Petroleum Minister’s diagnosis & indictment

Connecting Gilgit-Baltistan (GB) to the National Grid—and guaranteeing a dedicated clean hydro quota—is not merely an infrastructural goal; it is an ecological imperative and the definitive key to realizing the region’s full potential. High in the Karakoram and Himalayan ranges, where soaring glaciers feed the roaring Indus River, sits Gilgit-Baltistan—a land defined by its breathtaking landscapes, strategic geopolitical footprint, and an excruciating policy failure. Though this high-mountain region acts as the primary water tower of Pakistan, generating the very lifeblood that sustains the nation’s agricultural heartland and downstream hydroelectric dams, its own citizens spend their lives in perpetual darkness. For nearly eight decades since independence, the people of Gilgit-Baltistan have endured a chronic, soul-crushing energy crisis. In the harsh high-altitude winters, when temperatures plunge far below freezing and regional run-of-the-river hydel plants freeze solid or lose flow, power outages stretch to an agonizing twenty-two hours a day. Entire cities like Skardu and Gilgit grind to an absolute halt. Modern medical facilities run on expensive, precarious diesel generators, students study by the dim flicker of kerosene lamps, and families are forced to strip fragile mountain ecosystems of firewood simply to survive the winter. This domestic isolation becomes outright tragic when set against the backdrop of broader South Asian regional integration. Today, cross-border grid interconnections are becoming standard practice across the subcontinent. India has built high-voltage transmission lines linking its power architecture with Bhutan, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Myanmar, while making major technical strides to link Sri Lanka across the Palk Strait. Under frameworks like the “One Sun, One World, One Grid” initiative, neighboring nations seamlessly buy, sell, and route cross-border electricity to balance seasonal surpluses and deficits. Bhutan finances its national development by wheeling clean hydro power directly into the Indian market. Nepal trades its monsoon hydro surpluses across borders to avoid spilling water, pulling power back when river flows decline. Even nations separated by deep political, geographic, and sovereign boundaries manage to run copper and steel across international borders so their citizens do not sit in the dark. Yet, after 79 years of shared history, Pakistan presents an embarrassing anomaly. The state has built a national power grid that spans thousands of miles from the Arabian Sea to Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, and downcountry Pakistan often wrestles with systemic generation capacity surpluses, yet it has failed to link its own sovereign territory of Gilgit-Baltistan to the National Grid. Gilgit-Baltistan remains an island—an off-grid enclave stranded inside its own country, cut off from the main transmission backbone. While foreign nations in South Asia trade thousands of megawatts in real time across sovereign borders, Pakistan’s own northern frontier cannot draw a single kilowatt from the national thermal and solar reserves down south during the freezing winter months. This policy neglect is even more absurd considering that mere miles from where local populations freeze, one of the greatest engineering feats in South Asian history is taking shape. The Diamer Basha Dam Project, currently under construction near Chilas on the River Indus, boasts an astounding installed generation capacity of 4,500 megawatts and an expected annual output of over eighteen billion units of clean, renewable energy. The dam will transform Pakistan’s national economy, but it raises a fundamental moral and legal question: will it transform the lives of the people living in its shadow, or will the power simply pass over their heads to serve distant urban centers while local towns remain dark? To correct a structural imbalance that has persisted since 1947, the Federal Government of Pakistan and the Water and Power Development Authority (WAPDA) must formally dedicate a guaranteed quota of 500 megawatts of power from the Diamer Basha Dam directly to Gilgit-Baltistan. This allocation is not an act of federal charity; it is a pragmatic, economically transformative, and ethically mandatory policy that aligns local resource rights with national progress. To understand why a 500-megawatt direct allocation is essential, one must look at the region’s fragile, isolated micro-hydel infrastructure. Historically, Gilgit-Baltistan has relied on small-scale localized plants built on seasonal mountain streams. While these plants function adequately during the summer melt, they are acutely vulnerable to climate shifts and freeze cycles. When winter arrives and glacial run-offs plummet, local power generation drops by over eighty percent. Because the region is not connected to the main transmission grid, it cannot import balancing power, leaving the local economy frozen. Despite possessing immense potential as an international hub for eco-tourism, organic agriculture, high-altitude software hubs, and gemstone processing, serious industrial investors routinely stay away due to acute energy insecurity. The cost of doing business is artificially inflated by reliance on imported fossil fuels, creating a cycle of underdevelopment that forces educated, talented youth to migrate to major cities downcountry in search of basic livelihoods. Allocating 500 megawatts out of Diamer Basha’s 4,500-megawatt capacity represents just eleven percent of the dam’s total output. For the national power sector, absorbing this slight allocation is negligible. For Gilgit-Baltistan, however, this capacity is transformative. It represents complete regional energy self-sufficiency, year-round grid stability, and