Reforming the Security Council Without Entrenching…

We Were Forewarned, Then Why Are We Drowning, and What Lies Ahead In March, when the glaciers were shedding their winter whites too early and the northern valleys stood bare against a sky that should have held snow, I wrote that the coming monsoon would test us. The National Disaster Management Authority had foreseen rains twenty-two to twenty-six percent heavier than the floods that killed more than a thousand souls the year before. Our embankments were still broken. Our protocols were still asleep. It is late July now. The test has begun. Riverine area dwellers stand at the edge of swollen rivers, watching the water turn from brown to something near black, carrying the upstream soil. There is that familiar murmur of disbelief from government corridors—the same soft gasp that follows every flood, as if the water had not been whispering its arrival for months. But the water does not whisper to those who will not bend their ear. It speaks in the language of saturated earth, and we have heard it before. We have simply chosen, again and again, not to listen. We were forewarned by the agencies. We were forewarned by the science. And we were forewarned by the very land beneath our feet—the old, patient land that absorbed until it could absorb no more, and is now quietly drowning. Yet when the skies opened, we were caught unprepared. And the heavy heart of Bhadoon is still to come. What the Old Farmers Knew For generations, the farmers of the Indus Basin have spoken of Sawan and Bhadoon not as months, but as temperaments. Sawan, the early monsoon of July and mid-August, is the gentle guest who fills the earthen pot. Bhadoon, the late monsoon of August and September, is the guest who arrives heavy with sorrow, and finds the door already swollen shut. There is an old understanding in the villages of Punjab and Sindh: if Sawan has been generous—if the rains have fallen day after day without rest—then Bhadoon must be received with care. Not because Bhadoon brings more rain, but because the earth, by the time Bhadoon arrives, has already absorbed all it can hold. The soil is no longer soil. It is a clay pot filled to the lip, trembling at the brim. The next drop does not nourish. It overflows. Modern science calls this Antecedent Moisture Condition. During a gentle Sawan, the land breathes; the rivers rise slowly, politely. But when the early rains come without pause, the land stops breathing. Its lungs fill with water. What was once a sponge becomes something heavy, something waiting. In dry years, only a fraction of rainfall becomes dangerous runoff. But once the soil is saturated, eighty to ninety-five percent of every new drop becomes immediate floodwater. The sponge has no choice. It must release what it cannot hold. It weeps. Nature does not betray us. It simply does what it has always done. It is we who forget the earth, who build our homes upon its floodplains and then feign surprise when the water remembers its ancient path home. The Water Remembers This is not a new story. The water has told it before, and it has told it gently, and we have not listened. In 1955, the Ravi rose with a roar that split the embankments of Lahore’s periphery. The river had been primed for weeks—day after day of July and August rain had filled the soil until the ground could no longer hold the September deluge. The peak at Madhopur was the highest ever recorded. The city woke to find its edges softened, dissolved, gone. In 1992, the same priming filled Mangla and Tarbela to their brims by mid-August. When the early September rains came, Tarbela’s flood-peak reduction capacity collapsed from thirty percent to two percent. The rest surged into the lower plains, uninvited and sorrowful. The engineers knew what was coming. The farmers had only the sound of the river changing pitch—a sound every old farmer knows, a sound that means it is time to gather the children and climb. In 2022, Sindh became an inland sea. Nearly a meter of rain fell on ground that was already thirty percent wetter than it should have been. The water had nowhere to go but into homes, into fields, into the places where people had built their lives on the quiet assumption that the land would always absorb their troubles. The years that followed did not forgive us. In 2023, the Chenab and Jhelum catchments drank until they were full, and when Bhadoon came heavy in September, communities that had barely recovered from 2022 found themselves underwater again. In 2024, the same quiet sorrow played across Sindh and Balochistan—early rains primed the soil, late rains broke the banks, and the katcha communities woke to find their world softened and dissolved. These were not catastrophes on the scale of 2022, but gentle, persistent reminders that the mechanism does not rest, and that a loaded sponge does not care whether the year is famous or forgotten. Then came 2025. The NDMA’s own reports confirmed what the old farmers could have recited without a single instrument: the rain fell on ground that was already wet. The system had no buffer, no forgiveness, no room for error. One thousand and thirty-seven people died. More than two hundred and seventy-five of them were children. Nearly seven million were affected. Three million displaced. Two hundred and twenty-nine thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three homes damaged or destroyed. These are not estimates. These are the quiet names and numbers of a nation that has grown accustomed to forgetting. Now, in 2026, the NDMA warns of an even more intense monsoon. The early snowmelt has already fed the rivers before the clouds even gathered. The reservoirs are high. The soil is full. The sponge is loaded. And Bhadoon has not yet arrived. The Quiet After the Warning The tragedy of this year is not that we did not know. It is that

