Opinion

I have stood on the dry floor of the Aral Sea, and I can tell you that no photograph prepares you for it. It is not a desert in the way the Sahara is a desert, ancient and self-consistent. It is a wound — a seabed still faintly shaped like the water that used to cover it, salt crusted white across the sand, rusting fishing trawlers stranded kilometres from any shore, and children playing in the hulls of boats their grandfathers once sailed to catch sturgeon. It is, without exaggeration, the worst environmental tragedy I have ever witnessed with my own eyes. And I have spent thirty years of my life witnessing tragedies of water, in one direction or the other. The Aral Sea was once the fourth-largest inland body of water on Earth, spread across more than 68,000 square kilometres between what is now Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, fed for centuries by the Amu Darya and Syr Darya rivers. Soviet planners diverted those rivers at massive scale to irrigate cotton fields, and the sea began to die — slowly at first, then catastrophically. More than ninety percent of it is gone. What remains has splintered into four smaller lakes covering barely 3,500 square kilometres. The fishing economy that once fed the region collapsed entirely. The exposed seabed, laced with agricultural pesticide residue and salt, now rises on the wind as toxic dust that settles on crops and in human lungs hundreds of kilometres away. Villages that once sat on the water’s edge now sit stranded in a dead landscape, and the world, for the most part, has forgotten this happened at all. That forgetting is its own quiet tragedy. I did not come to this subject as a tourist of disaster. I have spent three decades campaigning for the preservation of the Himalayan glacier system, including a sustained, and ultimately unsuccessful, effort to see the Siachen Glacier converted into a demilitarised peace park — a proposal grounded in a simple technical fact: Siachen is melting faster than almost any glacier on Earth, in significant part because of the sustained military presence stationed on its ice. I made the case, repeatedly, that removing that military footprint would slow a specific, measurable source of glacial loss, feeding directly into the Indus watershed that sustains hundreds of millions of people downstream. I did not succeed. The glacier continues to melt. The troops remain. I say this not as a complaint but as an honest accounting: I have given a large share of my working life to glacier preservation, and by the plainest measure — ice mass — I have not stopped the loss. That failure has not left me cynical. It has left me convinced that the scale of the response has to match the scale of the crisis, and that we have consistently chosen the smaller response. I think about this every time I look at the Maldives. It is a nation of low coral islands, its highest natural point barely more than two metres above sea level, and it is not speaking in metaphor when its own government has warned that the country could become uninhabitable, and eventually vanish beneath the waves, within this century if sea-level rise is not slowed. I do not think most people outside the region understand how literally existential that threat is. This is not a country that will lose some coastline. This is a country that could, within the lifetime of children alive today, cease to have any land at all. That is the other half of the water crisis I have spent my life watching, and it is the mirror image of the Aral. Where the Aral Sea disappeared because rivers were mismanaged and diverted without thought for the consequences, the oceans are rising because the atmosphere has absorbed decades of greenhouse gas emissions, and the ice sheets and glaciers that once held the planet’s frozen water in reserve are releasing it. Through most of the twentieth century, global sea levels rose at roughly 1.4 millimetres a year — barely perceptible within a human lifetime. Between 2006 and 2015, that rate had already accelerated to roughly 3.6 millimetres a year, and it continues to climb. A rise measured in inches sounds trivial until you understand what it does: it turns rare storm surges into routine flooding, drowns wetlands that once buffered coastal cities, backs up drainage systems and rivers, and makes what used to be called a hundred-year flood into a fixture of ordinary life. New York and Miami already experience “sunny-day flooding,” where nothing more than an unusually high tide sends seawater into city streets with no storm at all. Shanghai, Bangkok, Kolkata, Mumbai, and Dhaka — cities holding tens of millions of people and trillions of dollars of infrastructure — face the same mechanism at a scale that could displace populations larger than most countries. And the danger does not arrive gently. In July 2025, an 8.8-magnitude earthquake off Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula — among the ten strongest ever recorded — sent tsunami warnings racing across the Pacific, triggering evacuations from Russia to Japan to Hawaii to the western coast of the United States. It was, by fortune more than design, a disaster the world mostly escaped. Scientists have been explicit that higher baseline sea levels make the next such event, and the next cyclone, more destructive than the last one would have been at a lower starting point. We are not simply facing more disasters. We are facing the same disasters arriving on a stage that has been quietly raised beneath them. I do not believe these two crises — a vanished inland sea and a rising global ocean — are separate stories. I believe they are the same failure, viewed from opposite ends of the same hydrological system: a civilisation that has never learned to treat the planet’s water as a single, finite, interconnected balance, to be managed with foresight rather than reordered by short-term convenience and corrected only after

It is widely believed that the more things change, the more they remain the same. For nations to stand on their own feet, the basics have to be covered; it is the lesson of history which must never be ignored. Steel has always been considered the basic building block of advancement. Pakistan started off well in producing its metals. In the decade of the sixties, the Kalabagh Iron deposit was upgraded by the German Krupp Wrenn process to be later converted into steel. Germans are known for thoroughness; they produced VW cars with the local metal. The powerful import lobby prevailed and the Pilot Plant was shut down. Precious time was lost. Finally, in the decade of the seventies the Soviet Union came to our help. The Pakistan Steel Mills project was started outside Karachi at Port Qasim. In the decade of the eighties Pakistan started producing its own steel based on imported ore and coal. The plan was to gradually replace the imported raw materials with the indigenous. At its peak the mill produced about 3 MTPY ( Million Tons per year ) against a national demand of 5 MTPY. Instead of increasing capacity, the plant was shut down in the year 2015. Coming from a family of technologists, I opted for Metallurgical Engineering. I wanted to join Pakistan Steel Mills ( PSM ) which was recruiting students for education and training in USSR. But instead, I landed in the USA where I completed my masters study from the College of Mines University of Arizona ( U of A ). Arizona was considered the world Copper Capital with several mines around. In the decade of the seventies an organization was established at the federal level called Resource Development Corporation ( RDC ) with its head office in Karachi while PUNJMIN ( Punjab Mineral Company ) covered Punjab where Kalabagh and Chiniot Iron deposits were located. It was RDC that launched the first Copper-Gold project at Saindak through its subsidiary SML ( Saindak Metals Limited ) in the