The Most Powerful State of Mind

By Engr. Saqlain Abid Pakistan’s diplomatic position appears to be entering one of its most delicate phases in recent years. What initially seemed to be a conflict limited to the United States and Iran is gradually expanding into a broader regional confrontation, forcing many states to reconsider their strategic choices. After six consecutive days of American bombing inside Iran and the continued military response by the Houthis against Saudi Arabia, Pakistan may find itself moving from the role of mediator toward that of a potential participant in a wider regional security framework. For months, Islamabad attempted to maintain balanced relations with all major actors. Pakistan consistently called for restraint, dialogue, and reconciliation while avoiding direct involvement in the conflict. However, regional defence commitments and strategic partnerships may eventually place Islamabad under increasing pressure. If Saudi Arabia invokes defence cooperation against Houthi attacks, Pakistan could face difficult decisions regarding its military and diplomatic responsibilities. Since the Houthis are widely regarded as being closely aligned with Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), any Pakistani military involvement against them would inevitably carry implications for Pakistan-Iran relations. Such a development would represent more than another military confrontation. It would symbolise the further fragmentation of the Muslim world. If Pakistan, another major Muslim state, enters a conflict involving an Iranian proxy, one must ask whether any meaningful concept of Muslim strategic unity ever truly existed. The divisions that have surfaced during recent crises suggest that political interests, national security calculations, and regional rivalries continue to outweigh religious solidarity. Recent diplomatic developments have also raised important questions. Turkey’s growing regional activism and President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s visible engagement alongside President Donald Trump during last week’s summit have been interpreted by many observers as a signal that regional alliances are evolving. Simultaneously, Iran appears to be facing mounting economic constraints, prolonged sanctions, and increasing diplomatic isolation. The question naturally arises: what strategic options remain available to Tehran? Iran still possesses considerable leverage despite its economic difficulties. The Strait of Hormuz remains one of the world’s most critical energy chokepoints, while the Houthis retain the capability to disrupt maritime traffic through the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait. Any prolonged disruption in either corridor would significantly affect global energy markets, increasing oil prices and creating severe economic pressure on Europe and the wider international community. These maritime realities provide Iran with strategic leverage even while under military and economic pressure. This changing environment also raises another possibility. Washington may be attempting to reshape its regional security architecture. The Gulf monarchies, particularly Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, have invested enormous financial resources over the past decade in regional security arrangements. Yet repeated conflicts have exposed limitations in those frameworks. If confidence in the existing Gulf-centred order continues to weaken, the United States may increasingly look toward countries such as Turkey and Pakistan as more active regional security partners. Pakistan’s strategic importance cannot be ignored. It possesses one of the world’s largest armed forces, nuclear capability, extensive counterterrorism experience, and a unique ability to maintain dialogue with competing regional actors. Together with Turkey, Pakistan could potentially contribute to a new regional security framework. Recent praise directed toward both President Erdoğan and Pakistan’s Chief of Army Staff, Field Marshal Asim Munir, by President Trump has naturally generated speculation regarding future strategic cooperation, although such interpretations remain speculative and should be approached with caution. Nevertheless, Pakistan must carefully evaluate the costs of any deeper military commitment. A defence partnership should never be viewed as a one-sided obligation. If Pakistan were expected to support Saudi Arabia during a regional conflict, an equally important question deserves attention: would Saudi Arabia provide similar military support if Pakistan faced aggression elsewhere, particularly from India? The answer remains uncertain. Defence agreements are strongest when obligations, expectations, and strategic interests are genuinely reciprocal. Pakistan’s greatest contribution may not lie on the battlefield but at the negotiating table. Rather than becoming another participant in an expanding regional war, Islamabad should utilise its diplomatic credibility to encourage a new regional dialogue. Any future Muslim security architecture should emerge through regional consensus, not through external approval or great-power competition. Iran has demonstrated that it remains an influential regional actor whose interests cannot simply be ignored. Sustainable peace will require engagement with Tehran rather than permanent confrontation. Ultimately, Pakistan stands at a strategic crossroads. It can either become another member of an expanding war coalition or position itself as a credible architect of a new regional order built upon diplomacy, mutual security, and South Asian consensus. In an era where wars are becoming increasingly costly and alliances increasingly fragile, Pakistan’s greatest strength may be its ability to build bridges rather than battle lines.

