Beyond Public Finance: Towards  Constitutional Po…

By Muhammad Imran, Staff Member, SAHSOL-LUMS and Asma Rahmat, Final Year Law Student, SLC, Superior University and Muhammad Ameer Hamza, Final Year Law Student, SLC, Superior University Introduction: Pakistan appears to be entering yet another phase of constitutional uncertainty, engineering, or manipulation, where political developments, institutional pronouncements, and proposals for structural reforms are converging to reshape the national discourse. Recent statements by senior state functionaries have reignited debate over governance, federalism, constitutional amendments, and the future distribution of political power. Whether these developments represent genuine constitutional reform or another episode of constitutional engineering remains an open question. The debate was triggered during an Economic Summit when the Federal Interior Minister, Syed Mohsin Naqvi, observed that the existing “hybrid” governance arrangement had exhausted its utility. While acknowledging the efforts of the Prime Minister, he maintained that the present political system could no longer deliver effective governance and therefore required a comprehensive “reset.” He further warned that, unless structural reforms were undertaken, Pakistan risked witnessing the resurgence of what he described as the CJP as “Cockroach Janta Party”; do not take it as Chief Justice of Pakistan (CJP), a political phenomenon which, in his opinion, would be unsustainable. Within twenty-four hours, Lieutenant General Ahmed Sharif Chaudhry, Director General of ISPR, echoed concerns regarding governance during his media briefing. He emphasized that Parliament bears the constitutional responsibility to devise solutions to persistent governance failures. He further argued that Pakistan’s rapidly expanding population necessitates a serious national debate on the creation of additional provinces to improve administrative efficiency, public service delivery, and democratic accessibility. More significantly, he linked good governance with national security, observing that sustainable counter-terrorism efforts require not only military preparedness but also effective civilian governance and institutional stability. These successive statements have inevitably fuelled speculation regarding another phase of constitutional restructuring. Following the enactment of the person-specific (Justice Syed Mansoor Ali Shah) Twenty-Seventh Constitutional Amendment, which substantially altered Pakistan’s judicial architecture by establishing the Federal Constitutional Court (FCC) and redistributing the constitutional jurisdiction of the Supreme Court, political circles have begun discussing the possibility of a Twenty-Eighth Constitutional Amendment. Although no formal proposal has yet emerged, reports suggest that the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) remains cautious about any constitutional initiative that may dilute the federal autonomy secured through the Eighteenth Constitutional Amendment, particularly the post-NFC fiscal arrangement. Federalism and the NFC Question: Any discussion concerning new provinces inevitably intersects with Pakistan’s fiscal federalism. The Seventh National Finance Commission (NFC) Award and the Eighteenth Amendment fundamentally altered the Federation’s financial architecture by allocating a substantially larger share of federal revenues to the provinces. While these reforms strengthened provincial autonomy, they simultaneously reduced the fiscal capacity of the Federation. Successive federal governments have therefore expressed concern regarding the shrinking financial resources available to discharge expanding national responsibilities. Similar proposals for revisiting the NFC framework surfaced during the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) government; however, they never materialized because constitutional amendments require a two-thirds parliamentary majority—a threshold that remained politically unattainable. The Politics of New Provinces: The proposal to create additional provinces is hardly novel. For decades, constitutional scholars have argued that Pakistan’s demographic expansion justifies administrative decentralization. Provinces with populations exceeding those of many sovereign states inevitably face governance challenges, administrative inefficiencies, and unequal public service delivery. Yet constitutional necessity has consistently collided with political reality. Pakistan’s two dominant political parties—the Pakistan Muslim League (Nawaz) (PML-N) and the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP)—have repeatedly expressed conditional support for provincial reorganization while demonstrating limited political willingness to implement it. Their reluctance is attributable not merely to the enormous financial burden of establishing new legislatures, governors’ houses, provincial secretariats, judicial institutions, police organizations, and civil services. More fundamentally, new provinces would inevitably redistribute political influence, electoral constituencies, financial resources, and administrative authority. The current debate vividly illustrates this contradiction. The PPP has argued that provincial reorganization should begin with Punjab, Pakistan’s largest province by population. The PML-N, whose electoral dominance is centred in Punjab, has shown little enthusiasm for initiating such reforms within its own political base. Consequently, critics contend that the resistance to provincial restructuring reflects electoral calculations as much as constitutional considerations. Constitutional Amendments versus Constitutional Governance: Pakistan’s constitutional history demonstrates that amendments have frequently been employed as instruments of political expediency rather than mechanisms of democratic consolidation. Whether enacted by military governments or elected administrations, constitutional amendments have often reflected prevailing political necessities instead of broad constitutional consensus. The central question, therefore, is not whether another constitutional amendment should be enacted, but whether constitutional amendments alone are capable of resolving Pakistan’s chronic governance crisis. Experience suggests otherwise: No constitutional amendment—regardless of its political significance—can compensate for weak institutions, ineffective governance, deficient accountability, or inconsistent adherence to constitutional norms. Constitutional text may reorganize institutions, but it cannot, by itself, transform political culture. The Crisis of Democratic Representation: Pakistan’s more profound constitutional challenge lies elsewhere. A constitutional