year 1992. I was closely associated with this project as the bench studies were conducted in Tucson by a consulting firm by the name of MSME ( Mountain States Mineral Enterprise ). Till my master’s level, mining remained my focus. After graduating in 1981 when I returned in 1983 to start my doctoral program in Arizona, mining had been replaced by high-tech Silicon based Semiconductors. Research was focused on electronic materials. Silicon was produced from Silica Sand on which Integrated Circuits ( ICs ) were built. Metals like Aluminum, Titanium, Gold and Copper were being used. Then came the Solar Cells which Pakistan had produced in the decade of the seventies but missed opportunity due to lack of commercial linkages. While the Semiconductors and Solar batteries are in great demand, the material needs have increased manifold. Mining is back with a bang. Without basic raw materials, the technological advancements are not possible. I have gone full circle in my own career, and so have the technological advancements. From Steel to Copper, then Silicon based Semiconductors followed by mining and gasification of Coal. As a nation, we have missed several opportunities. Catch-up is possible through Leap-Frogging which is widely used by late entrants. China and India have adopted this approach effectively. The crusade should start with a Minerals Development roadmap. PMDC ( Pakistan Mineral Development Corporation ) and PUNJMIN can take the lead. Most of our mineral deposits remain un-tapped which can be developed to meet our needs. Self-sufficiency in Steel and Copper is achievable. Even lithium is available to produce batteries. Minerals are the basic building blocks of the nation which have been ignored. High grade Silica Sand is available in the north to produce Solar Cells and Semiconductors. India has made major investments in the high-tech Semiconductor sector. In the recently held Mining Conference in Karachi, it was agreed to expand the operations at Thar to meet our energy and fertilizer needs after gasification of the Black Gold. Basics have to be covered; advancement cannot be achieved through imports and borrowing. The party should finally come to an end for nation building to start.

In the hierarchical world of international diplomacy, mediation between adversaries is traditionally the preserve of foreign ministries and veteran envoys. In recent months, that role has been assumed, unusually, by a uniformed officer from Islamabad.   General Syed Asim Munir, Pakistan’s Chief of Army Staff, has moved beyond the conventional mandate of an army chief to position himself as a conduit for de-escalation at a moment of acute global volatility. His emergence as an interlocutor during the recent period of heightened confrontation between the United States and Iran, and his parallel effort to formalize defense cooperation between Pakistan, Turkey and Saudi Arabia, marks a significant shift in how Pakistan projects power and how regional security is being negotiated.   The development raises a central question for international observers: can a military leader serve as a credible bridge-builder in a region where traditional diplomacy has stalled?   From Barracks to Backchannels   To understand General Munir’s diplomatic turn, context is essential.   Pakistan has long balanced a complex set of alliances. It is a Major Non-NATO Ally of the United States, with decades of security cooperation, while also maintaining a 900-kilometer border with Iran and deep cultural and economic ties with its western neighbor. That dual positioning has often placed Islamabad in a difficult spot during US-Iran escalations, but it has also given it unique access.   General Munir, who previously served as Director General of Military Intelligence and Director General of Inter-Services Intelligence, is seen within Pakistan’s security establishment as an institutionalist with deep familiarity with both Gulf and Western security concerns.   According to diplomatic sources in Islamabad and Ankara, it was during the peak of US-Iran tensions earlier this year, when direct channels were limited and rhetoric was escalating, that General Munir engaged in a series of quiet consultations. The approach, described by one senior Pakistani official as “military diplomacy focused on de-confliction,” involved relaying assessments and emphasizing the cost of miscalculation to all sides.   In Washington, the priority was to avoid a broader regional conflict that would endanger US forces and global energy supplies. In Tehran, the priority was to prevent further isolation while maintaining deterrence. Pakistan’s message, as articulated by its military leadership, was consistent: dialogue over confrontation.   While the full extent of the mediation remains confidential, as is common in such backchannels, analysts in Washington noted a distinct softening of public statements from all parties following a round of regional visits that included Pakistan. A former US State Department official familiar with South Asia said, “When civilian political space is constrained, military-to-military channels become the most reliable mechanism for crisis management.”   The Trilateral Gambit   If the US-Iran de-escalation effort established General Munir’s credentials as a crisis manager, his second initiative is more structural in nature.   In recent weeks, officials from Pakistan, Turkey and Saudi Arabia have confirmed discussions toward a shared defense understanding. The framework, still under negotiation, is understood to focus on defense industrial cooperation, joint training, counter-terrorism intelligence sharing, and interoperability rather than a NATO-style collective defense treaty.   For each country, the rationale is different but complementary.   For Saudi Arabia, under Vision 2030, there is a clear drive toward diversifying its defense partnerships and building domestic defense manufacturing capacity. Turkey brings a rapidly advancing defense industry, with its drone programs and naval systems. Pakistan offers a large, battle-tested military, nuclear deterrence expertise, and extensive experience in counter-terrorism operations.   “This is not about creating a bloc against anyone,” a Turkish defense analyst explained. “It is about strategic self-reliance. For decades, these three countries have been dependent on external suppliers. They are now asking whether they can co-produce and co-secure.”   For Pakistan, the pact represents a long-sought goal: moving from being a security consumer dependent on external aid to being a security provider and partner among major Muslim-majority states. For General Munir, who has repeatedly spoken about the link between economic security and national security, such partnerships are seen as central to national stability.   Perspectives and Challenges   The reception has been cautiously optimistic but not without complexity.   In Riyadh and Ankara, the initiative is viewed through the lens of pragmatic national interest rather than ideological unity. Saudi and Turkish officials have been careful to frame any cooperation as open and defensive, not directed at any third party, including Iran or Western allies.   In Washington and European capitals, the reaction is twofold. On one hand, there is recognition that a trilateral arrangement that increases burden-sharing and promotes stability could be beneficial, particularly if it helps contain transnational threats. On the other hand, there are questions about interoperability with existing alliances and the long-term implications for arms procurement and regional alignments.   In Tehran, observers have watched the developments closely. Any defense cooperation that excludes Iran will inevitably be scrutinized. Pakistani diplomats have sought to reassure Iran that Islamabad’s engagement with Saudi Arabia and Turkey does not come at Tehran’s expense, pointing to the earlier mediation effort as evidence of Pakistan’s balanced approach.   The most significant challenges are internal. Trilateral defense cooperation requires sustained political will, financial commitments, and harmonization of defense systems  all of which are difficult to achieve. Pakistan faces severe economic constraints, Turkey navigates its commitments to NATO, and Saudi Arabia is managing a complex regional normalization process.   Critics within Pakistan also question whether the military should be leading diplomatic initiatives that are traditionally the domain of the Foreign Office. Supporters counter that in Pakistan’s hybrid governance structure, the army chief is inevitably a central actor in foreign and security policy, and formalizing that role can bring clarity.   The Diplomat in Uniform   The broader phenomenon of the “diplomat in uniform” is not new. In Egypt, Jordan, and indeed in the United States itself, senior military leaders have often served as critical channels when civilian diplomacy has faltered.   What makes General Munir’s case distinct is the narrative he is projecting for Pakistan itself: from a country