In days of yore, the family stood as the unshakeable foundation of life, its fabric woven with threads of reverence, tenderness, and mutual reliance. The presence of elders within the home was regarded as a divine blessing, their wrinkled brows and measured words carrying the distilled wisdom of decades. They had seen seasons of plenty and seasons of want; their counsel was never hasty, but rooted in experience both sweet and bitter. Matters great and small—marriages, disputes, harvests, or the education of the young—were laid before the family circle. Voices rose and fell in earnest consultation, differences were aired with respect, and decisions emerged strengthened by collective thought. Sharing every joy doubled its brightness; confiding every sorrow lightened its burden. Such openness was not mere habit but a sacred trust, binding hearts as firmly as blood itself. Festivals like Eid shone as luminous expressions of this unity. Homes were cleansed with care, lamps lit, and the air filled with the aroma of special dishes prepared by loving hands. Families gathered in their finest attire, exchanging embraces that spoke louder than any words. Youngsters sought the elders’ blessings, pressing foreheads to hands worn by labour and prayer. Visiting relatives was no burdensome custom but a joyful obligation. One would travel dusty paths or crowded streets to enquire after an ailing uncle, to carry sweets to a widowed aunt, or to offer a strong shoulder in times of grief. To be useful in one another’s sorrows and celebrations was considered not charity but a natural duty, the very pulse of kinship. Then the world shifted. Modernity, with its ceaseless demands and glittering innovations, began to loosen these ancient ties. Technology arrived as a herald of progress, and the internet promised to shrink distances, allowing voices to reach across oceans in an instant. Yet in bridging the far, it often widened the gulf between those who dwelt beneath the same roof. The thoughtful purchase of Eid cards, selected with a discerning eye and inscribed with heartfelt sentiments penned in one’s own hand, has given way to instant messages generated by artificial intelligence—polished, abundant, yet strangely hollow. What once touched the soul now risks becoming mechanical routine. Worse still, we have turned our gaze outward, forgetting the sorrows and joys nearest to us. We scroll endlessly through the lives of strangers, offering likes and comments to people whose names we barely know, while the quiet struggles of our own parents or the silent longings of our children pass unnoticed. We share stirring posts about kindness, patience, and gratitude—words that stir the conscience for a fleeting moment—yet how rarely do we live even a fraction of their wisdom. Our digital connections resemble bubbles upon still water; shimmering, fragile, and empty at the core. They burst without warning, leaving behind only the memory of illusion. Within the walls of many homes today, a poignant scene unfolds. In one modest room, a father pores over his telephone, chasing distant conversations or business affairs. Beside him, the mother engages with images and voices from afar, her gentle smile reserved for the screen. The children, heads bent over glowing devices, laugh at jests from unknown companions or compete for admiration among virtual friends. Though seated within arm’s reach, they inhabit separate worlds. The warmth of real voices, the comfort of a shared glance, the simple pleasure of recounting the day’s small events—these have grown rare. We have learned the art of being present in absence, and absent in presence. The truth, spoken plainly, wounds the heart; we have changed profoundly. We know little of one another now beyond the bare fact that we yet live. The elder’s stories gather dust on forgotten shelves; the family consultation has fallen silent; the spontaneous visit to a relative’s home feels like an inconvenience rather than a delight. Our loved ones, who would stand beside us when fortune smiles or when tempests rage, receive only fragments of our attention. It is they, not the distant crowd, who truly matter. We must therefore resolve to reclaim the substance of life. Let us set aside the screens at certain hours, lift our eyes to those around us, and rediscover the irreplaceable value of real companionship. Let consultation return to the family table, visits become frequent once more, and festivals regain their former glow of devotion. Technology need not be our master; it can serve if we command it with wisdom. Only by nurturing the bonds with those who share our daily bread and our deepest affections can the family fabric regain its former strength and beauty. In such renewal lies our truest happiness, for the heart finds its home not in the applause of multitudes, but in the quiet fidelity of kin.