surplus capacity to fuel industrial growth for generations. To execute this vision cleanly and equitably, a structured cost-sharing implementation model must be established between the federal center and the region. The federal government and WAPDA must formally ring-fence a 500-megawatt generation quota from the powerhouse specifically for the region at concessional local tariffs. In return, the regional government of Gilgit-Baltistan must take complete ownership of downstream execution. The regional government must build high-voltage transmission lines connecting the powerhouse at Chilas to major regional load centers like Gilgit, Skardu, Hunza, and Ghizer, while overhauling local grid stations and distribution lines. By dividing responsibility—federal generation matched by regional distribution—both parties build a long-overdue partnership rooted in shared accountability. An allocation of this scale does far more than illuminate living rooms; it fundamentally reshapes the socio-economic trajectory of the entire northern frontier. With a dependable baseload, Gilgit-Baltistan can transition from a subsistence economy to a value-added manufacturing and processing hub. Local mineral wealth—including high-grade marble, granite, and precious gemstones—can be processed

A familiar and recurring phantom is once again haunting the political and intellectual horizon of Pakistan: the clamor for administrative redistribution and the carving out of new provinces. Whenever structural collapse, economic decay, and institutional governance reach their absolute nadir, the sanctums of power and the opaque enclaves of the establishment begin to chant a singular, predictable refrain. The root of all systemic malady, we are told, lies in the sheer geographical expanse of our existing provinces, and the ultimate panacea is the relentless division of the state. When one scrutinizes the subterranean motives, logical contradictions, and political expediencies governing this discourse, an uncomfortable truth starkly emerges. This persistent endeavor to shift the blame for chronic misgovernance and policy failure onto geographical boundaries, cultural entities, and ethnic identities is merely a resurrection of a time-worn colonial playbook—a deliberate diversion designed to distract the citizenry from real structural grievances while consolidating the apparatus of absolute control. History bears poignant witness to the reality that whenever ruling elites fail to mask their administrative ineptitude, systemic incompetence, and constitutional deviations, they seek refuge behind the seductive mirage of better governance, transforming the republic into an endless laboratory of reckless experimentation. One is compelled to ask: does any sound mind truly accept the medical wisdom of amputating a limb simply because a malignant ulcer has taken root in the arm? Are the pathologies of governance so superficial that merely redrawing cartographic lines will spontaneously engender distributive justice, institutional merit, the rule of law, and administrative transparency? A careful, unvarnished reading of pre-partition South Asian history reveals that this formula of administrative fragmentation was never a native or democratic innovation. Rather, it was a tested and ruthless instrument of British imperialism, rooted entirely in the cynical philosophy of “Divide and Rule.” In October 1905, when Lord Curzon partitioned the sprawling province of Bengal under the alluring and deceptive banner of administrative efficiency, improved governance, and better public service delivery, the official justification was identical to today’s rhetoric: that managing such a vast demographic mass from a single center was untenable. Yet history dealt a merciless blow to that colonial experiment. The people of Bengal rightly perceived the partition as a direct, existential assault on their linguistic, cultural, and political integrity, rising in fierce and unyielding resistance. Ultimately, the imperial master was forced into an ignominious retreat, revoking the partition of Bengal in 1911. That historical episode remains an enduring monument and a stark warning to contemporary rulers who imagine they can trifle with the collective historical memory, cultural affinity, and geographical unity of a populace under the intoxicating influence of unchecked power. From the very inception of Pakistan, the ruling classes consistently spurned the genuine principles of cooperative federalism, choosing instead to enshrine coercive and authoritarian centralism as the ultimate guarantee of their survival. During the formative decades of the republic, when the delicate question of distributing democratic rights among diverse constituent units arose, the dominant factions lacked the political maturity required for a pluralistic state. Instead, they forced all the western provinces and states into an unnatural straitjacket known as the “One Unit” scheme. That dark chapter of authoritarian engineering laid bare the callous indifference of the ruling elite toward the historical identities and rich diversity of the people, subjugating all societal bonds to the preservation of concentrated power. When that forced administrative edifice eventually fractured under the weight of unrelenting public resistance, the four-province federal structure was reluctantly conceded. Yet the true spirit of federalism was never allowed to breathe. The constitutional imperatives of provincial autonomy were systematically subverted, resources were inequitably distributed, and the unquenchable thirst for hegemony converted the federation into a fragile, crisis-ridden entity perpetually at war with its own constituent parts. Renowned scholars and theorists of public administration and cooperative federalism universally agree that when any sub-national unit exceeds