The preceding parts of this series have gradually separated concepts that modern banking has merged. Money used for payments is not the same thing as investment capital. A current account is not economically identical to funds deliberately committed to enterprise. Commercial-bank money creation is not automatically riba, but neither should monetary privilege remain beyond scrutiny. Once these distinctions are accepted, an obvious question arises: how will productive activity actually be financed? No modern economy can function merely by condemning interest. Farmers require seasonal finance. Manufacturers need machinery and working capital. Exporters must bridge the period between production and receipt of foreign proceeds. Families need housing. Governments require infrastructure. Entrepreneurs need capital before their businesses begin earning revenue. A serious alternative to riba must finance all of these activities (see the model of Robobank). The answer is not to replace every conventional loan with musharakah. Nor is it to rename a predetermined financial return as “profit”. Islamic commercial jurisprudence developed several different contractual forms precisely because economic transactions differ. Sale, lease, partnership, advance purchase and manufacturing contracts perform different functions and allocate ownership and risk differently. The real task is to connect financial return with an identifiable economic basis. A useful starting principle is simple: money should not generate a guaranteed return merely because money has been advanced. Return should arise from trade, ownership, service, productive participation or genuine exposure to commercial risk. This does not mean that every legitimate return must fluctuate. A trader may sell an asset for a fixed profit. A landlord may agree a fixed rent. A contractor may charge a predetermined price. A manufacturer may agree in advance to produce goods for a specified consideration. The prohibition of riba does not abolish prices. What matters is what stands behind the price. State Bank of Pakistan itself explains murabaha as a sale rather than a loan: the seller acquires a commodity, discloses its cost and sells it at an agreed profit. SBP similarly recognises mudarabah, musharakah, ijarah, salam and istisna as distinct Islamic financing structures. Accounting and Auditing Organization for Islamic Financial Institutions (AAOIFI) maintains separate Shariah standards for murabaha, ijarah, salam, istisna and musharakah precisely because each represents a different legal and commercial relationship. The distinction is fundamental. Consider machinery required by an industrial enterprise. A conventional bank may lend Rs.100 million and require repayment of principal plus interest. Under a genuine murabaha structure, the financier purchases identified machinery, assumes ownership during the relevant period and subsequently sells it to the customer at an agreed deferred price. The return is then legally attached to a sale. This difference has substance only if the financier actually acquires what it claims to sell. Ownership cannot be reduced to a momentary paper entry while every risk, liability and practical responsibility remains with the customer from beginning to end. The same principle applies to ijarah. A financier that purchases machinery, vehicles or other productive assets and leases them to a business may legitimately earn rent because it owns an asset whose use is being transferred. Ownership, however, carries obligations. Structural ownership risks cannot simply be transferred wholesale to the lessee while the financier retains only the right to receive money. The issue is thus not whether rent happens to resemble an interest payment in amount. Economic prices often converge. The decisive issue is whether a genuine lease exists. Housing illustrates the point particularly well. Diminishing musharakah has become one of the major financing techniques used in Islamic banking. Under its proper conception, the financier and customer acquire a property jointly. The customer pays rent for the financier’s share and progressively purchases units of that share until sole ownership is achieved. State Bank of Pakistan (SBP) has long maintained specific Shariah standards governing Sharikat-ul-Milk and diminishing musharakah. This can provide a defensible alternative to an interest-bearing mortgage. Its legitimacy, however, depends upon genuine co-ownership. If the customer bears every cost and risk from the first day, if the bank’s capital is effectively guaranteed irrespective of what happens to the asset, and if the entire arrangement merely reproduces principal plus benchmarked return, the partnership becomes increasingly formal rather than substantive. The same scrutiny is required in agriculture. Agriculture is ill-suited to rigid debt repayment because its returns depend upon weather, crop disease, market prices, water availability and timing. A farmer may incur losses despite diligence and competence. Classical commercial law contains an instrument remarkably suited to this problem: salam. Under salam, the purchaser pays the price in advance for specified goods to be delivered later. The farmer obtains working capital before harvest. The purchaser acquires a commercial claim to the future crop and assumes the market risk associated with buying it in advance. This is not charity. It is trade. Properly developed agricultural salam markets could provide farmers with liquidity without forcing them into compounding debt when crops fail. Warehousing, quality certification, crop insurance or takaful, commodity exchanges and transparent market information would be necessary to make such financing scalable. Istisna can similarly serve manufacturing, construction and infrastructure. A textile mill, irrigation facility, industrial machine and housing project need not be forced into one universal debt contract. Partnership financing becomes important where future returns are uncertain. Musharakah permits parties to combine capital and share results. Mudarabah separates capital from enterprise: one party provides funds and another skill and management. Return is connected with actual economic performance. Their difficulty is equally obvious. Profit-and-loss sharing cannot work where accounts are unreliable, sales remain hidden, related-party transactions are opaque and litigation takes years. A financier unable to determine actual profit will naturally prefer a fixed receivable. Financial reform requires credible accounts, meaningful audit, digital documentation, effective insolvency laws, reliable registries and quick commercial adjudication. Risk sharing cannot flourish where information itself cannot be trusted. There is, however, another question we rarely ask: why must productive finance remain concentrated in a few large banks? History offers an instructive example. Rabobank did not begin as the international institution known today. Its origins were local Dutch farmers’

