The embassy was very keen to open a school in their home town to educate and train them to assimilate with the Nordic way of life. The purpose was total inclusion with no exclusion. It reminded me of Allama Iqbal’s verse, ‘Har Fard Hai Millat Kay Muqadar Ka Sitara’ (Every individual is the rising star of the nation). No one can be left behind to drag down the nation. While freed colonial states like India and Pakistan have failed to overcome the menace of poverty, China has succeeded. It calls for major soul searching. While the People’s Republic of China (PRC) is on track to dominate the world, we lag behind. Human development is at the core of the Chinese development model. Education and health are taken very seriously. The state acts like a mother; it facilitates its citizens. Resources are protected and spent on the welfare of the people. The PRC has a single party system that focuses primarily on the economic emancipation of the entire nation, not only of a selected few. In recent years India has advanced economically, but poverty persists mainly because of the uneven sharing of resources and opportunities. Norway presents a model of harmony where human freedom and economic growth have been balanced. In the original Pakistan Peoples Party manifesto, it was termed Mixed Economy or Islamic Socialism. While some basic industrialization was needed in the country, for which SOEs (State Owned Enterprises) were created, the nationalization of running industries did not sit well. Perhaps the loss of C.M. Latif’s BECO was the biggest loss, which should have been reversed through de-nationalization. Dr Muhammad Amjad Saqib of the Akhuwat Foundation believes that poverty can be overcome through freedom of mind and easy access to financing. His foundation provides interest-free loans while running a residential university with no fee. The Indus Hospital has a similar model of providing medical coverage free of cost. Despite these private efforts, poverty remains a major challenge for Pakistan. Equitable distribution of resources requires a major reduction in state expenses. Like time, public money has to be carefully handled, as it is always in short supply. Flamboyance, fanfare and protocol consume resources which could be put to better use. Freedom for all comes through sharing and hand holding, not sloganeering. I am not sure if the visiting foreign minister was impressed or concerned by our style of celebrating our independence. Norwegian investments will be a test of the success of his visit. But the poor fellow had to carry his own luggage on the way back and take a taxi upon arrival to reach his residence unnoticed.

For a few hours this week, it looked like Washington and Riyadh had quietly closed one of the more consequential files of Donald Trump’s second term. On Wednesday, US Energy Secretary Chris Wright and his Saudi counterpart signed a civil nuclear cooperation agreement, a deal years in the making, offering American firms a foothold in a market Riyadh has long promised and long withheld. Then, a day later, the president reopened it himself. In a Truth Social post on Thursday, Trump declared the agreement “will be approved,” but added that it was “totally subject to Saudi Arabia joining the very respected and successful Abraham Accords.” He also inserted a second condition that had not been part of the signed text: no enrichment of nuclear material on Saudi soil. Within hours, press secretary Karoline Leavitt was telling reporters the deal was simply “off” unless the kingdom normalised relations with Israel, even though, by her own account, the president had not actually spoken to Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman since posting the ultimatum. It is worth sitting with how unusual this is. A nuclear cooperation agreement, negotiated over years and signed by cabinet level officials on both sides, was retroactively rewritten by a presidential social media post, with the Saudi government left to respond through silence, and American wire services unable to get so much as a background comment out of Riyadh. Steven Cook, a Middle East scholar quoted by NPR, put the underlying question bluntly: whether “a social post supersede a signed diplomatic agreement.” That a serious foreign policy analyst even has to ask the question tells its own story about how this White House does business. The Saudi position, however, is not new, and it is not merely stubbornness. The kingdom has said for years, through King Salman and now through the Crown Prince, that normalisation with Israel requires a credible pathway to Palestinian statehood. That position survived the first Trump term’s Abraham Accords push, the Biden administration’s own normalisation efforts, and it hardened further after the October 2023 Hamas attack on Israel and the war in Gaza that followed. Riyadh’s calculus is also generational: across the Arab and Muslim world, sympathy for the Palestinian cause remains a live political fact that no government, however close to Washington, can casually override. There is also an Israeli dimension worth naming honestly. Israel’s own unease was never really about Saudi Arabia’s civilian nuclear ambitions; officials have signalled for months that they had made peace with the idea, provided it came bundled with normalisation. What Israeli commentators and officials appear to actually fear is a Saudi Arabia empowered, prestige laden, and unbound to the Accords: a regional heavyweight whose recognition Israel still needs, and has not been granted, absent a resolution nobody has yet found for the Palestinians. That is the crux the deal has now run into, and it is not a problem Trump’s Truth Social account can post its way out of. None of this means the deal is necessarily dead. Trump has a long history of issuing maximalist conditions in public while negotiating something narrower in private, and Saudi Arabia has strong economic and strategic incentives of its own to keep the nuclear track alive. But the manner in which this condition was added, abruptly, publicly, and without prior coordination with Riyadh, is itself a signal worth reading. It suggests an American approach to the region that still assumes the old leverage of the first Abraham Accords era holds unchanged, even as the ground beneath it, in Gaza’s aftermath and in Saudi public opinion, has shifted considerably. Whether Washington adjusts to that reality, or simply keeps repeating the demand more loudly, will say a great deal about how the rest of this file plays out.