The Indus river, long considered the jugular vein of the people of Sindh, is under assault. The construction of the Jalalpur irrigation canal — and its trial commencement — has gone ahead despite Sindh’s stiff opposition last year, voiced through a peaceful protest movement that carried the province’s strong resentment and anger to the federation. Sindh’s political forces have raised serious concerns and reservations over Punjab’s decision to commence trial operations of the Jalalpur canal, even as the constitutional dispute over new canal projects and Sindh’s water rights remains unresolved. Sindh is already grappling with acute water shortages, the destruction of the Indus Delta, and the collapse of its agricultural economy. To proceed with new upstream canal projects under these conditions is unacceptable to the people of Sindh and amounts to an assault on the rights of the lower riparian province. There is no denying that agriculture is the livelihood of the majority of Sindh’s people, and that this agriculture depends entirely on river water — the Indus being its only source. The crops, fruits, vegetables, and sweet drinking water that sustain Sindh all owe their existence to this one river. Without the Indus, there would have been neither Sindh nor its thousands-year-old civilization. The Sindh government must record its protest before the federal government and urge it to immediately convene a meeting of the Council of Common Interests, taking every constitutional measure available to halt the project. Sadly, we have learnt nothing from our past mistakes and blunders. Why do we remain wedded to narrow-mindedness and shortsighted thinking bound to destroy our very existence? Will this policy bring us success and standing in the comity of nations? Why are our so-called champions of democracy and constitutional supremacy more inclined toward injustice than fair treatment? Will this serve the cause of our unity? The constitution obliges the federal government to convene a meeting of the Council of Common Interests at least once every three months. Yet the federation seems more preoccupied with resolving international conflicts than with addressing the issues confronting the country and defusing tensions between its federating units — even though the latter bear more directly on national stability. Our government strongly condemns India’s aggressive weaponisation of water under Modi. Yet it shows no equal readiness to ensure the judicious and fair distribution of water among its own federating units, as mandated by the Indus River System Authority (IRSA). The construction of the Jalalpur canal in Punjab, in flagrant breach of the decisions taken at last year’s CCI meeting — decisions reached only after massive protests and a strong outcry across Sindh — amounts to diverting Sindh’s water to irrigate the barren lands of its “big brother,” at Sindh’s expense. Unless decisions reached by consensus are implemented in letter and spirit, for the good of the country as a whole, the differences between the federation and the provinces will only widen rather than ease. The Indus, the very source of survival for the people of Sindh, should never be pushed to the wall. Depriving Sindh of its legitimate right to the river, again and again, risks shattering the very foundations of the state. No government has the authority to compromise Azhar Azad crisis and further erode confidence in the federation.

Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai was one of the most multifaceted poets of the subcontinent. The scope of his poetry covers various areas such as peace, humanity, humility, spirituality, patriotism, patience, struggle, and many other important aspects of human life. The light of his poetry reaches the minds and souls of people belonging to different walks of life. Latif was born in a period when Persian was the official language and was also the language of poetry and other means of expression. However, he broke the chains of tradition, put aside the fear of social conventions, and used Sindhi instead of Persian as the medium of his poetry. His narrative reinforces the idea that one should prefer native and indigenous languages to foreign ones, because one’s identity and cultural association are linked with indigenous languages. He does not mean to disrespect Persian; rather, he intends to reinforce the significance of native languages. Patriotism was one of the important themes of Latif’s poetry. Sur Marvi is a testament to his inner feelings about the homeland and the deep love attached to it. According to the story, when Marvi was allegedly kidnapped by Umar, the ruler of the time, and brought to his grand palace, she rejected the luxuries and comforts of the palace. Instead, she requested Umar to return her to Malir, her homeland. Marvi tells Umar that if she dies in imprisonment, her dead body should be sent back to her beloved parents, ancestors, and the land of Malir. Even after her demise, reaching her homeland would bring comfort and peace to her soul. She wishes to be buried among the fragrant herbs and plants of her beloved land. This symbolises love, simplicity, and attachment to the homeland and its people. It shows that despite achieving all worldly luxuries and privileges, a person with a true conscience desires to return to their native land. For Latif, love for the homeland is more than a feeling or a sense of belonging. It is an attachment to one’s identity, culture, and indigenous roots. Therefore, Marvi does not care about worldly luxuries but desires to return to Malir, which may be simple but possesses natural beauty, pure love, and the affection of relatives and fellow beings. For Marvi, her homeland Malir is superior and matchless. In Sur Sarang, Latif discusses rain and the prosperity that follows rainfall through agriculture, irrigation, and the grazing of domestic animals and livestock. Latif describes Thar as a thirsty land that has always longed for rain and showers because the sustainability of Thar depends upon rainfall. The dark clouds over Thar bring excitement and happiness, not only to the poor people but also to their livestock. For the rain-thirsty region of Thar, rain indicates the hope of prosperity. After rainfall, lands are cultivated, animals are kept in homes, and people experience prosperity. This reflects the deep association between humans and nature and shows how people keep high hopes from natural blessings such as rain. Latif’s poetry does not only confine itself to love, peace, and patriotism; patience, humanity, self-surrender, and contentment with minimum means are also significant themes of his poetry. He emphasises the purity and piousness of the inner soul and encourages people to sacrifice worldly desires to elevate their inner selves. During the British era, many British officers posted in Sindh recognised the greatness of Shah Abdul Latif’s poetry and paid tribute to him. Writers and scholars such as H.T. Sorley considered him one of the great poets of the world. Through their contributions, they tried to promote and spread Latif’s message of love, peace, humanity, brotherhood, and tolerance. They observed that although Latif’s poetry apparently covers regional issues and feelings, its thoughts and expressions are universal and comparable with the works of internationally recognised poets. While talking about the concept of the Lord, Latif explains that apparently there seems to be one palace having hundreds of thousands of doors and countless windows. Wherever one looks, one can see the presence of the Lord. This indicates that God is omnipresent and can be seen through different forms of His creation and symbols. One of the fundamental aspects of Latif’s poetry is real love and the approach towards the Creator. According to Latif, the initial step to achieve this elevated spiritual status is to become humble, submissive, caring, and kind towards people living on earth. He believes that in order to have access to God, one has to brush aside worldly desires and become humble and devoted. His poetry also contains messages of hope, patience, courage, and adventure. Latif says that those who have the courage and determination to cross rivers of difficulties and hardships will ultimately reach their destination. In his poetry, the river symbolises obstacles and difficult situations that a person faces while struggling to achieve success. Those who are brave enough to face the horrifying waves of difficulties can ultimately cross the river and achieve their goals. Latif also emphasises avoiding excessive desires of the material world. According to him, the way to spiritual elevation is to remain humble, kind, and caring towards the creatures of the Lord. His poetry teaches people that life is temporary and that one must play one’s role positively in this world to achieve success in the spiritual world. Sur Samundi is another important chapter of Latif’s poetry. In this Sur, Latif depicts the life of marine traders, their economic struggles, social issues, and the feelings of their loved ones when these sailors travel through deep seas and remain away from their homes for many months. In this chapter of his poetry, Latif observes that people of the olden days were involved in trade and commerce and lived prosperous lives. These mariners travelled to far off areas and traded various valuable items, including diamonds, pearls, and jewels. They left the comforts and luxuries of their homes because they preferred trade and adventure to a comfortable life. Latif not only highlights the success and struggles of these traders but also