optimal parameters in territory and population, it inevitably succumbs to bureaucratic inertia and administrative paralysis. According to global academic consensus, effective public service delivery demands a balanced proportional equilibrium between geography and demography, ensuring that the writ of the state and essential services penetrate even the most peripheral districts. However, the high-performing federal democracies of the world—such as the United States, Canada, Australia, or Germany—do not achieve excellence in governance merely because their constituent units happen to be geographically compact. They succeed because they rigorously enforce the foundational principle of **Subsidiarity**, which dictates that governance decisions must always be executed at the lowest possible tier capable of addressing them, rather than being arrogated by a distant center or provincial capital. Conversely, the powerful elite who orchestrate policy from behind the veil in Pakistan remain profoundly detached from this philosophical prerequisite. The core issue here is not the mere physical size of a province; it is the centralization of coercive power, deep-seated fiscal distortions, and a bankrupt political intent. In a country like Pakistan, where provinces already depend abjectly on federal transfers through the National Finance Commission (NFC) Award, attempting to carve out new provinces without addressing the fundamentals of fiscal federalism will only exponentially multiply the economic burden. If one merely replicates provincial capitals, bloated cabinets, and superfluous administrative secretariats without dismantling the underlying corruption, nepotism, and systemic incompetence, the public will find no relief from their miseries. Instead, the state will be pushed deeper into fiscal insolvency and bureaucratic suffocation. This brings us to the most fundamental and inescapable question: if four provinces were to be multiplied into eight, sixteen, or thirty-six administrative units tomorrow, would traditional political parties magically vanish? Would the actors occupying the corridors of power in these new provinces descend from another planet, or would they simply be the identical political dynasties and entrenched interest groups of the Pakistan Peoples Party, the Pakistan Muslim League, or Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf donning new nameplates? When the foundational structural architecture, the prevailing political culture, and the patronage networks of the elite remain utterly unaltered, how can the mere shifting of administrative borders dissolve the cancer of corruption, the

There is a common perception among experts that a new world order usually emerges after a world war or a major geopolitical event. Wars are caused by the irrational behavior of existing powers, illegal resource capture, and opposition to rising powers. These factors make the peaceful transition difficult. Thucydides’ Trap further explains the phenomenon. In modern history, World War I and World War II are often quoted as examples.   World War I began after Germany’s exponential growth and emergence as a new economic and global power. Germany’s efforts to enhance its influence further complicated the situation for existing powers such as the British Empire. It threatened them, and they started to conspire against Germany, especially after the launch of the Berlin-Baghdad railway line. The Berlin-Baghdad railway was considered a game-changing initiative for Europe and the Middle East. The British Empire negated it and built alliances with France; Russia, and later on, the USA helped them. World War II is considered a byproduct of the 1930s economic recession, Germany’s reemergence, Britain’s declining power, and the USA’s emergence as a new economic and global powerhouse.   World War I resulted in the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and Germany. It laid the first stone of the new empire, the USA. President Wilson tried to build on the fallen Empires and create a new world order through the League of Nations, but it could not sustain itself and ended with World War II. World War II ended with the collapse of Germany and the end of the two empires, the UK and Japan. After World War II, the USA emerged as a global empire and began crafting a new world order. Fortunately, it had the support of the USSR and China, which helped it create a new world order. However, after building a new world order, the USA turned against the USSR, and China laid the foundation of the Cold War Era.   The new system was built to continue the exploitation, but with new tools and strategies. With the end of World War II and the rise of freedom movements, the Western powers realized that the age of occupation and colonization had passed. It is not possible to enslave people physically. Thus, they pondered what new ways of controlling people should be. They identified the economy as a leading tool. Hence, they began devising tools to control the global economy. In the beginning, they leveraged the West’s production capacity to dominate the global economy. With the advent of globalization, they introduced tools to control supply chains and dominate markets by exerting absolute control over intellectual property rights, market rulemaking, and non-tariff barriers such as human rights, democracy, and the environment.  It led to the weaponization of the economy.   Simultaneously, they initiated the process to strengthen control over the financial system. The Bretton Woods institutions helped the USA and the West to dominate the global financial system. The US$ further consolidated its dominance as the leading global currency of global trade and reserves. Unfortunately, they also weaponized the global financial system.   