A man’s hand emerges from a moving car window on Lahore’s Ferozepur Road, opens, and lets go, garbage tumbling onto the road like something the city never asked for. He drives on, does not look back. Nearby, another man treats a red light as inconvenience, not command, and guns through it because the road, for one careless breath, looks empty, not realizing a motorcyclist is already crossing into that emptiness. Neither would call himself careless. Ask them, and they will say, with the confidence of the unexamined life, that they are decent, law-abiding citizens, and narrowly, they are not wrong. Neither has broken a law that will ever find them. What they are missing is something smaller than law and, in the end, far heavier: civic sense. Civic sense is a phrase worn smooth by overuse and rarely defined. It is not patriotism, that loud, flag-waving thing. It is not obedience, that bowed, fearful thing. It is, instead, a kind of seeing, the awareness that one’s actions ripple into rooms one will never enter: the neighbour’s wall, turned dumping ground; the footpath, swallowed by parked motorcycles, leaving the pedestrian nowhere to stand but the road; the river downstream, carrying someone else’s filth to a family that never asked for it. It is the quiet discipline of behaving as though other people exist and matter, even when no policeman stands at the corner. Pakistan is not short of laws. Karachi’s bylaws on waste disposal would look entirely respectable in any city hall in the world. Islamabad’s traffic regulations are detailed enough to please the most exacting planner. What is missing is not ink on paper but something beneath the skin: the private sense that a rule is worth keeping even when no one is watching. This is why civic sense cannot be legislated into being, however many statutes are stacked atop one another. You can fine a man for littering. You cannot fine him into loving the street he lives on. Take something as unremarkable as a queue. Anyone who has stood at a bank counter, a railway window, a hospital OPD here knows the choreography by heart: the line exists as an idea until someone decides their time outweighs everyone else’s, and it dissolves like sugar in water. This was never really about queues. It is about a deeper assumption: that public space belongs to no one in particular, and rules, somehow, are meant for other people. Multiply that across a city of ten million restless souls, and you get gridlock that swallows whole afternoons, bins overflowing like wounds left untended, and parks abandoned within a year of their own birth. There is a cost to all this, rarely counted honestly. Karachi bleeds away enormous productive hours each year to congestion worsened, not created, by drivers who treat lanes as suggestions and red lights as optional punctuation. Public health suffers when open drains and uncollected waste become nurseries for disease, an arithmetic residents of nearly every major Pakistani city have learned to expect each monsoon. None of this appears, tidy and legible, in a budget document. It appears in hospital wards, in wages lost to sick days, in a low-grade sense that public life is something to survive rather than inhabit. It would be convenient to lay the blame entirely at poverty or lack of schooling, and there is a grain of truth there; a person fighting daily to feed a family has little room left for civic virtue. But the explanation only carries so far. Plenty of well-off, well-schooled Pakistanis fling litter from car windows and treat public parks as private gardens annexed from the commons. Civic sense is not a simple function of income. It is a habit, built through repetition, example, and whatever a society quietly agrees to call normal. This is precisely where schools could do far more. Civic education in most Pakistani classrooms, where it exists at all, survives as a chapter memorized for an exam rather than a practice lived out. A child taught that littering is wrong, who watches the adults around her litter daily without flinching, will absorb the adults’ hands, not the textbook’s words. Civic sense must be modelled, not narrated: teachers who insist on a clean classroom, parents who do not fling wrappers from car windows in front of watching children, local governments that follow a complaint through to its end instead of letting it dissolve into some forgotten file. None of this demands grand reform. It demands a shift in what ordinary people find embarrassing. In cities where civic sense runs deep, a litterer feels a small, hot flush of shame, not because a fine is coming, but because it simply is not done, the way one does not spit at a wedding. That social pressure is more powerful, and far cheaper, than any enforcement machinery a government could design. Building it takes time, and begins small: a shopkeeper sweeping the pavement outside his door, a driver waiting his turn at a roundabout though no one would know if he cheated, a resident reporting a broken streetlight instead of learning to walk around the dark. Cities are not, in truth, built by planners and engineers alone. They are built street by street, choice by choice, by the accumulated decisions of the people who walk them. A country may possess the widest roads and tallest towers in the region and still feel chaotic if the people moving through them share no responsibility toward them. Civic sense is not a lesson for children, nor a slogan for a billboard. It is the invisible infrastructure, unseen and indispensable, that makes every other infrastructure actually work. The writer is serving as Director of the Institute of Humanities and Arts at Khwaja Fareed University of Engineering and Information Technology, Rahim Yar Khan, Pakistan.