It’s not about the prisoner’s health only its about Pakistan. When a state holds a political leader in prison, it assumes a responsibility that goes beyond the enforcement of a court sentence. It assumes responsibility for the person’s safety, dignity and health. That principle should be beyond politics. In Pakistan, however, even a prisoner’s eyesight has become part of the country’s bitter political struggle. The continuing controversy over Imran Khan’s health is therefore about much more than one man. It raises a fundamental question about the relationship between the citizen and the state: what happens to individual rights when political conflict becomes so intense that every state decision is viewed through the prism of partisan politics? Imran Khan, Pakistan’s former prime minister and one of its most influential political figures, has been in prison since 2023 in connection with multiple legal cases. His supporters have repeatedly raised concerns about his health and access to appropriate medical care. More recently, particular concern has focused on his eyesight. Reports in early 2026 said that Khan had developed a retinal condition affecting his right eye. His family and political representatives questioned whether he had received adequate specialist treatment, while the authorities maintained that he was being properly cared for. A government-appointed medical board subsequently reported improvement in his eyesight. The conflicting accounts should not be allowed to become another chapter in Pakistan’s political war. There is a remarkably simple way to address the problem: independent medical assessment and complete procedural transparency. If Khan is medically stable, independent specialists should be able to establish that fact. If he needs treatment, it should be provided without delay. If his family disputes the government’s medical assessment, credible specialists should be permitted to review it. There should be no political advantage in either concealing a medical problem or exaggerating one. This should be obvious in any functioning democracy. Yet Pakistan’s political history makes it anything but simple. For decades, political power in Pakistan has been accompanied by institutional confrontation. Governments have used legal and administrative mechanisms against their opponents, only to find themselves out of power and vulnerable to similar treatment later. Political parties that once demanded accountability have subsequently complained of victimisation when they became targets themselves. The result is a vicious cycle in which accountability is increasingly viewed through the language of revenge. Imran Khan’s imprisonment has become one of the most visible manifestations of that crisis. His supporters see him as the victim of an establishment-backed campaign to remove him from politics. His opponents argue that the cases against him are matters of law and accountability and that political popularity cannot place anyone above the law. Both arguments can be debated. Courts can determine questions of guilt and innocence. Voters can judge political performance. Parliament can debate constitutional questions. But none of these arguments should determine the standard of medical care available to a prisoner. That distinction is essential. The state has the authority, within the law, to imprison a person. It does not acquire unlimited authority over that person’s body or dignity. Detention restricts liberty, it does not erase humanity. This principle becomes even more important when the prisoner is a former head of government. The treatment of such a person inevitably becomes a test of institutional maturity. The government may have legitimate reasons for keeping Khan imprisoned, but it should have an equally compelling interest in ensuring that his medical treatment cannot reasonably be portrayed as political punishment. The irony is that transparency would serve everyone. It would protect Khan from inadequate treatment. It would protect his family from uncertainty. It would reassure his supporters. And it would protect the government from accusations that medical care is being manipulated for political purposes. Instead, Pakistan often chooses the opposite path. Official statements are followed by political counterstatements. Medical reports become partisan documents. Families make allegations. Governments issue denials. Social media turns uncertainty into outrage. And a question that should have been answered by doctors becomes another battlefield between political camps. This is not merely a communications failure. It is an institutional failure. A credible democratic state must have mechanisms capable of resolving such disputes without requiring citizens to choose which political side they trust. Pakistan could establish precisely such a mechanism. High-profile prisoners could be examined by independent medical boards selected through transparent professional criteria. Prisoners could have access, where appropriate, to independent specialists. Medical records could be maintained according to professional standards, while necessary information could be shared with families and the courts. Where a serious disagreement arises, an independent medical opinion should be available. Such safeguards should not be created specifically for Imran Khan. They should apply to everyone. The ordinary prisoner matters too. Pakistan’s prisons contain thousands of people whose health concerns rarely receive national attention. They may not have political parties, lawyers appearing on television every evening, influential families or millions of supporters on social media. Yet their right to humane treatment is no less important. Indeed, the treatment of ordinary prisoners may be the more meaningful measure of the state’s commitment to human rights. But Khan’s case provides Pakistan with an unusual opportunity. Because his imprisonment is already under intense national and international scrutiny, the government can demonstrate that the state is capable of separating political disagreement from humanitarian responsibility. That would require political courage. A government does not become weaker by allowing an opponent proper medical treatment. It becomes weaker when it appears afraid of transparency. A government does not demonstrate authority by controlling every narrative. It demonstrates authority by allowing facts to withstand scrutiny. This is particularly significant for Pakistan’s international reputation. Pakistan frequently presents itself as a democratic state committed to constitutionalism, human rights and the rule of law. Yet international credibility is not built through diplomatic declarations alone. It is built through conduct, especially when circumstances are politically uncomfortable. The treatment of political opponents is one of the clearest indicators of democratic health. A democracy cannot be judged only by how it treats