Hazrat Syed Ali bin Usman Al-Hajveri (R.A), popularly venerated as Data Ganj Bakhsh or Data Sahib, occupies a seminal position among the classical Sufi scholars of the Islamic tradition. Born in 1009 CE in Ghazni, present-day Afghanistan, he migrated to Lahore during the Ghaznavid period, where he spent the remainder of his life engaged in instruction, spiritual guidance, and moral reform. He died in 1072 CE and was interred in Lahore, where his shrine remains a major center of religious and cultural activity in South Asia.   The honorifics “Data” and “Ganj Bakhsh” denoting “the Giver” and “Distributor of Treasures” were conferred upon him in recognition of his intellectual munificence and his commitment to philanthropy. Historical and hagiographic sources attest that his hospice was accessible to individuals irrespective of social, linguistic, or religious affiliation. This principle of inclusivity continues to inform the ethos of his shrine, which attracts millions of pilgrims annually from Pakistan and abroad.   Hazrat Data Sahib’s principal scholarly contribution is the Persian treatise Kashf-ul-Mahjoob: The Revelation of the Veiled. Composed in the 11th century, it is regarded as the earliest systematic exposition of Sufism in the Persian language and retains canonical status in seminaries and universities worldwide. In this work, he delineates the interior dimensions of Islam, emphasizing that proximity to the Divine is attained through sincerity of intention, service to humanity, and sustained remembrance of Allah.   At present, his shrine in Lahore, known as Data Darbar, constitutes one of the largest Sufi complexes in South Asia. Daily visitation peaks on Thursdays, and the institution of perpetual langar  the provision of free meals  operationalizes his teaching on social welfare and continues to serve thousands of people each day.   The epistemological and ethical framework of Hazrat Data Sahib’s thought may be summarized under four interrelated principles.   First, he posited love of Allah and His Messenger ﷺ as the teleological basis of human existence. In Kashf-ul-Mahjoob, he argues that worship should proceed not from instrumental motives of fear or expectation of reward, but from authentic love and sincerity. He further contends that the spiritually realized individual maintains constant consciousness of Allah in all states of being.   Second, he advanced service to humanity as a form of worship. Rejecting ascetic withdrawal, he advocated an engaged ethic in which the pursuit of knowledge is coupled with service to the marginalized. His designation as “Ganj Bakhsh” reflects this commitment to the distribution of both material and spiritual resources. Third, he emphasized Tazkiya-e-Nafs, or the purification of the self, as a prerequisite for moral agency. He enjoined his disciples to abstain from vices such as greed, envy, wrath, slander, and pride, and to cultivate virtues including patience (sabr), gratitude (shukr), veracity (sidq), and contentment (qana‘at). For him, authentic knowledge was manifest not merely in textual erudition but in ethical conduct (akhlaq). Fourth, he articulated Sufism as the inward dimension of Shariah. He maintained that observance of ritual obligations  prayer, fasting, and lawful livelihood  must be complemented by dhikr, the remembrance of Allah, to ensure spiritual vitality. He further stressed the necessity of authoritative pedagogy and virtuous companionship as conduits for moral and spiritual development. The teachings of Data Ganj Bakhsh retain considerable relevance in the 21st century. In an era characterized by consumerism, occupational precarity, and digital hyper-connectivity, his advocacy of qana‘at and dhikr offers a corrective to stress, anxiety, and existential vacuity. His framework suggests that psychological equilibrium is derived less from material accumulation than from interior discipline and divine orientation.   Furthermore, his principle of social service addresses contemporary challenges of poverty, isolation, and inequality. The institutionalized langar at Data Darbar exemplifies this ethic and provides a model for civic engagement, volunteerism, and communal solidarity.   In the context of digital communication, his insistence on akhlaq assumes particular salience. His exhortations to truthfulness, humility, and restraint provide a normative basis for addressing online hostility, misinformation, and the erosion of civility. For students and professionals alike, his model affirms that technical competence must be accompanied by moral integrity.   Finally, his doctrine of equilibrium between spiritual and worldly responsibilities offers a viable paradigm for modern Muslim subjects. He did not advocate monasticism, but rather the integration of professional, academic, and technological life with enduring spiritual commitments. This synthesis enables individuals to pursue vocational excellence without compromising ethical values.   In conclusion, the legacy of Hazrat Ali Hajveri (R.A) transcends its historical milieu. Centered on love of Allah, service to humanity, and self-purification, his teachings provide a coherent response to contemporary social and psychological challenges. The adoption of these principles at the individual and communal level holds the potential to foster more just, compassionate, and purpose-driven societies.