However, with the dawn of the 21st century, they started to realize that new economic, technological, and trade powerhouses are emerging. These will challenge their dominance and exploitation. The rapid development and trade progress of the Global South further deepened their fears. China’s advances in technology and innovation made them worry about their future. However, China’s emergence as an alternative economic, trade, and technological power, challenging Western dominance in these areas, antagonized them.  After the launch of global initiatives such as GDI, GSI, BRI, GCI, GGI, AIIB, CIIE, and CIFTIS, among others, the West took off its gloves and began openly opposing China.   The West is opposing China, especially its BRI and technological aspects, just like the British and other powers opposed Germany’s rise and the Berlin-Baghdad railway line just before World War I. Therefore, many experts believe that the world is living under the threat of a looming third world war.   However, another school of thought claims the world is already in World War III, with different parameters. This time the battlefield would be trade, technology, and financial systems, as mentioned by an expert from Russia, Ms. Daria Para.   According to this theory, the world is already at war. President Trump has already intensified the trade war. He is using it as a tool to extract maximum benefit and consolidate the USA’s dominance over the global economic system. The USA is also not allowing any country to surpass it in the field of technology. First, in the late 90s and early 2000s, it compelled Japan to give up its dream of technological leadership. Now, the USA is doing everything to undermine Chinese advancements. It is sanctioning Chinese companies and compelling other nations to cut or restrict relations with China. Even the USA is creating challenges for Chinese students, as it considers them essential to technological development. Hence, admissions have dropped significantly. The USA has also weaponized the financial sector and is using it to penalize countries.   The war in these areas is deeply impacting humanity. It is aggravating inequality, food insecurity, and human suffering. This time, people are dying of malnutrition, unsafe water, poverty, and lack of opportunities for livelihoods, not with bullets or bombs. It is more painful and leaves lasting impacts on those who survive. Unfortunately, the war is intensifying in these fields. It is feared that soon it will lead to a hot war. First glimpses are already visible from the Iran-USA conflict, Russia-Ukraine conflict, regime change in Venezuela, blockade of Cuba, and conflicts in many other countries.   However, China and the Global South are still making every effort to avoid a third world war and create a new world order through reforms. The demand for reforms is rational and genuine, as due to flaws and inefficiencies of the existing order, inequality and poverty are on the rise and the world is facing the existential threat of climate change.

The signing of the Mecca Joint Defence Agreement by Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Türkiye on August 7 has opened a new and potentially consequential chapter in the security architecture of Asia and the Gulf. The agreement states that an armed attack against any one of the three countries will be regarded as an attack against all three, while envisaging deeper military coordination, joint exercises, intelligence cooperation and collaboration in areas including drones, electronic warfare, artificial intelligence and defence production. Türkiye has also indicated that the framework could eventually be expanded to other countries. What makes the development particularly significant is not simply the agreement itself, but the reaction from Washington. President Donald Trump has welcomed the pact as a “big, bold, important first step” towards regional countries being able to defend themselves more meaningfully. His words raise a larger strategic question, is the United States beginning to transfer a greater share of the burden of confronting Iran to regional powers, particularly the Gulf and Asian countries? Or making this region as its main combatant force against Iran? And what are the possible next steps? The answer is more complicated than a simple American withdrawal. Washington is unlikely to abandon the Middle East, its military assets, intelligence networks, diplomatic influence or relationships with Gulf states. What appears to be changing is the distribution of responsibility. The Trump administration’s broader philosophy of burden-sharing suggests that countries possessing substantial financial, military and strategic resources should assume greater responsibility for their own security rather than expecting Washington to carry the entire cost. In that sense, America may not be handing over the war against Iran, but it may be regionalising the consequences of that war. The distinction is crucial. A regionalised conflict can become much more dangerous because the number of actors involved increases. At the same time, regional ownership of security could eventually create a framework in which regional states themselves negotiate a new balance rather than remaining permanently dependent on an external power. The Pakistan-Saudi relationship provides the foundation for this transformation. The two countries signed their Strategic Mutual Defence Agreement in September 2025, committing themselves to collective security. The new Mecca agreement effectively brings Türkiye into a much broader strategic framework. Each country brings a different strategic asset. Saudi Arabia possesses enormous financial resources, energy influence and geographical importance. Türkiye brings one of the region’s most capable conventional militaries, a rapidly developing indigenous defence industry, drone technology and NATO experience. Pakistan brings