By Tuba Khan Informal networks represent an extremely important yet widely ignored aspect of governance, especially within developing nations whose formal administrative apparatus is either weak or disputed. Informal institutions refer to uncodified norms and traditions that influence decision-making processes in ways beyond the reach of legal processes. As far as the informal networks are concerned, they can include networks of patronage, kinship and alliances based on personal connections. In countries with hybrid governance structures such as Pakistan where formalized democratic mechanisms co-exist with informal structures, a clear distinction between formal institutions from informal institutions must be made for effective governance. In Pakistan, informal networks do not exist in parallel with institutionalized structures of governance; they actually become the central point around which power operates. Despite having formal governmental structures intact, the informal networks become quite important and influential. There exists a high level of interaction between political, military, bureaucratic and commercial elites. The origins of the informal networks in Pakistan’s governance system are rooted in the colonial era when the governance system of the British was based mainly on the principles of indirect governance. Alongside formal institutionalized structures of governance, the colonial rulers gave powers to local intermediaries in the form of local landlords, tribal chieftains and other local power-brokers. This led to the development of patronage systems and kinship power, which were based on caste and biradari relations. Since its inception in 1947, Pakistan has experienced a very weak governance system. In the absence of stable and fully consolidated democratic institutions, the informal networks took on greater importance in political activities. These informal networks were strengthened by the repeated involvement of the powerful actors in political matters. The periods of outright military takeover or indirect control through civilian regimes cemented a structure where important decisions were frequently taken without recourse to institutionalized processes. The military, along with bureaucrats and politicians, established networks that could affect the policy agenda, political succession and even national interests. Resultantly, this trend continued to blur the lines between formal and informal authority. Islamization strategies of the 1970s and 1980s further broadened the informal networks by involving religious figures in the politics of Pakistan. Religious leaders can trigger religious sentiments and thus influence public opinion according to the needs of influential networks. So, in many cases, the government depended on the clergy and their organizations to mobilize mass support, which gave rise to interchanges of mutual benefits between religious and political authorities. Since the 1990s, liberalization in the economy and growth of the media industry have introduced new players into informal networks. Informal networks have several mechanisms within Pakistan through which they exercise their authority. Patronage stands out as one such mechanism where rewards and resources, such as employment opportunities within the public sector, campaign financing and even electoral loyalty are offered in exchange for support. On the other hand, back-channel negotiations conducted outside formal channels, such as Parliament and cabinet meetings, are vital in influencing the decision-making process of the state. Furthermore, elites are capable of hijacking policy-making processes and diverting resources in ways beneficial to themselves. Additionally, the media often mobilize people and give political power some form of moral legitimacy through propaganda. There are many implications of the existence of informal networks on the efficiency of the governance process. One of the major impacts is the undermining of formal institutional structures and electoral practices. Checks and balances, as well as the legislative process itself are often ignored or used solely for show purposes, while the real process of decision-making is handled through the use of private contacts and backdoor diplomacy. Another important implication is that the culture of corruption and inefficiency continues to persist. Patronage-driven systems tend to give preference to loyalty as opposed to competence, which leads to the appointment of people and the distribution of resources in a manner that is unrelated to development and the needs of the people at large. Policies tend to be revised according to changes in the interests of those in positions of authority, ultimately hindering the way to stability. To counter the effects of informal networks in Pakistan, the gradual development of formal institutions needs to take place instead of abruptly altering the current political environment. The starting point for designing a reform package is to redefine the role of the state. It is critical to ensure institutional independence, transparency of decision-making processes, meritocracy, citizen participation, press freedom and the accountability for the excessive influence of religious and economic elites to decrease dependence on informal institutions. Prevalence of informal political institutions in Pakistan causes several problems for the country’s political system. Formal institutions are often sidelined or rendered symbolic, leading to policy inconsistency and the undermining of democratic accountability. Nevertheless, the existence of informal groups is entrenched in the system and cannot be completely eliminated, their impact can be progressively restricted. This serves as an indication that reforms should be incremental and continuous