In the story of Pakistan’s creation, certain names shine with a brightness that time cannot dim. Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah stands as the founder of the nation, but standing quietly, resolutely, and often invisibly beside him for over two decades was his younger sister, Fatima Jinnah. History remembers her as Madar-e-Millat, the Mother of the Nation, a title she earned not through political office or public spectacle, but through an entire life of sacrifice, loyalty, intellect, and quiet strength. She was a woman decades ahead of her time, a qualified dental surgeon, a fiercely independent thinker, a stylish and modern presence in gharara and sleeveless blouse, and a woman who chose singlehood not out of misfortune but out of conviction. Her life offers Pakistani women today a template of dignity, purpose, and self-possession that remains as relevant now as it was in the twentieth century. Born on July 30, 1893, in Karachi, Fatima Jinnah grew up in a household that valued learning, even when it was unusual for girls of that era to pursue higher education. She enrolled at the University of Calcutta and earned a degree in dental surgery from Dr. R. Ahmed Dental College, becoming one of the first Muslim women in South Asia to qualify as a dentist. In 1923, she opened her own dental clinic in Bombay. This was no small achievement. At a time when most women of her class and background were confined to domestic roles, Fatima Jinnah built a professional identity through her own intellect and discipline. Her clinic flourished, and she earned both financial independence and social respect as a successful, self-made professional woman. She was, in every sense, a pioneer of women’s participation in modern professions in the subcontinent. Fatima Jinnah’s life took a defining turn following the death of Ruttie Jinnah, the Quaid’s wife, in 1929. Ruttie’s passing left both Muhammad Ali Jinnah and his young daughter Dina in a state of profound grief and vulnerability. It was at this moment that Fatima made a choice that would alter the course of her own life entirely, she closed her thriving dental practice and moved in with her brother to manage his household, raise Dina, and become his constant companion and confidante. This decision deserves to be understood not as a passive act of familial duty, but as a deliberate and enormous personal sacrifice. She was a woman who had built something of her own, a career, an income, an identity outside of any man’s shadow, and she set it aside willingly. From that point onward, she devoted herself entirely to supporting her brother’s political mission, managing his correspondence, organizing his household, accompanying him on tours across India, and providing the emotional steadiness that allowed him to focus on the arduous struggle for Pakistan. She sat beside him in All India Muslim League sessions, engaged with women’s wings of the movement, and became, in effect, his closest advisor on personal and even political matters. Few sacrifices in the history of the Pakistan Movement are as understated yet as consequential as this one. Fatima Jinnah’s devotion did not waver even after Pakistan was achieved. She remained with her brother through the exhausting, health-depleting years of his final illness. As the Quaid battled tuberculosis while simultaneously trying to steer a fragile new nation through its most turbulent infancy, it was Fatima who nursed him, traveled with him to Ziarat in his final days, and stayed resolutely at his bedside. When Muhammad Ali Jinnah breathed his last on September 11, 1948, Fatima Jinnah was there, not as a bystander, but as the one who had walked every step of that difficult journey with him. Her presence at his deathbed was the culmination of nearly two decades of unwavering companionship, sacrifice, and quiet strength. What makes Fatima Jinnah’s legacy even richer is the manner in which she carried herself. She was educated, articulate, and thoroughly modern in her outlook, yet she remained rooted in her cultural identity. She was famously elegant in her choice of dress, often seen in a gharara paired with a sleeveless blouse, a look that exuded both grace and quiet confidence. She wore her modernity with the same ease with which she wore her dupatta, never feeling the need to choose between tradition and progress. In photographs from that era, she appears composed, dignified, and utterly self-assured, a woman entirely comfortable in her own skin. Equally striking was her decision never to marry. In a society where marriage was, and often still is, treated as the singular measure of a woman’s worth and completeness, Fatima Jinnah chose a different path, not out of compulsion or circumstance, but by her own free will. She dedicated her life to her brother, to her country, and to her own principles. Later in her life, she also emerged as a formidable political figure in her own right, contesting the 1965 presidential election against General Ayub Khan and becoming a symbol of democratic resistance for a generation of Pakistanis. Fatima Jinnah’s life is not simply a chapter in a history book; it is a living lesson for Pakistani women today. She demonstrated that a woman could be professionally accomplished and personally devoted, modern in appearance and deeply principled in character, unmarried by choice and yet utterly complete as a person. She showed that sacrifice does not diminish a woman’s strength, it can, in fact, define it. In an age where women are still often measured by narrow societal expectations, Fatima Jinnah’s example urges us to reclaim our own definitions of dignity, purpose, and self-worth. As Pakistani women, we owe it to ourselves to emulate not merely her style, the elegant gharara, the graceful bearing but the substance behind it; her education, her independence, her unwavering integrity, and her refusal to be defined by anyone else’s expectations. Madar-e-Millat did not simply stand beside the founder of a nation; she stood as a model for what a Pakistani woman could be, then, and now.