democracy derives its legitimacy from authentic political representation. Citizens must possess the genuine ability to elect representatives through elections that are free, fair, transparent, and universally trusted. Only under such conditions can Parliament legitimately exercise constituent authority on behalf of the people. Critics of Pakistan’s constitutional evolution have long argued that recurrent political interruptions, institutional interventions, and governance deficits have prevented representative democracy from maturing into a fully autonomous constitutional order. Consequently, civilian supremacy—despite being an essential constitutional aspiration—has often remained institutionally fragile, docile and compliant. Without addressing the quality and credibility of democratic representation, constitutional amendments risk becoming procedural exercises rather than substantive democratic reforms. Institutional Power and Constitutional Accountability: Recent political developments have also revived debate regarding the practical distribution of constitutional authority among state institutions. The Federal Interior Minister’s public assertion that the existing political system had “collapsed,” while continuing to serve in one of the most influential positions within the federal cabinet, generated significant constitutional commentary. Political analysts have interpreted this episode in different ways, but it has undeniably raised broader questions concerning constitutional accountability, institutional autonomy, civilian authority, and the practical operation of Pakistan’s

The United Nations General Assembly settled 12 August as International Youth Day in 1999, following a recommendation of the World Conference of Ministers Responsible for Youth. The first International Youth Day was observed in 2000. Since then, every year on 12 August, the world observes International Youth Day. This day recognizes the contribution of young people and brings the challenges they face into public and policy discussions. Young people must have meaningful opportunities to participate in decisions that affect their education, employment, communities and future. The United Nations defines youth, for statistical purposes, as persons between 15 and 24 years of age. There are around 1.2 billion young people in this age group worldwide, representing approximately 16 percent of the global population. By 2030, their number is projected to reach nearly 1.3 billion. These figures tell an important story. The success of our development policies will depend significantly on whether this generation has access to quality education, decent employment, skills, justice, equality and meaningful participation. Young people are entering adulthood at a time of extraordinary change. Artificial intelligence and digital technologies are transforming education and employment. Climate change is reshaping economies and communities. Conflicts and displacement continue to affect millions. At the same time, young people themselves are developing new ideas, businesses, technologies and social movements to respond to these challenges. The question is not what governments can do for youth, but what governments and institutions can achieve with youth. The international approach towards youth has gradually evolved. Participation, development and peace have been central themes of the UN’s work on youth for decades. In 2015, the UN Security Council unanimously adopted Resolution 2250 on Youth, Peace and Security, recognizing the important role young people can play in preventing violence and building peace. This recognition is significant because youth participation should go beyond inviting young people to conferences, consultations or ceremonial events. Meaningful participation means providing them with a genuine opportunity to influence policies and institutions. One of the strongest messages emerging from recent International Youth Day discussions is the importance of local youth action. The UN’s 2025 theme, “Local Youth Actions for the SDGs and Beyond,” emphasized that global development commitments ultimately have to produce results in communities. The UN noted that more than 65 percent of Sustainable Development Goal targets are linked to local governance, making youth participation at the local level particularly important. The Sustainable Development Goals may be global, but many of the problems they address are experienced locally. A young person experiences unemployment in a household, not in an international conference. A girl experiences barriers to education in her community. Climate change may appear in the form of floods, drought, extreme heat or disappearing livelihoods. Discrimination, violence and exclusion are similarly experienced in everyday life. This is why youth participation must reach local government, educational institutions, community organizations and development programmes. Young people should have opportunities not only to identify problems but also to help design and implement solutions. The theme of International Youth Day 2026 is “Different Contexts, Common Aspirations,”. The theme explains that though young people live in very different social, economic, and geographic circumstances, they share common hopes for dignity, quality education, decent work, meaningful participation, equal opportunity, and a sustainable future. These aspirations are particularly important for youth in Least Developed Countries, Landlocked Developing Countries, and Small Island Developing States, where poverty, climate change, geographic isolation, digital inequality, and limited opportunities often create additional barriers. Yet young people are not simply recipients of development; they are leaders, innovators, and co-creators of change. Equipping them with future-ready skills can enable them to turn shared challenges into shared solutions. Education systems therefore cannot remain focused only on degrees and examinations. Young people need critical thinking, communication, creativity, digital literacy, problem-solving and the ability to continuously learn. At the same time, access must remain central. Opportunities created by technology mean little if large numbers of young people lack quality education, internet access, training or pathways into decent employment. Young people’s role is equally important in strengthening justice and peaceful societies. When young people feel excluded from institutions and decision-making, the distance between citizens and the State can increase. Conversely, meaningful civic participation can strengthen trust, social cohesion and accountability. Young people should therefore have space in discussions about the rule of law, access to justice, gender