Beyond’s the Bombing: The True Cost of Terrorism…

By Hamza Bio: The author is a student at LUMS from Quetta, Baluchistan, majoring in political science. Cobwebs clung to the corners. Old things lay strewn across the floor. Musty air permeated the room, heavy with a dense smell. And there lay Muntaha, old enough to shoulder a schoolbag, yet young enough to trust that the world outside would not betray her. A seven-year-old child assaulted, raped, and murdered. Was it an aberration, a crime so atrocious that it crossed the bounds of abomination—liable to be dismissed as the work of a depraved mind? Facts offer an utterly different story. Eighteen-month-old Aizal recently met the same fate. Mir Raza, a young IBA graduate and a thriving businessman with a promising life stretching before him, was robbed of his life; his post-mortem examination revealed traces of acid and marks of torture that his body bore. Different names. Different stories. Yet testifying to the same grim pattern that recurs persistently. And perhaps more distressing is our habituation to it: another story breaks, headlines saturate social media feeds, condolences arrive, vacuous promises follow, and eventually, the outrage subsides. Until it happens again. With each gruelling episode, our emotional responses are sapped. That which once transfixed us with horror now hardly unsettles us. The gravity does not diminish; we resign ourselves to the dismal reality. What’s even more disturbing is the gradual erosion of our capacity to acutely realise the weight of these atrocities. This phenomenon ought not to be labelled as apathy. Apathy is much simpler: it is the vacancy of feeling. What we are experiencing is something far more pernicious: a gradual distortion of our senses, recalibrating what we consider shocking. We are undergoing an unconscious normalisation and readjustment to realities that are far from normal. Accustomed to darkness, we watch the very conception of light wither away. We do not cease to care. We require more to feel the same empathy and gravitas that were once instantly evoked. The implications of this shifting baseline are dire. Now for a story to break through, it requires something more heart-rending. It must involve fire, a child, acid, or a lynching to pierce through the noise—although briefly. We have not become cruel; our threshold has changed, filtering out and grading horrors on a curve. And the worst part? We scarcely realise the higher standard that we establish. There is a peculiar cruelty that this readjustment entails. No one consents to feel less over a murdered child, an acid attack, or a sexual assault. It unfolds and creeps in us in increments: one story, one headline, one brutality, one brief sigh. Until the sum of it all is a society that can read about Aizal, Muntaha, and Mir Raza in a single sitting, with its emotional faculties completely exhausted. The prevailing emotion changes from fury to fatigue. What we are surrendering, with each successive case, is not compassion; it is accountability. Accountability when it matters the most, until the headlines fade away from our feeds, the case is buried in the docket, and the victim is swallowed by history—before another name appears to draw another sigh of grief. A society that, though unconsciously, decides to exist beside crimes instead of demanding a reckoning for the culpable is perpetually doomed to remain rife with them because the ability to feel, to question, and to compel accountability has been effectively degraded. The outcome of it all is not that we will turn a blind eye to the horrors; we will grieve—briefly, outrageously, sincerely, and uselessly. Our grief will remain precisely in the same fashion but will fail to prevent such abhorrent acts because the mechanism that might have translated outrage into tangible outcome has been rendered inoperative through the desensitising monotony of repetition. The result? A society that has stopped reacting meaningfully. Brief outcry coupled with a hollow response results in a late, defanged, or no outcome at all. The perpetrators, who may have been deterred by the consequences, now have less to dread. Thus, further crime is bred, and its miscreants emboldened. Desensitization is a distinct peril from the crimes that breed it in the first place. It consistently curtails the cost of crime for everyone still capable of inflicting it. When the very alarm that stirs our conscience has been paralysed, a subtle message is whispered that another child, another toddler, or another youth awaits the same fate as Muntaha, Aizal, or Mir Raza.  