No one illustrates the laws of Physics better than human beings themselves. Entropy is not confined to laboratories and equations; it is lived through lives, societies, and relationships, steadily nudging order toward disorder. Entropy, in simple words, is a scientific measure of disorder and randomness. It shows how things naturally progress from order to chaos. Besides randomness, it is the tendency of systems to move toward greater multiplicity of possible states.   According to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the entropy of an isolated system always tends to increase. A human being, when he evolves through childhood and moves toward adulthood, becomes more random and chaotic. He does not merely accumulate years; he gathers contradictions.   His lived experiences shape his idea of life, leaving behind a psychological residue. The feelings that he experienced for the very first time in the past become a source of discomfort as time passes. As a child, he thinks little and inquires more out of curiosity. In short, the knowledge he gained came through curiosity. But knowledge always comes at a cost. Things that fascinate us a lot turn into something that we dread a lot. As we acquire knowledge, we become aware of complexities that were always present but invisible to us.   As a child, our worldview seems simple: people are either good or bad; dreams are achievable; friends are eternal; relationships are loyal and life moves between white and black. As we grow older, the order is disrupted. A rise in consciousness awakens us to multiple contradictions, uncertainties, anxieties, grief and losses. We learn that truth is ambiguous and subjective; morality is situational; relationships are fragile; certainty is rare and life lives in the grey zone.     It is no mistake to say that human consciousness itself produces existential entropy and expands internal contradictions and multiplies possibilities. The more we know, the less certain we become. Every choice restricts us. Every decision prepares us for consequences. Every loss reshapes our understanding of love. Every truth complicates identity and brings more uncertainty. Every new experience creates new interpretations.   Here comes the importance of meaning in life. Having been surrounded by disorder and chaos, our minds look for a safe space: less entropic and more purposeful. In other words, entropy is not just a physics metaphor. It is reason that pushes humans to find an anchor in topsy-turvy life. It’s more like providing moorings to the ship that is left at the mercy of aggressive waves.   Now a question comes to mind: how do humans resist the uncertainties created by the expansion of consciousness? The answer is meaning, but its discovery could be different in philosophical terms. Existentialists, such as Jean Paul Sartre, believe that purpose is constructive and built upon the choices presented to us by expanding consciousness.   Albert Camus’ philosophy argues that we embrace life’s absurdity by revolting against it instead of surrendering to it. It means we have to continue living passionately and consciously while being aware of life’s realities.   Viktor Frankl, in his book Man’s Search for Meaning, presents a different perspective on meaning as a “response” to suffering. He called suffering an inevitable and inexplicable part of human life. Humans can endure almost any suffering if they discover a reason for it. In this situation, meaning acts like “negative entropy” as it does not eliminate suffering but arranges it into a narrative that can be endured.   Frankl also argued the concept of “logotherapy” in his book, believing that man’s primary drive is to find something meaningful instead of seeking happiness or pleasure. Still others think that if we voluntarily shoulder the responsibility, we can lay the foundation of habitable order amid chaos.   From my viewpoint, every meaning, whether small or big, is worth pursuing if it only fulfils you. The nature and timing of meaning could be different, but one thing is certain: in this world, entropy will persist. The purpose of meaning is not to defeat entropy but to resist it and make it bearable. Our lives have been the accumulation of experiences, interpretations, complexities, and uncertainties. Any moment shared with loved ones, every act of love, every truth pursued, every responsibility accepted and every desire followed becomes a source of stability against life’s expanding uncertainty. Meaning does not eliminate entropy. It is humanity’s rebellion against it.