Some constitutional settlements fail because they are unjust. Others fail because those who might have accepted them cease to trust one another before the settlement can take effect The failure of the Simla Conference did not persuade Britain to abandon the search for a united constitutional settlement. On the contrary, it convinced the newly elected Labour Government that another and far more comprehensive initiative had become indispensable. The Second World War had ended. Britain emerged victorious, but financially exhausted and politically transformed. The question confronting Prime Minister Clement Attlee’s government was no longer, whether India would become independent. Independence had become inevitable. The remaining question was whether it could be achieved without Partition. The responsibility for answering that question fell upon one of the most significant constitutional delegations ever sent to British India. In March 1946, the Cabinet Mission, comprising Lord Pethick-Lawrence, Sir Stafford Cripps and A. V. Alexander, arrived in India with instructions not merely to negotiate the transfer of power but to devise a constitutional framework capable of reconciling profoundly different political aspirations within a single state.  Unlike earlier initiatives, the Cabinet Mission did not attempt to persuade one side to surrender its constitutional claims to another. Instead, it sought to construct a constitutional architecture that would allow competing visions of India to coexist. The Mission recognised two political realities that earlier proposals had struggled to reconcile. Indian National Congress continued to insist upon the unity of India, while the Muslim League maintained that Muslim political nationhood required constitutional recognition. The challenge lay in accommodating both principles without destroying either. The solution proposed by the Mission was both innovative and extraordinarily complex. It rejected the immediate creation of a sovereign Pakistan, arguing that Partition would generate formidable administrative, economic and strategic difficulties. At the same time, it acknowledged that an excessively centralised constitution would be unacceptable to the Muslim League. The Mission, therefore, proposed a three-tier constitutional structure. At the centre would stand a limited Union Government responsible only for defence, foreign affairs and communications, together with the finances necessary to discharge those functions. The provinces would retain extensive autonomy over most subjects of governance. Between these two levels, the provinces would form three groups reflecting geographical and political realities. Sections A, B and C would be empowered to frame constitutions for their respective groups while participating in the larger Union. The constitutional ingenuity of the proposal lay precisely in its attempt to preserve India’s international unity while recognising its internal diversity. Neither complete centralisation nor compl therefore sought a middle constitutional path. Congress interpreted the Plan as preserving the essential unity of India, though many of its leaders remained apprehensive that compulsory provincial grouping might weaken the authority of the future Union. The Muslim League initially accepted the proposal because the grouping arrangements appeared capable of protecting Muslim-majority provinces and preserving the possibility of greater autonomy in the future. For a brief moment, it appeared that a constitutional compromise acceptable to both major political parties had finally emerged. That moment proved remarkably short-lived. The difficulty did not lie primarily in the constitutional text. It lay in conflicting interpretations of the text. Congress regarded the provincial groupings as temporary arrangements that could subsequently be modified by elected provincial legislatures. The Muslim League regarded them as an essential constitutional guarantee protecting Muslim political autonomy. The same constitutional document, thus, came to embody fundamentally different expectations. The archival record preserved in the Transfer of Power volumes reveals that British officials themselves recognised this ambiguity. The Mission deliberately employed language capable of attracting acceptance from both Congress and the League. Diplomatic flexibility succeeded in producing initial agreement but left unresolved the deeper question of how the Constitution would actually operate once political power had been transferred. Ambiguity, which had previously served as an instrument of negotiation, now became a source of constitutional instability. The situation deteriorated further after Jawaharlal Nehru, speaking as President of the Congress, declared that the Constituent Assembly would remain sovereign in determining the future Constitution and would not regard itself as permanently bound by every aspect of the Cabinet Mission Plan. The Muslim League interpreted these remarks as evidence that the constitutional safeguards upon which it had relied could be altered after the transfer of power. Confidence rapidly evaporated. Muhammad Ali Jinnah responded by withdrawing the League’s earlier acceptance and announcing Direct Action. The constitutional conversation increasingly gave way to political confrontation. The tragic communal violence that followed profoundly altered the atmosphere in which constitutional negotiations continued. The Cabinet Mission nevertheless occupies a unique place in the constitutional history of South Asia. It represented the most sophisticated attempt to reconcile unity with diversity through constitutional design. It neither denied Muslim political aspirations nor abandoned the ideal of a united India. Instead, it sought to accommodate both within an asymmetrical federal structure unprecedented in British constitutional practice. Whether the Plan would ultimately have succeeded if fully implemented remains one of the most enduring questions in modern South Asian historiography. Historians continue to disagree. Some regard it as the last realistic opportunity to preserve Indian unity. Others argue that political distrust had already advanced too far for even the most carefully designed constitutional arrangement to survive. The documentary evidence suggests that the Mission came closer than any previous initiative to securing acceptance from both principal political organisations. Its collapse. Therefore, deserves to be understood not simply as another failed negotiation but as the moment when the possibility of a united constitutional future receded most dramatically. The tragedy of Partition was still not inevitable. The Indian Independence Act of 1947 had not yet been enacted, the boundaries of the future states had not been drawn, and constitutional alternatives technically remained available. Nevertheless, after the collapse of the Cabinet Mission, the political space for compromise contracted with alarming speed. The search for constitutional reconciliation increasingly yielded to preparations for constitutional separation. The next article examines the final phase of British rule under Lord Mountbatten. It explores how the acceleration of