In the shadowed epochs before the dawn of Islam, the affairs of mankind were beset by profound confusion and moral clutter. The pursuit of ethical values, the recognition of basic human rights, the establishment of social equality, and the fair administration of justice remained fragmented ideals, often trampled beneath tyranny, tribal feuds, and unchecked passions. It fell to the boundless mercy of Almighty Allah to illuminate this darkness through His divine word, the Holy Quran, which brought order, harmony, and clarity to the chaos of human existence. The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, the final Messenger and Seal of the Prophets, then embodied these heavenly injunctions in his blessed life and teachings, translating sacred principles into living practice for all generations to follow. As centuries unfolded, new challenges and complexities inevitably emerged within Muslim societies. These were met not by innovation detached from revelation, but through the profound insight and disciplined wisdom of the rightly guided Imams and classical Islamic scholars. Their verdicts and interpretations remained ever subordinate in spirit and letter to the Quran and the authentic Sunnah, ensuring fidelity to the original divine sources. In this rich tradition, the requirements of an Islamic state were meticulously outlined; the conduct of government, the promotion of public welfare, the organisation of society, and the solemn duties of jihad. Even the refined manners of warfare received explicit attention, together with the strict conditions and ethical boundaries that must govern any legitimate striving in Allah’s cause. Thus, faith offered comprehensive guidance for both peace and peril. Regrettably, in our own turbulent times, certain elements have invoked the noble name of Islam to perpetrate acts that the Quran and Sunnah utterly repudiate. Prominent among these forbidden paths is khuruj – armed rebellion against legitimate state authority – a violation that the classical scholarly tradition of Islam has condemned with one voice across fourteen centuries as a source of fitnah and grave sin. In Pakistan, extremist factions deliberately distort this consensus to legitimise their campaigns of insurgency and terror. Yet the evidence stands irrefutable; upholding constituted authority remains a binding religious obligation upon every Muslim citizen. The Holy Quran commands with unmistakable clarity: “Obey Allah, obey the Messenger, and those in authority among you.” No scholarly interpretation grants sanction to armed revolt against Pakistan’s institutions. The Prophet, peace be upon him, cautioned that whoever withdraws from the community even by a handspan and dies in that state departs in the death of ignorance. Ibn Taymiyyah, frequently misquoted by militants, in fact affirmed that prolonged rule by an imperfect leader is preferable to anarchy, and he rejected rebellion outright. Imam al-Nawawi and Imam al-Ghazali similarly warned that the cure of insurrection proves worse than the ailment of injustice it claims to heal. The Prophet likened rightful leadership to a shield behind which the people are protected; Pakistan’s security forces fulfil this sacred role today, rendering support for them not merely civic duty but an act of profound religious obedience. Grievances, the Quran directs, must be channelled through lawful avenues – through courts, scholarly counsel, and reasoned advocacy – never through the chaos of the sword. Even in the face of oppression, the Prophet instructed believers to render due rights to authorities while petitioning Allah for their own. The exemplary patience of Imam Ahmad ibn Hanbal, who suffered imprisonment under political duress yet never summoned revolt, offers Muslims an enduring model of principled forbearance. Pakistan’s Constitution, itself rooted in Islamic ideals of justice and shura (mutual consultation), provides ample mechanisms for accountability and reform. Democratic participation and legal engagement thus constitute the Islamically sanctioned road to national betterment. At the heart of this guidance shines the Seerah of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, as the consummate model of wasatiyyah – the divinely ordained path of moderation, mercy, and balance. He declared, “I was sent as a mercy to all of mankind,” establishing that his mission was never one of bloodshed or domination but of compassion and upliftment. Upon the conquest of Makkah, he forgave his bitterest enemies with magnanimity, proclaiming that no reproach would cling to them. This act of clemency remains the authentic Sunnah, bearing no resemblance to the violence extremists perpetrate in his name. The Quran defines the Muslim Ummah as “a middle nation,” chosen for equity and temperance. The Prophet protected the lives, property, and dignity of non-Muslims under covenant, warning that he would be their opponent on the Day of Judgment if they were wronged. He commanded kindness and justice toward those who had not waged war against the faith, visited the sick among other communities, reasoned gently with adversaries, and consistently preferred peace when it could be honourably secured. “Make things easy and do not make them difficult,” he counselled, rejecting the harsh extremism that burdens societies. True jihad, as he taught upon returning from the battlefield, begins with the greater struggle against one’s own soul – an internal discipline that terrorism utterly betrays. Pakistan was founded upon this prophetic ethos of justice, tolerance, and inclusive citizenship. In steadfastly defending its institutions against those who would fracture communal peace, its people engage in a service honoured by the divine. The Quran promises that Allah stands with the patient and the persevering. The path of rebellion leads only to greater discord and spiritual ruin, while the way of the Prophet calls believers to mercy, lawful order, justice for all citizens regardless of faith, and unwavering commitment to the welfare of the nation. In this balanced, compassionate, and principled course lies the true flourishing of Pakistan and the enduring honour of the Muslim Ummah.