(When the water rises, who shows up and who is left waiting?) ‎I live in Sabzazar, a neighborhood in Lahore, Pakistan, but part of my heart is always sitting along the banks of the Moxahala Creek back home in Southeast Ohio. When the water rises in Muskingum County or the Punjab plains, who shows up, and who is left waiting? I live in Sabzazar, a neighborhood in Lahore, Pakistan, but part of my heart is always sitting along the banks of the Moxahala Creek back home in Southeast Ohio. ‎ ‎My mother and brother still live right near South Zanesville, just a stone’s throw from Crooksville. When heavy rains hit Perry and Muskingum counties, I don’t need to be there to know what it looks like. I can picture the heavy, chocolate-brown water backing up into the low spots, the damp chill that settles into a basement, the fears of what if the waters reach a house trailer, and that specific, exhausting smell of river mud that takes weeks to scrub out of porch boards and carpet. The worries of if the home has structural damage.. Halfway across the world in Pakistan, the landscape couldn’t look more different. But when monsoon season swells the rivers across the Punjab, the view from the ground is hauntingly identical. ‎ ‎Standing in a flooded doorway feels the same whether you are in Ohio or Lahore. The quiet shock is the same. The ruin of things you worked years to buy is the same. And the very first instinct is to grab your coat, shovel, a chainsaw and a pair of boots and go check on the elderly woman next door.. Start hauling wet furniture, debris to the curb and giving comfort, food and basics to those in need is entirely universal. Watching both worlds at once makes you look at governance differently. It strips away abstract political jargon and leaves you asking one fundamental question: When a community is hit with a crisis, does its system build capable people who can act, or does it leave them sitting on their hands, waiting for permission to survive? ‎ ‎What a Small Ohio Village Taught Me About Governance ‎ ‎Growing up around South Zanesville and Crooksville, you learn pretty early that small-town life relies on a very specific kind of quiet, distributed agency. ‎Crooksville isn’t a rich town. It’s a hard-working Appalachian village of under 1,500 people. But when the creek overflows, nobody sits around waiting for a press conference out of Washington, D.C., or a mandate from the state capital in Columbus. ‎ ‎The response moves in waves because the connections are already wired: ‎On the local levels we see neighbor checks on neighbor. The volunteer fire department turns on the sirens, pulls out the high-water gear, and starts the door to door knocks. At the County level we have the Perry County 911 dispatch and Emergency Management Agency (EMA) start tracking water levels and routing equipment where it’s needed most. At the State level, If the county gets overwhelmed, pre set legal triggers immediately call in the Ohio EMA or the National Guard. ‎ ‎Government here doesn’t replace the community’s instinct to help itself; it validates it, organizes it, and backs it up with real resources. The system trusts the people on the ground to know their own roads. Here in Pakistan, the human spirit is just as generous, if not more so. The impulse toward hospitality, neighborly charity, and mutual support runs incredibly deep. When disaster strikes, ordinary citizens open their wallets and their homes without a second thought. It’s just what they do… ‎ ‎And Pakistan’s has one of the world’s top class military engineering, a massive national disaster agency (the NDMA), and incredible private charities. The raw capacity is immense. Yet, too often, there is a however a very heartbreaking disconnect between that high-level power and the family standing in ankle deep water in a local neighborhood. An ordinary citizen here once described the country to me using a metaphor I’ve never forgotten: a child that was never allowed to stand on its own feet. An infant isn’t helpless because it lacks potential. It’s helpless because it hasn’t been given the space to build muscle, fall over, adjust its balance, and try again. If an authority figure picks the child up every single time it tries to pull itself up, the child never learns to walk—not from a lack of ability, but because the environment denied it the chance to build strength. ‎ ‎That is how systemic learned dependency takes root: Central authorities assume total control, bypassing local municipal councils. Neighborhoods are given no real budget or authority to fix their own drainage or organize local response teams. And when a flood comes, citizens have no choice but to wait for distant, top-down relief. The authorities look at the waiting crowd and say, “See? The people can’t manage without us.” ‎We witness power centralized even further, deepening the exact helplessness it claims to fix. Over generations, people adapt to the system they are given. If a system rewards waiting for a political patron, people learn to wait for patrons. If it rewards local initiative, communities build habits of self-reliance. It is very easy to blame culture or public apathy for civic passivity, but that misses the point entirely. Culture simply reflects the structural incentives people are given to survive and adapt. It is nature vs nurture and we have a break down when these two things fail to promote a cohesiveness and inclusion of what is a community and what that actually means. ‎ ‎Across the globe, the relationship between state control and citizen participation varies wildly, proving that central authority does not have to mean public powerlessness. In China, a deeply centralized state framework actively structures and expects local neighborhood committees and civil volunteer groups to manage community-level crises. Across much of Europe, comprehensive state safety nets exist alongside highly empowered municipal councils and professionalized local volunteer forces.