Across the world, a quiet but powerful realization has taken hold among policymakers, educators, and security experts alike: the battle against extremism and terrorism cannot be won through force alone. It must be won in classrooms, community centers, sports fields, and digital spaces where young people spend their formative years. Youth, who make up more than half the population in many developing nations including Pakistan, represent both the greatest vulnerability and the greatest opportunity in this struggle. When disenfranchised, unemployed, and disillusioned, young people become easy targets for radical recruiters who promise purpose, belonging, and revenge for perceived injustices. But when engaged, educated, and empowered, that same demographic becomes the most formidable wall against violent ideologies. The logic is simple yet often ignored by policymakers fixated on military and law enforcement solutions. Extremist organizations have long understood that idle, aggrieved youth are their most fertile recruiting ground. Poverty, lack of education, unemployment, and a sense of alienation from mainstream society create psychological vacuums that radical narratives rush to fill. Counterterrorism strategies that ignore this reality and rely solely on kinetic operations may eliminate individual militants but do nothing to stop the conveyor belt producing new recruits. A zero-tolerance approach to extremism must therefore be twofold: uncompromising against violence itself, while simultaneously investing heavily in prevention through youth engagement. Several nations offer instructive models. Indonesia, home to the world’s largest Muslim population, faced a serious extremist threat in the early 2000s following the Bali bombings. Rather than relying exclusively on security crackdowns, the government partnered with religious scholars and civil society organizations to run De radicalization programs specifically targeting young former militants and at-risk youth. These programs combined vocational training, religious counter-messaging, and psychological support, helping thousands reintegrate into society while simultaneously building a broader national narrative of moderate, tolerant Islam that appealed to younger generations disillusioned with violent rhetoric. Denmark’s Aarhus Model, developed to address the flow of young citizens joining the Islamic State in Syria, similarly emphasized rehabilitation over pure punishment for youth who had not committed serious crimes. Mentorship programs paired returning young people with community figures, psychologists, and former extremists who had themselves walked away from radical ideologies. The approach recognized that shame and exclusion often push vulnerable youth further toward extremist communities that offer unconditional acceptance, whereas structured reintegration paired with firm legal consequences for actual violence creates pathways back to mainstream society. The United Kingdom’s Prevent strategy, despite facing criticism over profiling concerns, demonstrated the value of embedding counter-extremism awareness within schools and universities, training teachers to recognize early warning signs of radicalization and intervene before ideological commitment hardens. Meanwhile, Nigeria’s response to Boko Haram insurgency increasingly incorporated youth-focused economic empowerment programs in the northeast, recognizing that widespread poverty and lack of opportunity in the region had been ruthlessly exploited by militant recruiters promising financial incentives to jobless young men. For Pakistan, which has paid an enormous price in blood and treasure fighting terrorism over the past two decades, these international examples carry urgent lessons. The country’s youth bulge, with a median age below 23, is simultaneously its greatest asset and its greatest vulnerability. Regions historically affected by militancy, including parts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan, continue to suffer from inadequate educational infrastructure, high unemployment, and limited access to vocational training, conditions that extremist networks have historically exploited with alarming success. A national strategy that couples uncompromising military and intelligence operations against active terrorist networks with sustained, well-funded investment in youth education, sports programs, technical training, and civic engagement could fundamentally alter the recruitment landscape over a generation. Digital literacy must also become a central pillar of this strategy. Extremist recruitment has migrated substantially online, where algorithms on social media platforms can inadvertently funnel vulnerable young users toward increasingly radical content. Countries that have invested in digital counter-narrative campaigns, training young social media influencers and content creators to actively challenge extremist messaging with authentic, relatable content, have seen measurable success in disrupting online radicalization pipelines. Pakistan’s own vibrant youth culture, increasingly connected through smartphones even in remote areas, could be harnessed similarly if government and civil society organizations invest in training a new generation of digital counter-extremism voices. Ultimately, the fight against terrorism cannot be sustained through security operations alone, however necessary those remain against active threats. Zero tolerance for violence must be matched with zero tolerance for the conditions that breed it: poverty, ignorance, and hopelessness among the young. The examples of Indonesia, Denmark, the United Kingdom, and Nigeria demonstrate that no single formula guarantees success, but all share a common thread, treating youth not as suspects to be monitored but as partners to be invested in. For a nation like Pakistan standing at a demographic crossroads, the choice is stark and urgent: empower this generation of young people as guardians of peace, or risk watching extremist networks continue to recruit from among society’s most overlooked and underserved.