The preceding part of this series examined a question ordinarily left outside discussions on riba: who should create money? It argued that commercial-bank money creation is not, by itself, riba, but that the power to create purchasing power through credit is a matter of public importance requiring transparency, restraint and accountability. One possible reform is to separate transaction money, fully backed by sovereign money, from funds deliberately committed for investment. That proposition leads to an even more fundamental question. What exactly is a bank deposit? The answer appears obvious only because modern banking has merged several economically different relationships into the same institution. A person places salary in a current account because it must be available tomorrow morning. Another person places accumulated savings with a bank hoping to earn a return over five years. A business maintains money for payroll and suppliers. An investor deliberately commits capital to a project knowing that commercial gain is accompanied by the possibility of loss. Calling all these balances “deposits” conceals distinctions that become crucial in a financial order seeking to eliminate riba. There is a basic difference between money and investment. Money held for payment performs the functions of medium of exchange and store of nominal value. Its owner expects Rs.100 deposited today to remain Rs.100 tomorrow and to be transferable on demand. Investment capital performs another function. It is consciously placed in productive activity in expectation of gain and consequently bears the possibility of commercial loss. One cannot logically demand both absolute safety and entrepreneurial return from the same contractual relationship unless somebody else is made to carry the risk. Islamic jurisprudence recognised these distinctions long before modern banking. Funds entrusted purely for safekeeping can constitute amanah. A trustee does not own them and is not ordinarily liable for loss occurring without negligence or misconduct. Where fungible money is transferred to another person with authority to use it and an obligation to return its equivalent, the relationship acquires the character of qard, or loan. State Bank of Pakistan’s own glossary reflects precisely this reasoning. It describes an amanah as property held in trust and states that current accounts may initially be regarded as trust deposits. Once a bank obtains authority to use current-account funds in its business, however, the relationship becomes a loan because the bank must repay the full amount. This point deserves much greater attention. If a bank accepts Rs.100,000 from a customer, is free to use that money for its own financing operations and remains legally bound to repay Rs.100,000 whenever demanded, the customer is not bearing an investment risk. Whatever terminology appears on the account-opening form, economically the bank has received financing from the customer. No difficulty necessarily arises if the customer receives nothing beyond repayment of the amount advanced. The difficulty arises when banking system treats this repayable-at-par money simultaneously as the raw material from which additional financing and monetary claims can be generated. Part II suggested one possible solution: transaction accounts should be treated entirely differently. A current account used for wages, household expenditure, business payments and ordinary transfers should represent protected transaction money. If such balances are fully backed by sovereign money or central-bank reserves, they need not be exposed to the bank’s commercial financing decisions. The account holder would possess money, not an investment claim upon the success of a bank. The bank would provide custody, payments, transfers, cards, digital access and settlement services. It could legitimately charge transparent fees for those services. What it would not receive is free investment capital merely because citizens require access to a payment system. The consequences are significant. Fully backed transaction accounts would remain available on demand and at par. They would not earn an investment return because their owners have assumed no investment risk. Nor would their repayment depend upon the quality of the bank’s commercial portfolio. This is not merely a theological distinction. Modern central banking itself recognises the peculiar character of bank deposits. The Bank of England recently described commercial-bank deposits as liabilities used as money, expected to be redeemable at par on demand and relied upon as a safe store of value. It contrasted them with investment products whose values fluctuate and whose losses are borne by investors. A riba-free financial system should take that distinction seriously. The second category would consist of genuine investment accounts. Here the relationship is entirely different. A customer does not merely park money awaiting payment instructions. He consciously makes capital available for investment and accepts that lawful profit cannot be separated completely from commercial risk. Mudarabah provides one classical framework. One party supplies capital and the other enterprise and expertise. Profit is divided according to an agreed ratio; financial loss, in the absence of negligence or breach by the manager, falls upon the provider of capital. SBP itself explains Islamic investment deposits on this basis: the depositor acts as rabb-ul-maal and the bank as mudarib. Restricted mudarabah allows the investor to specify where the funds may be deployed; unrestricted mudarabah gives the bank wider investment authority. The principle is straightforward. If the depositor wants profit because capital is being employed commercially, the depositor must understand what capital is doing and what risk attaches to it. This is where present banking practice requires closer examination. Islamic banks commonly pool deposits, calculate weighted-average yields and distribute profits under elaborate regulatory rules. SBP presently prescribes profit-distribution arrangements for savings depositors, including minimum distribution requirements linked to the weighted-average gross yield of the institution. It also permits additional hiba in specified circumstances. These measures protect customers against inequitable allocation of profits by banks. Their consumer-protection purpose is understandable. At the same time, an increasingly managed and smoothed return can create in the depositor’s mind an expectation remarkably similar to a conventional savings rate. The crucial question is not whether the return happens to fluctuate by a few basis points. It is whether the depositor actually bears the economic character of an investor. An investment account should identify the pool in

“Nato is a giant military alliance where there are 32 countries. We have started here as three countries and we have to take very humble but concrete steps”—Makkah defence pact technically same as Nato’s Article 5: Turkish minister, The News, August 9, 2026 The above words of Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan deserve careful attention. Speaking after the Makkah Joint Defence Agreement between Türkiye, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, he went considerably further than the diplomatic language normally accompanying defence cooperation. He described the arrangement as technically the same as NATO’s Article 5 principle of collective defence. More importantly, Fidan disclosed something about its intended institutional evolution. A ministerial committee resembling NATO’s structure is to be created, a permanent secretariat will be established in Saudi Arabia, and President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan does not envisage an organisation permanently confined to its three founding members. Egypt is already being mentioned as a possible entrant. The question we raised immediately after Makkah has therefore acquired greater urgency: are we witnessing the embryonic formation of an Islamic NATO? The answer requires more caution than either celebration or alarm. The Makkah agreement is unquestionably important. Saudi Arabia combines enormous financial and energy resources with a pivotal position in the Arab and Islamic worlds. Türkiye possesses NATO’s second-largest military, an increasingly sophisticated defence-industrial base and strategic access linking Europe, the Black Sea, the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Pakistan