equality, climate justice, human rights and peacebuilding. Their participation should extend from community initiatives to national policymaking. The scale of Pakistan’s youth population makes these challenges even more significant. The 2023 census recorded 67 percent of Pakistan’s population as below the age of 30, while around 63 million people, or 26 percent of the population, were between 15 and 29. Yet demographic strength contrasts sharply with socioeconomic reality: around 27 percent of young people are illiterate, while World Bank estimates indicate that 37 percent of those aged 15-24 are not in employment, education or training. At the same time, this is an increasingly connected generation that uses digital technology and social media to express its opinions, aspirations and frustrations. Young Pakistanis want to be heard and to have a meaningful role in policymaking, but many perceive traditional political structures as disconnected from their concerns. Their disengagement from conventional politics should therefore not necessarily be interpreted as political apathy; it may instead reflect disillusionment with institutions that they believe do not adequately represent them. A particularly serious challenge is the growing sense of frustration among Pakistan’s young people. When young people see limited space for participation in political decision-making, few opportunities for economic advancement, and an education system that does not sufficiently encourage critical and independent thinking, frustration can gradually turn into hopelessness. 829,000 Pakistanis registered for employment abroad in 2022 as an indication of the desire to seek opportunities elsewhere. The larger lesson is that Pakistan cannot treat its youth merely as a population statistic; young people need meaningful inclusion in political, economic and intellectual life. International Youth Day should encourage governments, universities, civil society, development organizations

In the winter of 1979, a neighbour’s house caught fire. The Soviet Union had marched into Afghanistan, and the flames of war were licking at the walls of Kabul. From across the ocean, a distant power arrived at Pakistan’s door. It did not come with soldiers. It came with money, guns, and a promise: *”Let us fight this fire together. Use your roof. Use your roads. We will stand with you. We will not let the fire reach your house.”* Pakistan opened its door. What else could it do? The Soviet army sat on its western border. The world was divided into two camps, and neutrality was a luxury no frontline state could afford. For ten years, Pakistan became the staging ground for a war that was not its own. It hosted three million refugees. Its cities swelled. Its tribal areas became training grounds for fighters armed and funded by outside money. Weapons arrived by the shipload through Karachi. Pakistani officers coordinated strategy. Every bullet fired at a Soviet convoy in the Hindu Kush passed through Pakistani hands. The distant power paid the bills. It sent the Stinger missiles. It called the resistance fighters “freedom fighters” and Pakistan a “frontline state.” But the war was never truly about Pakistan’s safety. It was about bleeding the Soviet Union in a distant mountainside, using Pakistani soil as the operating theatre and Afghan bodies as the currency. Then, in 1989, the Soviet Union withdrew. The fire in the neighbour’s house went out. And the distant power that had promised eternal friendship turned its attention elsewhere. The billions dried up. The diplomatic interest evaporated. Afghanistan, the battlefield, was left to warlords who turned the weapons on each other. Pakistan was left with three million refugees who would not go home, a Kalashnikov culture that would not disappear, and a border that would never again be quiet. The weapons that had been given to fight the Soviets did not rust. They remained. They moved into streets, into disputes, into corners of the country where the state had never fully reached. The guest who had brought the fire extinguisher had started a blaze that spread to the host’s own house — and then moved to a new neighbourhood. The distant power won its strategic objective at the cost of Afghan and Pakistani soil, then walked away. Its own cities were never bombed. Its own children never became refugees. Its economy never staggered under the weight of someone else’s war. Pakistan, which had signed no formal treaty of alliance but had acted as an ally in every meaningful sense, was left holding the pieces. This is what happens when alliances are forged in the middle of a fire. The stronger partner does not need your victory. He needs your usefulness. He needs you to hold the front, to absorb the blow, to stand in a place where he does not wish to stand. And when the war ends, he will shake your hand and go home — while you remain amid the embers, wondering why the fire you helped extinguish has reignited in your own courtyard. History records a curious pattern. The alliances that have endured — the ones that outlasted their founders and shaped the world for generations — were almost never built while the house was burning. NATO was forged in 1949, not because the bombs were falling on Paris, but because the memory of war was still fresh and the desire to prevent it was shared. The parties had time to read the text, to negotiate the terms, to build institutions that could survive a change of government on either side. An alliance born in the middle of a fire is a different creature entirely. It is an emergency measure. And emergency measures have a way of becoming permanent arrangements that no one planned and no one fully controls. When you sign while the heat is at your back and the smoke is in your eyes, you do not have time to ask who owns the hose, who pays for the water, and who walks away when the flames are out. The Afghan episode is not ancient history. It is in our own lifetime. It is written in the smoke that still rises from our western border. And it is written in the simple fact that the weapons once aimed at a northern invader eventually turned inward, because no one had written a clause for what happens after the guest leaves. Pakistan has every right to defend itself. Pakistan has every right to seek friends in a dangerous world. But history offers a quiet observation for those who are listening: **the strongest alliances are built in peacetime, not borrowed in panic.** The fire is real. The neighbour’s house is burning. Yet the hand that offers protection in the middle of a war is holding a different ledger than the hand that offers partnership in the middle of calm. That is not a warning against friendship. It is simply what the record shows.