a large and experienced military establishment and, uniquely among Muslim-majority states, a nuclear deterrent. The combination therefore has significance beyond its three signatories. It links the Gulf, South Asia and the eastern Mediterranean in a single security conversation. For Saudi Arabia, the agreement represents strategic insurance. Riyadh has increasingly understood that sophisticated American weapons alone cannot eliminate vulnerabilities created by missiles, drones, cyberwarfare and attacks on energy infrastructure. Diversifying its security relationships allows Saudi Arabia to maintain its partnership with Washington while simultaneously developing alternative sources of military capability. For Türkiye, the pact fits into Ankara’s long-standing ambition to exercise greater strategic autonomy. Türkiye remains a NATO member, but it has increasingly demonstrated that it does not want its foreign policy to be dictated by any single great power. A defence relationship stretching from Türkiye through Saudi Arabia to Pakistan expands Ankara’s influence across two strategically vital regions. For Pakistan, however, the equation is much more delicate. Pakistan has the opportunity to emerge as an important security bridge between South Asia and the Gulf, but it also has a geographical reality that cannot be ignored, it shares a border with Iran. Islamabad cannot afford to treat Tehran simply as an enemy without exposing itself to enormous security, economic and diplomatic risks. Pakistan therefore faces the most difficult balancing act of the three. Its relationship with Saudi Arabia is strategically important. Its relationship with Türkiye is deepening. Its partnership with China remains fundamental. Its relationship with the United States is economically and strategically significant. Yet Iran is its immediate western neighbour, with which it shares a long border and important diplomatic and economic interests. This makes Pakistan potentially more valuable as a mediator than as a frontline combatant. If Islamabad can defend Saudi Arabia while simultaneously maintaining communication with Tehran, it could acquire an extraordinary diplomatic role. Pakistan could become one of the few countries capable of speaking to the Gulf, Iran, Türkiye, China and Washington at the same time. That possibility is already visible in Pakistan’s efforts to maintain diplomatic engagement with Iran while navigating its defence commitments to Saudi Arabia. The Iranian response will be critical. Although the three countries have described the agreement as defensive rather than an alliance directed against a particular state, Tehran will inevitably examine its military implications. A coordinated Saudi-Turkish-Pakistani security structure potentially means improved intelligence, air defence, military exercises, drone capabilities and defence-industrial cooperation around Iran’s strategic neighbourhood. But this could produce two very different outcomes. The first is escalation. Iran could interpret the emerging architecture as an attempt to encircle it and respond by strengthening its missile forces, regional partnerships and asymmetric capabilities. The Gulf could then become increasingly militarised, with every defensive measure interpreted by the other side as preparation for aggression. The second possibility is deterrence leading eventually to diplomacy. If Iran concludes that it cannot achieve regional dominance through military pressure, while Saudi Arabia and other Gulf states conclude that permanent dependence on American protection is neither sufficient nor sustainable, both sides may eventually have an incentive to negotiate a regional security arrangement. That would be the more constructive outcome. The danger, however, is that the emerging alliance could be interpreted through a sectarian lens. Saudi Arabia, Türkiye and Pakistan are all Sunni-majority states, while Iran is the region’s principal Shia power. If the new security architecture becomes identified as a Sunni military bloc confronting Shia Iran, it could revive precisely the sectarian competition that has destabilised the Middle East for decades. Pakistan should be particularly careful

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 fifth part of this series examined how Pakistan’s strategic location, domestic privileges and recurring external assistance have produced a rent-based political economy. The state has repeatedly obtained temporary relief without undertaking the constitutional and productive transformation required for genuine economic independence. Professor Ehtisham Ahmad’s proposed monograph, Can Pakistan evolve from a dependent “buffer state”? (shared with many including me), raises the right question at the right time. Unlike conventional reports that treat Pakistan merely as an under-taxed developing economy, he recognises the historical relationship between strategic rents, external dependency, fiscal weakness and recurring recourse to the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and other lenders. His central concern deserves serious engagement rather than routine approval or dismissal. This part is humble attempt to analyse his proposed monograph. Ehtisham Ahmad argues that Pakistan’s geographic position has periodically enabled it to obtain external assistance as a frontline or buffer state. During the Cold War, the Afghan conflict and the post-9/11 period, strategic usefulness generated substantial inflows. When geopolitical support receded, the IMF and multilateral institutions frequently stepped in to fill the breach. His published study, ‘Political Economy of Tax and Digital Transformations in Pakistan’, similarly connects Pakistan’s stop-go aid experience with its failure to undertake sustainable domestic resource mobilisation.  