is a nuclear-armed state located at the intersection of South Asia, China, Central Asia, Iran and the Arabian Sea. Taken together, the three constitute an unusual coalition of middle powers. Their convergence is also occurring at a moment when the regional order constructed around American predominance is under extraordinary strain. The latest Middle Eastern war has again demonstrated that overwhelming military capability can destroy infrastructure and degrade adversaries without necessarily producing political order. Michael Fuchs recently argued in Foreign Affairs that the United States should finally relinquish its attempt to dominate the Middle East militarily. The proposition is important, but it raises a larger question. If American primacy recedes, what replaces it? International relations offers no reason to assume that withdrawal by a dominant external power automatically produces regional peace. It can produce strategic autonomy. It can equally produce competitive balancing, arms races and struggles among regional powers seeking to fill the resulting space. Makkah Defence Agreement represents both an opportunity and a danger. The opportunity is the emergence of indigenous collective security. For much of the modern history of the Middle East, regional states have depended upon external powers for protection while simultaneously fearing abandonment by those same protectors. Britain once performed this role in the Gulf. The United States subsequently constructed a much larger military architecture based upon bases, arms supplies, bilateral guarantees and partnerships. Dependence created security, but never complete strategic autonomy. Saudi Arabia’s search for alternatives must be understood against this background. Türkiye has followed another path: remaining inside NATO while steadily expanding its capacity for independent action. Pakistan maintains a strategic partnership with China without severing its relationships with Washington, Riyadh or Ankara. These are not states simply changing camps. They are practising what contemporary scholarship increasingly describes as hybrid or non-exclusive alignment: cultivating overlapping relationships rather than accepting the rigid binaries of Cold War alliance politics. This makes Fidan’s second assertion as important as his comparison with Article 5. He insists that Makkah is not directed against Iran or any other country. That principle must survive implementation. An alliance requires deterrence; it does not necessarily require a permanent enemy. If the emerging arrangement becomes an anti-Iran coalition, it will institutionalise one of the Muslim world’s most dangerous fault lines. Iran is not a temporary presence in the Gulf. It is a major civilisation and regional power whose geography cannot be altered by sanctions, regime change strategies or military pressure. Pakistan has particular reason to understand this. Iran is its neighbour. Internal sectarian peace, Balochistan, border security, Afghanistan and regional connectivity all make a permanently hostile Pakistan-Iran relationship strategically irrational. Nor should Makkah become simply the Muslim military response to Israel. The Palestinian question cannot be removed from regional security, as proponents of the Abraham Accords sometimes appeared to assume. Normalisation and economic integration cannot indefinitely substitute for a political settlement guaranteeing Palestinian rights and viable statehood. At the same time, transforming the region into two permanent military camps would hardly produce the peace Palestinians themselves require. The better possibility is, thus, not an Islamic NATO in the literal sense. NATO emerged from the particular conditions of post-war Europe and bipolar confrontation with the Soviet Union. The Muslim world is geographically dispersed, politically heterogeneous and internally divided. Its states have very different relations with Washington, Beijing, Moscow, Tehran and Tel Aviv. Türkiye itself demonstrates the difficulty of imposing a binary model: it would simultaneously belong to NATO and to the emerging Makkah Accord. That apparent contradiction may actually tell us something important about the international order now taking shape. The twenty-first century may be characterised less by fixed blocs than by overlapping arrangements through which middle powers seek room for manoeuvre between larger powers. This is also where geoeconomics becomes indispensable. Saudi finance and energy, Türkiye’s manufacturing and defence technology and Pakistan’s geography, human resources and access towards China, Central Asia and the Arabian Sea could create something considerably more important than another military organisation. Egypt’s eventual participation would add the Suez Canal, the Arab world’s largest population and another major military power. A security structure built around such capabilities could eventually support trade, energy corridors, defence production, technological cooperation, food security and infrastructure connectivity. Without this economic foundation, an Islamic NATO would remain largely an exercise in military coordination. China will watch these developments closely. Beijing requires Gulf energy, values Iran, has deep interests in Pakistan and maintains substantial economic relations across the Middle East. It is unlikely to wish to inherit America’s expensive role as regional military hegemon. A regional arrangement capable of providing stability without forcing states into an

By Malik Khuda Bakhsh Awan, former Additional IG Punjab &  Engineer Arshad H. Abbasi In the early 1990s, operating a manual typewriter was not merely clerical work; it was a test of patience, precision, discipline and endurance. When our office typist disappeared without notice, the responsibility for preparing official reports fell upon us. There was no computer, no backspace and no “undo” button. Every word had to be typed carefully because a serious mistake could mean rewriting an entire page. We still remember spending almost eight hours preparing a single report, only to finish physically and mentally exhausted. Then, during a visit to Dubai on a different occasion, we witnessed Microsoft Office running on a modest personal computer, and it seemed almost magical. Microsoft Word could correct mistakes instantly, paragraphs could be moved without rewriting a page, and Excel could transform rows of figures into calculations, forecasts and financial analysis. We returned home convinced that technology would usher Pakistan into a new age of efficient governance, better engineering and more transparent economic management. In many ways, it did. Typewriters disappeared, computers transformed offices and the internet connected institutions. Yet another lesson gradually became clear: technology can change the tools without changing the people using them. Computers did not automatically eliminate corruption, inefficiency or institutional inertia. A powerful laptop in the hands of an uninterested official remained merely a powerful laptop. The same paradox emerged with PowerPoint. A tool designed to communicate information became, in some institutions, a substitute for serious analysis. Complex national problems were reduced to attractive slides, risks disappeared behind optimistic charts, and weak policies could be made to look impressive. “Death by PowerPoint” became more than a phrase; it became a warning about governance. We saw how major national decisions could be presented as technical successes while their long-term financial, economic and strategic consequences received insufficient scrutiny. The lesson is important because Pakistan is now entering another technological revolution, and this time the technology is far more powerful. Artificial intelligence is no longer limited to answering questions or completing