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.

Regions with structural problems need structural fixes, not more funding formulas. Pakistan’s administrative map was drawn for a country that no longer exists. We have four provinces today, the same number we had 55 years ago, while East Pakistan, which used to be one province, now has eight administrative units and 64 subdivisions or districts. Since then Pakistan’s population has multiplied several times over, but the map has not moved an inch. That mismatch is the primary reason why resources never reach the people who need them. Pakistan’s approach when it comes to managing resources is wrong for a country this size. The population crossed 241 million in 2023, with density around 260 people per square kilometre. On its own, this is a sign of a healthy, growing country, just until we look at how that population is actually distributed. In the last six years alone, the country has added roughly 35 million people, which is a 16 percent increase. Sixty-one percent of that population lives in rural areas, 39 percent in cities like Islamabad, Lahore and Karachi. The alarmingly undeniable fact is that the trend keeps moving one direction, in which young people keep leaving villages for urban areas because those are the only places where jobs, universities and hospitals reliably exist. This migration is certainly not a lifestyle choice. This is bound to happen when four provincial governments are asked to administer a population that is five times larger than the one they were built for. Punjab alone holds 59 percent of the country’s population. It is administered as a single unit, but its population is more than most countries on earth. No provincial government, no matter however competent it is, can deliver electricity, healthcare and education evenly across a population that size from a single provincial capital. The same problem exists in reverse in Balochistan, which covers 48 percent of Pakistan’s landmass but accommodates only 11 to 12 percent of the population, and has absorbed six of the last six years’ 16 points of national population growth despite having the country’s thinnest infrastructure. These two provinces tell the story of two completely different failures. The cause, however, is common: the administrative unit is the wrong size for the job. The numbers underneath this are national rather than regional. Eighty-two percent of Pakistanis have electricity, but that average hides the gap between urban grids and rural darkness; hence urbanisation. The list of problems does not stop here. Take Balochistan, where one doctor serves 10,000 to 10,500 people. Sixty percent of the province lacks clean water, and filtration plants are scarcer still. Moreover, 70 percent of rural communities nationwide lack adequate education, and 44 to 45 percent of people in those communities never reach middle school. The human cost of that distance is specific and repeats itself in province after province. Young doctors trained in these regions leave for Punjab, Sindh and Islamabad. The biggest reason is safety, since their lives can be at risk in remote postings. The second is that a health facility 30 kilometres from the nearest paved road, unable to stock full equipment, offers nothing to build a career on. Vocational training institutes exist in these areas but sit locked, not for lack of funding but because there is no administrative capacity to operate them. These are not Balochistan’s problems alone. They can happen anywhere a provincial government is too large, too centralised, or too distant to reach its own population. Balochistan simply shows the extreme case. If it were split into three or four provinces, governments could actually reach people there. Then there is this issue of financial distribution, and this is where the case for new provinces stops being administrative and becomes constitutional. Pakistan’s own constitution ties resource revenue to the province that produces it. Sindh generates around 70 percent of national revenue and receives back only 24 to 25 percent. Similarly, Balochistan sits on gas fields and mineral wealth that fund the federation, while its own communities remain unconnected to piped gas or reliable power. Calling this a technical funding gap would be wrong because the problem is structural. Provinces too large to manage internally are also too large to track what they are owed, let alone claim it. Regions with structural problems need structural fixes, which again brings us to the dire need for carving out more provinces instead of introducing more funding formulas layered onto the same four units. How many provinces should there be is debatable. There are four now, and making that six or eight is better than staying at four. That would certainly put administration close enough to reach a village 30 kilometres off the highway, and close enough that Punjab’s 59 percent isn’t governed as a single bloc or Balochistan’s 48 percent of the map isn’t governed as an afterthought. Balochistan’s neglect, Punjab’s congestion, Sindh’s revenue grievance, the pressure on Karachi and Lahore are not four different crises but one. And this crisis will not be solved by anyone currently governing under the old map.