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.

Every few months, Punjab returns to the same debate. Dog bites increase, public anxiety rises, and municipal authorities respond with culling campaigns. Dogs are shot, statements are issued, and for a few days it appears that decisive action has been taken. Then nothing changes. The bites continue, waste continues to pile up, and the cycle begins again. The uncomfortable truth is that Punjab does not have a stray dog problem in isolation. It has a waste management problem, an urban planning problem, and ultimately, a governance problem. One only needs to travel through the outskirts of Lahore or many of Punjab’s cities to see overflowing waste heaps, open dumping grounds, discarded food waste, and slaughterhouse refuse left unattended. These sites provide a constant food source for free-roaming animals. Where food accumulates, animals follow. This is not unique to Pakistan; it is basic ecology. Street dogs do not manufacture garbage. They survive on what human beings leave behind. As long as our streets, markets, canals and vacant plots continue to function as open feeding grounds, no amount of culling will produce a lasting reduction in dog populations. Removing one group of animals from an area where food remains plentiful simply creates space for others to move in. For decades, Punjab has relied on culling as its primary response, yet dog bites and rabies continue to challenge public health. That record alone should force us to ask whether we are treating the disease or merely its symptoms. The issue extends far beyond dog bites. Poor waste management contributes to contaminated water, insect infestations, rodent populations, respiratory illnesses and the spread of infectious diseases. It burdens hospitals, damages the environment and undermines the quality of life in our cities. Every neglected dumping site becomes a reminder that sanitation is not merely a municipal service; it is a public health obligation. This is precisely why the constitutional right to life under Article 9 has, over the years, been interpreted by Pakistan’s superior courts to include the right to live in a healthy and clean environment. Environmental jurisprudence in Pakistan has consistently recognised that life means far more than mere existence. It includes the conditions necessary for a life of dignity, health and safety. When waste remains unmanaged and environmental hazards are ignored, these constitutional guarantees lose much of their meaning. Animal welfare forms part of this larger constitutional conversation. Justice Athar Minallah’s jurisprudence transformed the legal understanding of animals in Pakistan by recognising that they are living beings with intrinsic value rather than mere property. More recently, Justice Khadim Hussain Soomro reaffirmed that cruelty towards animals cannot be separated from the constitutional promise of a humane and civilised society. These decisions did not elevate animal welfare above human welfare. They recognised that the two are inseparable. A society that neglects its environment inevitably harms both people and animals. That is why the internationally accepted One Health approach has become increasingly important. It rejects the false choice between protecting humans and protecting animals. Instead, it recognises that the health of people, animals and the environment are interdependent. Rabies control, waste management, environmental protection and humane animal population management are all part of the same public health strategy. Unfortunately, events on the ground often tell a different story. Reports continue to surface of dogs being shot despite the adoption of more humane management policies. Even more troubling are allegations that animal carcasses are sometimes left exposed instead of being disposed of through proper veterinary and municipal protocols. Around areas such as Saggian Pull, residents have repeatedly raised concerns about carcasses remaining in the open. If these reports are accurate, they expose a profound contradiction. Animals are killed in the name of preventing disease, yet their remains are allegedly left in conditions that can themselves create environmental and health hazards. Exposed carcasses attract scavengers, contaminate the surrounding environment, encourage insect activity and reflect a complete breakdown in biosecurity practices. Disease prevention does not end when an animal dies. Proper disposal is an essential part of public health. The solution does not lie in choosing between protecting people and protecting animals. That has always been a false debate. The real choice is between science and symbolism. Science tells us that cleaner cities, effective waste collection, proper disposal of slaughterhouse waste, vaccination programmes, sterilisation, environmental management and public education reduce disease risks far more effectively than periodic culling campaigns. Symbolism tells us that firing a gun creates the appearance of action while leaving the underlying causes untouched. Punjab has an opportunity to move beyond crisis management. It can strengthen municipal waste systems, enforce environmental laws, implement the Animal Birth Control Policy in both letter and spirit, improve vaccination programmes, and ensure that every department responsible for public health, veterinary services, local government and environmental protection works as part of a coordinated strategy rather than in isolation. The Constitution already points us in that direction. The courts have reinforced it. Science supports it. What remains is the political will to recognise that cleaner cities will save more human lives than another culling campaign ever could. Until Punjab confronts the mountains of waste accumulating in its streets, vacant plots and waterways, it will continue fighting the consequences of environmental neglect while ignoring the source of the problem. Bullets may remove a dog from sight, but they cannot remove the garbage that brought it there in the first place.