simple prompts. The next generation is moving towards what we may describe as synthetic intelligence: increasingly autonomous systems that can receive an objective, break it into multiple tasks, use software tools, analyse information, check their own results, identify errors, revise their approach and continue working when a particular step fails. AI is also becoming multimodal, allowing systems to process text, images, sound, video, sensor information and structured data together. The next frontier is the integration of digital intelligence with the physical world through robotics, sensors, autonomous machines, industrial systems, medical technology, logistics and manufacturing. A system may eventually be able to observe a problem, formulate a plan, execute several steps, monitor the consequences and adapt its strategy without continuous human instruction. This is a profound transformation from statistical prediction towards increasingly structured problem-solving and autonomous action. Yet we must be careful about what this technological progress actually means. AI can calculate faster than humans, search more information than humans and identify patterns that humans may miss. It can optimise a supply chain, forecast electricity demand, analyse satellite imagery, detect anomalies in financial accounts and assist engineers in complex modelling. But none of this means that machines have acquired human wisdom. Intelligence and wisdom are not the same. A machine can calculate the most efficient way to distribute water, but it cannot independently determine what constitutes justice between competing communities. It can forecast a food shortage, but it cannot decide the moral priority between those who can pay and those who cannot. It can optimise an energy system, but it cannot decide whether a development project is worth the environmental and social cost. It can generate an economic model, but it cannot experience the hardship of a family facing inflation, unemployment or unaffordable electricity. The danger, therefore, is not simply that machines will become more intelligent. The greater danger is that human beings will begin surrendering judgement to machines. We must never confuse computational power with wisdom, information with understanding, or automation with responsibility. For Pakistan, this distinction is not an academic argument. It is a matter of national survival. Whatever happens to artificial intelligence during the next 100 years, human beings will still need food, water, energy, shelter and economic security. AI may transform the way these resources are managed, but it cannot abolish their physical foundations. An algorithm cannot manufacture a Himalayan glacier. A chatbot cannot create a river. A computer cannot grow wheat. A digital platform cannot replace a watershed. A robot cannot simply manufacture energy from nothing. AI can help us forecast rainfall, optimise irrigation, monitor groundwater, improve agricultural productivity, manage electricity demand, reduce transmission losses and identify climate risks. It can help us make better decisions, but it cannot remove our dependence on nature. This is particularly important for Pakistan because our national future is inseparable from the Indus Basin. Agriculture depends on water. Cities depend on reliable water supplies. Industry depends on energy. Food security depends on agriculture. Economic stability depends on affordable energy, productive agriculture, exports and functioning infrastructure. These systems are interconnected. Water affects food. Energy affects water. Food affects inflation. Energy affects industry. Climate change affects all of them. If water security deteriorates, agriculture suffers. If agriculture suffers, food prices rise. If energy becomes unaffordable, industry becomes uncompetitive. If industry weakens, employment and exports decline. If these pressures occur simultaneously, no AI system will magically rescue the country. This is why the belief that technology alone can solve Pakistan’s fundamental problems is dangerous. We have already made this mistake with computers and digitalisation. We must not repeat it with AI. Technology can amplify competence, but it can also amplify incompetence. If dishonest data enters an AI system, the machine may produce sophisticated dishonesty. If flawed assumptions enter the model, AI may produce a highly polished version of a flawed conclusion. If the objective is politically manipulated, the most advanced algorithm cannot convert a bad objective into good governance. The

Reflecting upon the profound vastness of the cosmos and the acute, unyielding solitude of the human condition, the French philosopher and writer Albert Camus once observed that if even a single lamp were to be kindled within the dark, tempestuous ocean of history, the entire fabric of the universe would transform, tearing asunder the merciless veil of night. The annals of history stand as an unshakeable testament to the truth that whenever the fierce gales of material greed, political expediency, and moral decay have threatened to engulf human societies, certain dervish-souled, deeply conscientious, and granite-willed individuals have emerged from the crowd. Swimming resolutely against the powerful, destructive current of their era, these rare souls have stood guard over the invaluable civilizational trusts bequeathed by antiquity. The fertile, history-drenched soil of Gujrat—where the ancient, meandering waves of the Chenab and Jhelum rivers have whispered civilizational sagas for centuries—has long served as the intellectual cradle and practical domain of precisely such a man of extraordinary mettle. Brushing aside the rigidities of legal codes, the demanding, iron-willed disciplinary training of police service, and the glittering, lucrative allure of high-ranking international postings, he made the monumental choice to dedicate his entire terrestrial existence to books, the retrieval of forgotten history, and uncompromised moral dignity. This towering, unyielding personality is none other than Arif Ali Mir, Advocate, whose entire life has stood like an unshakable monolith against the self-serving, shifting winds of his time. Born on December 28, 1949—corresponding precisely to the 8th of Rabi’ al-Awwal, 1369 AH, on a Wednesday—within the historic, time-honored confines of “Mir Manzil” in Mohalla Khyber, nestled deep in the heart of Gujrat’s historic town of Jalalpur Jattan, Arif Ali Mir’s life is far more than a conventional biographical sketch. It is a profound, sweeping narrative capturing the complex post-colonial socio-political contradictions of the Indian subcontinent, an unwavering, almost sacred custodianship of noble familial heritage, and an extraordinary odyssey of letters where every single chapter serves as a luminous metaphor for absolute sincerity, purity of intellectual purpose, and complete self-sufficiency. His esteemed father, Ghazanfar Hussain Mir, was a legendary, fiercely principled, and seasoned lawyer of his generation. His uncommon nobility, profound legal acumen, and distinguished, intellectual circle of acquaintances infused the deepest foundational layers of Arif Ali Mir’s character with a forged-steel morality that would remain his greatest, most unassailable asset throughout his life. Standing gracefully beside him was his mother, Ruqaiya Begum, an affectionate, deeply dignified woman who silently imprinted the enduring values of selfless sacrifice, patience, and unbreakable resilience upon the rearing of her children. Within this vibrant, intellectually charged household comprising four sisters and three brothers, Arif Ali Mir occupies a unique middle vantage: two elder sisters precede him in age, while all other siblings are younger. Driven eventually by the professional demands and expanding horizons of his father’s legal