This is an important advance over revenue-only analysis. Pakistan’s persistent dependence cannot be explained simply by weak tax administration, low compliance or insufficient technical capacity. External rents have reduced the immediate pressure to negotiate a durable fiscal settlement with citizens. They have also strengthened institutions positioned to manage Pakistan’s strategic relationship with external powers. Ehtisham Ahmad is equally persuasive in identifying serious defects in Pakistan’s tax structure. He correctly criticises the conversion of value added tax (VAT) into a production excise, the proliferation of exemptions, the destruction of the invoice chain, cascading, excessive withholding taxation, nuisance levies and the absence of an arms-length administration. His insistence that taxation must be linked with growth, investment, distribution and political economy is entirely justified. His criticism of digitalisation without comprehensive change management is also timely. Computerising defective procedures cannot cure the institutional incentives that produced them. Linking identity numbers, tax registrations, invoices and financial information may improve enforcement, but technology cannot decide whether the law will be applied equally. These insights substantially overlap with the argument developed in this series. The difficulty arises at the next stage. Ehtisham begins with a powerful political-economy diagnosis but gradually returns to a largely public-finance remedy. Pakistan is first presented as a security-dependent buffer state; its continuing weakness is then explained mainly through the Government of India Act 1935, fragmented tax assignments, a split VAT, inadequate provincial own-source revenue and incomplete digital transformation. The analytical journey moves from geopolitics to tax architecture too quickly. Pakistan is not dependent merely because it has a badly designed VAT or an inefficient division of taxing powers. Its tax system has itself been shaped by the distribution of political, institutional and strategic power. Exemptions, withholding taxes, petroleum levies, blocked refunds and arbitrary concessions are not accidental departures from an otherwise neutral system. They reflect bargains through which burdens and benefits are distributed. Fiscal design matters greatly. It cannot by itself explain why successive governments have preserved arrangements that are demonstrably damaging to growth, documentation and equity. Ehtisham assigns considerable importance to the Government of India Act 1935. The Act undoubtedly institutionalised a colonial distribution of legislative and fiscal authority. It divided functions between the centre and provinces while reserving decisive powers for the Governor-General and provincial governors. Its legislative lists influenced the constitutional development of both India and Pakistan.  Colonial inheritance, however, cannot become a substitute for analysing postcolonial responsibility. Pakistan adopted constitutions in 1956, 1962 and 1973. It experienced repeated military interventions, the dismemberment of the country in 1971, presidential centralisation, uneven National Finance Commission Awards, extensive constitutional amendments and decades of external security alliances. Each period involved decisions made by domestic actors possessing agency, interests and power. The present Constitution of 1973 is not pari materia to “1972 Constitution”. The Interim Constitution operated in 1972, whereas the permanent constitutional settlement reached on April 10, 1973. The 1973 became operative from August 14, 1973. This is more than a matter of nomenclature. Pakistan’s fiscal federalism must be examined through the constitutional bargain consciously adopted after the catastrophe of 1971. The Constitution (Eighteenth Amendment) Act, 2010 also cannot be treated simply as Pakistan “doubling down” on the colonial arrangements of 1935. It was a democratic response to prolonged centralisation and an attempt to restore parliamentary federalism, provincial autonomy and the original character of the 1973 Constitution. Problems created by the division of sales tax on goods and services are real. Businesses should not be subjected to multiple registrations, conflicting interpretations, fragmented audits and unnecessary compliance costs.  A common base, harmonised definitions, integrated information, a clearing mechanism and coordinated administration are all necessary. Coordination need not mean re-centralisation. Pakistan’s federation cannot be redesigned solely for the convenience of tax administrators. Fiscal arrangements must also preserve provincial autonomy, democratic accountability and the lessons of constitutional history. A technically elegant centralised system may produce serious political and constitutional costs if imposed without consent. Ehtisham’s historical thesis requires similar caution. He suggests that the British deliberately sought to create a weak and dependent buffer state along the Indus to preserve strategic influence in the continuing “Great Game”. This is a significant hypothesis, deserving investigation through archival evidence. It should not be presented as settled history without fuller documentation. The official Cabinet Mission statement of May 16, 1946 expressly declined to recommend the transfer of power to two completely separate sovereign states. It proposed a Union dealing with foreign affairs, defence and communications, while residuary powers would remain with the provinces and provinces could form groups.  The document may be interpreted in different ways, but its stated scheme was for a united, highly decentralised India rather than the immediate creation of a separate buffer state.  Claims that the NWFP (now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa) referendum was secured through ballot stuffing, that