These days, one phrase echoes throughout our country: “Pakistan’s system has collapsed.” If we translate the word collapse into plain, colloquial language, it means that our so-called system has completely broken down, gone to ruin, or become utterly dysfunctional. Therefore, the argument goes, the country now needs a new system. This, they claim, can only happen if, instead of the existing four provinces, Pakistan is reorganized into thirty or thirty-two new provinces. Such a restructuring, they believe, would push aside the traditional politicians and allow a new generation of political leaders to emerge. Otherwise, they warn, just as in India, there will be an uprising of the “cockroaches”—that is, the youth—which will force this collapsed, rotten system to surrender. At first glance, these words appear attractive and appealing. They express not only frustration and disgust with our current political situation but also offer hope to the younger generation, particularly Generation Z. It is as if they are saying: “Dear frustrated young people! We are opening the doors to your future. You will rise, dominate the scene, and sweep away all the debris of the past—that is, the traditional politicians—with the force of your determination and enthusiasm.” However, this humble writer sees, behind these beautiful words, not a bright future but the same worn-out and ugly mirage of the past. In reality, those who are truly responsible—the real culprits—cleverly distance themselves from blame, divert the attention of the youth toward others, and then present themselves as the young people’s sympathizers and supporters. In our poetry, it is through such tricks that the beloved murderer becomes an innocent beloved, and the criminal appears as the trusted confidant. But this humble writer calls it what it really is: “the thief making the loudest outcry.” Our national poet, Iqbal, once wrote: There is an outcry that Muslims have vanished from the world; We ask: Were true Muslims ever really present? In appearance you resemble Christians, in civilization the Hindus; These are the Muslims before whom even the Jews would feel ashamed. If, in today’s circumstances, you replace the word “Muslims” with “system,” the verses take on a striking new meaning: There is an outcry that the system has vanished from the country; We ask: Was there ever really a system to begin with? If we were to parody the remaining verses, they might be difficult for some to digest. Suffice it to say that those in power never truly allowed a genuine system to develop here. And whenever, after much struggle, some semblance of a system did emerge, there were always certain “respectable gentlemen” who seemed to have taken an invisible oath—or perhaps a vow of deliberate silence—that it must never be allowed to function. In the eyes of this humble writer, our system truly collapsed on 16 August 1946, when, under the guidance of the British establishment, the Direct Action Day was observed, reducing the foundations of any future system to rubble. From that point onward, the struggle was no longer for a functioning system but for personal rule. That struggle strangled democracy, human rights, liberty, and freedom, and instead built a grand highway of coercion and dictatorship. Anyone who dared to step off that path or disagree with it was labeled a traitor, an enemy of the nation, an Indian agent, or part of the so-called “Fitna-e-Hind” (the Indian conspiracy). These labels were then applied to whomever those in power wished. The first victim was Dr. Khan Sahib’s democratically elected provincial government in the North-West Frontier Province (now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa), which was dismissed within the very first week. Soon afterward, the same authoritarian mentality struck the government of Ayub Khuhro in Sindh. It was also decided that any cabinet member who failed to say “Yes, Sir” to the Governor-General would be considered dispensable. Once the founding generation established such principles of governance, why would later generations lag behind in following them? Thereafter, the race for personal power was inevitable. In the end, victory was bound to go to whoever possessed the greater force—whether the power of the stick or the gun. How could it be otherwise? If, instead of making the Constitution and the rule of law your source of authority, you rely on personal superiority, intimidation, prestige, and the power of office, then someone carrying a gun will inevitably dominate the throne of personal power. And once that happens, the cycle simply continues. It is a law of nature that the bigger fish eats the smaller fish. Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Liaquat Ali Khan, Ghulam Muhammad, and Iskander Mirza all played their respective roles. Later, when greater power confronted lesser power, the result was the rise of powerful military rulers such as Ayub Khan, Agha Yahya Khan, Zia-ul-Haq, Pervez Musharraf, Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, and Qamar Javed Bajwa. (To be continued)