practice, the family made the permanent transition from Jalalpur Jattan to the bustling city of Gujrat, establishing their permanent domestic and intellectual anchor at “Mir Street” on Bhimber Road—a historic domicile that would organically evolve into a cherished sanctuary for scholars, jurists, and discerning bibliophiles alike. A deep, discerning psychological and biographical study of Mr. Arif Ali Mir’s versatile and multifaceted personality reveals that his arrival on December 28, 1949, was far from a mere statistical coincidence. According to the timeless principles of astrological configuration and character alignment, his zodiac sign, Capricorn, functions as a clear mirror to his intrinsic nature. Ruled by Saturn—the planetary archetype of profound gravity, timeless perseverance, and unyielding adherence to principle—these exact traits form the unmistakable, defining hallmark of Mr. Arif’s entire life. While Capricorns are universally recognized across traditions as grounded earth signs marked by relentless, grinding toil, Arif Sahib uniquely channeled this raw elemental energy into cultivating a veritable forest of arts, letters, and historical preservation upon the plains of Gujrat. The crowning virtue of his astrological archetype is structural discipline combined with penetrating foresight—qualities that naturally laid the bedrock of his early success in the legal arena, where he learned to dissect truth from falsehood with microscopic precision. Yet, the most captivating, transcendent facet of his persona is how he decisively transcended the traditional, narrow materialism often associated with his sign through a profound inner spiritual inclination. Operating as a fiercely devoted bibliophile and patron of learning, he redirected the formidable organizational capacity of the Capricorn psyche away from worldly accumulation and entirely toward the preservation of rare texts and the wide propagation of knowledge. Operating with the quiet, unostentatious efficiency characteristic of his sign, his personal dignity, fierce institutional loyalty, and immense intellectual depth render him a towering, sheltering tree on Gujrat’s literary horizon—its roots gripping ancient tradition, its uppermost branches illuminated by the clear light of universal wisdom. Mr. Arif Ali Mir’s educational journey is a rugged, continuous path strewn with dramatic twists, historical upheavals, and personal sacrifices that ultimately refined his character like crucible-tested gold. At the time of his earliest schooling, his father was stationed as the Chief Sanitary Inspector for the Sialkot Municipality, prompting Arif’s first three formative, sensory years of childhood to unfold within the disciplined, historic halls of the Convent of Jesus and Mary in Sialkot. Upon the family’s return to Jalalpur Jattan, he successfully completed his fifth and sixth grades at Islamia Primary School, subsequently transitioning to Islamia High School. When domestic circumstances necessitated a move to Gujrat, where the family initially settled in a rented house near Mohalla Gyanpura / Muslim Abad , he pursued his seventh and eighth grades at Muslim High School on Court Road. This institution was then under the stellar administrative helm of the eminent headmaster Master Ghulam Abbas. For his matriculation, he moved to Public High School No. 1 in Gujrat—administered with strict discipline by Headmaster Mirza Shaukat Ali and school owner Sheikh Shafqatullah—where he successfully passed his Matriculation examination in the watershed year of 1964. Following this, he completed his intermediate education at Sir Syed College on Railway Road, Gujrat, in 1966, before

I will tell you exactly how it felt for Pakistanis all over the world the day the Makkah Defence Pact was signed. I am in London, and I can tell you that, for British Pakistanis, it felt like a wedding. I went to a café in central London and found a sort of celebration among Pakistanis. Phones were buzzing, television anchors were beaming, and for one evening, it seemed like every household in Lahore, Islamabad and Karachi was talking about the same thing: Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Turkiye standing together, promising to defend one another. In Riyadh and Ankara, the mood was no different. Flags, statements, warm handshakes. A celebration, plain and simple. I miss Pakistan right now. Right now, Pakistan is illuminated. It is a sort of festivity. Celebration is in the air. Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif and Field Marshal Asim Munir have made it possible to put Muslim countries on a single platform. But I am a curious man by nature, and celebrations make me curious in a particular way. When everyone in the room is smiling, I always want to know who is standing outside, looking in through the window. So I went looking. I wanted to know what India was saying, what Iran was saying, and what the UAE was saying. And what I found was a much more complicated story than the one being told at the wedding. Let me start with India, because that is where the unease runs deepest. Turkish journalist Aslı Aydıntaşbaş, who studies the region closely, said it would be too early to call this a “Muslim NATO” or “Sunni NATO.” But she also said something important: this pact shows a real desire among regional countries to build their own security system, owned by themselves. Strategic affairs expert Brahma Chellaney went further. He warned that this agreement could make it much harder to control tensions if India and Pakistan ever clash again. He pointed out that during Operation Sindoor, Pakistan received far more military help from China than from Turkiye, but Turkiye’s direct support made one thing clear: if a conflict with India happens, Turkiye is ready to stand by Pakistan. Former Indian ambassador to the UN, T S Tirumurti, was even more direct. He said the pact uses language similar to NATO’s Article 5, and that its effects will not stay confined to the Middle East. Given the long, tense history between Pakistan and India, he said, this has to be read with that relationship in mind. So, my friends in India must learn one thing: their government should think 10 times, or even more, before going into a military confrontation with Pakistan. Then there is Iran, and here the tone was different again. Ali Akbar Velayati, adviser to Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, did not criticise the new pact. Instead, in posts written in Persian, Arabic, English and Turkish, he spoke of the resilience of Iran’s armed forces and what he called the defeat of the United States and Israel. He said this defeat proved that foreign forces, which he called the main cause of insecurity, must leave the region. And in the same breath, he said that growing cooperation among regional states can secure the region’s own security. In other words, Iran is not against regional countries banding together. It simply wants outside powers to step back. The UAE, as I have written before, took the most careful line of all. No rejection, no celebration, just pointed questions about who exactly this alliance is meant to deter. For his part, Turkish President Erdoğan tried to calm every nerve in the room. He wrote that the pact follows Article 51 of the UN Charter, the right to self-defence, and is not directed against any country. It is open, he said, to any friendly nation that wants peace and stability in the region. So here is what I take from all this, writing as a Pakistani watching his own country’s celebration from the inside. Pride is natural, and this pact matters. But a wedding always looks different from outside the window. India sees risk. Iran sees an opening to push out foreign powers. The UAE sees questions still unanswered. As Pakistanis, we should enjoy this moment, but we should also read the room beyond our own hall.