Every few months, someone declares that people no longer need literature. The argument usually sounds convincing enough. We live in a world of instant news, endless social media, podcasts, and artificial intelligence. Information arrives faster than ever before. Why spend days with a novel when an opinion can be delivered in mere seconds? Yet the strange thing is that the more information we have, the more relevant literature seems to become. Hand someone a novel written a century ago, and they might discover their own world reflected in its pages, including many of the same fears and uncertainties they face today. That is more than a coincidence. It is literature doing exactly what it has always done, peering beyond the moment in which it was written. Literature offers more than a compelling story and reminds us why it continues to resonate till date. Many admire literature for its alluring language and craft. Others value it for the evolutionary nature and futuristic tendencies. That’s the side this leans toward. Literature stays with us because it explains the world we’re still trying to make sense of. Every generation believes its experiences are unique. Pandemics feel unprecedented, propaganda seems like a modern invention and the world today evolves at a pace that feels unlike anything before it. Yet long before any of this dominated the headlines, writers had already imagined it, warned about it, or lived through versions of it themselves. Literature does not simply reflect its own era. It reaches far beyond it, exploring aspects of human nature that continue to surface despite changing circumstances. When COVID-19 hit in 2020, thousands of readers picked up a novel from 1947 and discovered echoes of the present. Albert Camus’s The Plague, set in the Algerian city of Oran, seemed to describe their own lives with strange precision; the empty streets, the panic-buying, the denial before the lockdowns, and that eerie numbness that emerged as the crisis dragged on. Camus never saw a pandemic like this coming. What he understood, decades before any of us lived through one, was how people respond when disruption takes hold. George Orwell did something similar, except his warning arrived even earlier. Nineteen Eighty-Four gave us words we now use so casually and forget they came from fiction: surveillance, doublethink, thoughtcrime. Orwell imagined a state where truth could be manipulated and every move was watched. Decades later, in a world run by data and constant tracking, his descriptions still feel eerily familiar. Pakistani writers were making this same point long before it became the world’s concern. Saadat Hasan Manto’s Toba Tek Singh imagined a man stranded between two countries decades before the world started talking about refugees and border crises. Qurratulain Hyder’s Aag Ka Darya traced the same cycle of displacement and rebuilding that we’re still watching today, whether in Gaza, Ukraine, or Afghanistan, revealing how human beings survive conflict no matter which war or which century it happens to be. What makes literature so accurate over time is not mysticism. Writers were not fortune-tellers. They were keen observers of human nature. They sensed that while the world keeps reinventing itself, people rarely do. A writer who understands these instincts deeply enough, produces literature that seems to anticipate futures it was never meant to witness. That same power demands caution. Literature can expose hidden truths just as easily as it can be used as a tool of persuasion. Throughout history, poems, novels, and stories have been used to shape how people think, feel, and behave. Rudyard Kipling’s The White Man’s Burden is a reminder of how easily powerful narratives can turn domination into duty. It shows how persuasive language can make unequal power structures appear virtuous and troubling ideas sound noble. The same dynamic persists today, whenever power seeks a more palatable language to conceal itself. The Soviet Union promoted an entire genre known as socialist realism, where literature was not expected to explore human complexity but to glorify the state and inspire loyalty. Even something as ordinary as a school curriculum works the same way. The books chosen for students are never just neutral stories. They are early lessons that shape young minds, teaching them which histories to trust and which values to hold onto. This is the quiet, manipulative side of literature that doesn’t need to announce itself, yet still decides how an entire generation views the world. Literature deserves more than passive consumption. The same stories that broaden our understanding can also be used to influence and persuade. That makes reading critically, asking who wrote something and why, not just an academic skill, but a way of navigating a world built on narratives. What keeps literature alive is not tradition, nostalgia, or academic praise. It is the moment of recognition it still delivers. When a writer long gone can describe anxieties, conflicts, and dilemmas that feel unmistakably current, how many of our modern concerns are merely old questions in new disguises?