One question stayed with me long after I attended a workshop under the project titled ‘Digital Trust and Free Expression in the Era of AI’, organized by the Department of Media and Development Communication, University of the Punjab with the support of the U.S. Mission to Pakistan in partnership with the Pakistan-U.S. Alumni Network, was, ‘How will we preserve digital trust and free expression in the age of AI’? As AI becomes an integral part of digital journalism, the question is no longer whether it should be used, and more importantly who should be held responsible when things go wrong. Artificial Intelligence has definitely proven to be a powerful tool for journalists. It can summarize long reports, translate content into multiple languages, follow breaking news, analyze vast quantities of data and even write complete news reports in seconds. All of these capabilities have revolutionized newsroom processes and enabled journalists to process information more efficiently than ever before. But efficiency is not the only measure of ethical journalism. Journalism isn’t about being fast, it’s about informing the public accurately, fairly and responsibly. One of the most valuable lessons I learned from the workshop was that AI does not understand information; it predicts the most likely response based on patterns in the data it has learned from. This distinction is important because when reliable information is unavailable at the time, AI generates responses that seem convincing but inaccurate, but are wrong, which is often referred to as AI hallucination. What’s most concerning is that the AI generated mistakes can appear convincing enough for people to accept them as true. This poses an ethical question: Who should be held responsible if AI-generated news contains misleading information? The burden can’t be placed entirely on the algorithm. AI has no moral judgement or legal accountability. It cannot distinguish between public interest and public harm and is not aware of the social consequences of publishing inaccurate information. This means that the responsibility rests with those who decide to employ these technologies: journalists, editors, newsroom leaders, and media organizations. While AI can help create content, it cannot replace responsibility. This is where ethics become more important than technological advancements. Checking information should not take a back seat to the ‘Publish first’ mentality. With all of the digital platforms that exist today, misinformation can spread from continent to continent within minutes and corrections often fail to reach the same audience. Each unverified headline altered photo or AI-generated mistake can damage the public’s trust, both in a specific news organization and in journalism.   The discussions also reinforced the importance of Media and Information Literacy (MIL). Verification is not only the responsibility of journalists, but also something that is necessary for every digital citizen. Learning how to use reverse image search, source verification techniques, and critical evaluation of online information is no longer an option, it’s essential for protecting ourselves from deception. As AI-generated content becomes increasingly sophisticated, it is essential to verify information before accepting it as true. AI will continue to evolve and so will digital journalism. The challenge is not innovation itself but using it responsibly. Trust is not something algorithms can build, it is something that can be gained only through transparency, accountability and a steadfast dedication to truth. While adopting new technologies to do journalism, let’s not forget that the tools should enhance journalism’s values, not shape journalism. AI may help write the news, but only humans can uphold the ethics behind it. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this blog are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the U.S. Mission to Pakistan or USEFP.

By Malik Khuda Bakhsh Awan, retired Inspector General of Punjab Police and former IG of Azad Jammu & Kashmir & Engineer Arshad H. Abbasi, water and energy expert who has served in KPK and AJK, We write this not as critics sitting comfortably at a distance, but as two servants of this soil who have spent our working lives in the very regions now aflame with unrest — one of us measuring the water and energy that could have irrigated peace in KPK and AJK, the other commanding police lines in Punjab and standing watch over the mountains of Azad Kashmir. What we have seen convinces us of one thing above all: the fire in Balochistan, AJK and the erstwhile KPK is serious, but it is not yet beyond our control. It can still be reversed — if the Government of Pakistan acts with the courage to match the sacrifice already being offered on our behalf. Before we offer a single suggestion, we must first bow our heads. Every day, a young Jawan somewhere in Balochistan or the tribal belt tightens his boots before dawn, not knowing if he will return. Every week, a Frontier Corps patrol walks into an ambush it did not seek, and an FC officer’s name is added to a list none of us wants to grow longer. Every month, policemen in Quetta, Muzaffarabad and Peshawar guard checkposts that other citizens simply drive past without a thought. From the newest recruit to the most senior general, our security forces have offered blood, limb and years away from their families to hold this country together. Their courage is not in question. Their commitment is not in doubt. What we owe them now is not more praise — it is a strategy worthy of their sacrifice. That is the entire purpose of this letter. We do not want the martyrdom of our Army, Police and FC personnel to be spent on a war that could have been shortened, or avoided, by decisions made in Islamabad rather than only on the battlefield. History offers us hard evidence that this is possible, even in conflicts far older and far bloodier than ours. Lessons the world has already paid for, so we don’t have to. Colombia fought a Marxist insurgency for fifty years, financed by drugs and kidnapping — arguably a longer and more entrenched war than anything Pakistan faces today. Peace came in 2016 not because the state finally won every battle, but because it paired security operations with land redistribution for poor farmers and a transitional justice system that let fighters confess their crimes in exchange for reduced sentences, rebuilding public trust along the way. In Northern Ireland, three decades of sectarian killing between republicans and unionists ended largely because international partners poured investment into the poorest, most neglected border towns — the very places where despair had made paramilitary recruitment easy — while a new power-sharing government guaranteed both communities an equal, transparent voice. Sierra Leone’s civil war was fuelled by “blood diamonds.” It was tamed not merely by defeating the rebels but by legalising and regulating small-scale mining so that ordinary mining communities, not warlords, earned the benefit, backed by an internationally certified transparent supply chain and a strengthened anti-corruption commission. And in our own neighbourhood, the Philippines faced a decades-long Muslim separatist insurgency in Mindanao. It was calmed considerably by granting the Bangsamoro region genuine fiscal autonomy — its own revenue powers and a guaranteed development grant — replacing a corrupt, clan-captured funding system with one that visibly reached ordinary people. The pattern across every one of these conflicts, each objectively worse than what we face today, is the same. Peace did not arrive purely from military victory. It arrived when governments paired continued security pressure with transparent governance and genuine economic opportunity, so that the incentive to pick up a gun simply fell away. Our humble suggestions to the Government- First, unemployment among our youth is, in our respectful assessment, the single biggest driver of unrest in Balochistan, AJK and the tribal districts. A young man with a trade, a wage and a future does not need the BLA or the TTP to promise him meaning; he already has it. We therefore urge the government to treat job creation in these regions not as a welfare afterthought but as a core national-security investment, on par with any military allocation. Second, we ask for financial transparency in how resources from these very regions — gas, minerals, hydropower, forests — are spent. When local people can see, in plain terms, where the revenue from their own land goes, resentment gives way to ownership. Third, we ask for genuine, verifiable inclusion — local land and mining rights regularised in favour of communities rather than absentee interests, block grants that reach tehsil and union council level without being intercepted along the way, and reconstruction that is co-designed with elders and local government rather than imposed from a distant secretariat. Fourth, we ask for a dignified, well-resourced path for demobilisation and reintegration wherever it is possible — vocational training, stipends and honest employment for those willing to lay down arms, so that today’s militant does not become tomorrow’s freelance criminal. Fifth, and we say this with the greatest respect, every federal minister must spend a minimum of fifteen days, physically present, in Balochistan, AJK and KPK each year — not for a photo opportunity at a heavily guarded circuit house, but sitting with local elders, visiting FC and police posts, and looking our Jawans in the eye. A soldier who sees his federal government only through television screens begins to wonder if Islamabad remembers he exists. When a minister walks the same ground our forces are dying to defend, it tells every Jawan, every FC sepoy, every constable that his sacrifice is seen, valued and shared by those who lead him. This single change of habit would do more for morale on the front line than any speech delivered