Fix the 41 Words That Run Your Street

When Henrik Ibsen wrote A Doll’s House in 1879, Europe was not prepared for Nora Helmer’s final act, where she left her husband. The sound of a woman shutting the door on her husband and children became one of the most controversial moments in literary history. To nineteenth-century society, the idea that a wife could leave an unhappy marriage was not merely immoral; it was considered an attack on the very foundation of civilization itself: the marriage. The reaction was so intense that German theatre managers forced Ibsen to change the ending. In the revised version, Nora looks at her sleeping children, collapses emotionally, and stays in the marriage. Society wanted the family preserved at all costs. Marriage was sacred. Separation was shameful. A woman’s identity was expected to remain tied to sacrifice, endurance, and silence. More than a century later, something similar is unfolding in Pakistan, particularly in Islamabad. According to recent reports, family courts in Islamabad are facing an unprecedented rise in khula and maintenance cases. More than 45,000 khula-related cases have reportedly already been filed this year, with over 300 new cases emerging daily. The number of family disputes continues to rise, reaching 100,000 cases in 2025. Alongside this trend, court marriages have also increased significantly, many ending in disputes soon after marriage. This phenomenon is often discussed only through statistics or social criticism. Yet beneath these numbers lies a deeper sociological transformation, one that history has witnessed before: a doll’s house. The most striking aspect is not the increase in divorce. It is the change in social attitudes toward marriage itself. Pakistan today appears to be experiencing debates that Europe confronted more than one hundred years ago. In traditional Pakistani society, much like Victorian Europe, marriage has long been treated as sacred, permanent, and socially untouchable. Previous generations often viewed separation as failure, dishonour, or rebellion against family values. Women were expected to tolerate emotional hardship, neglect, incompatibility, and sometimes even abuse for the sake of preserving the household structure. This is precisely the social environment that Nora challenged in A Doll’s House. At the time, audiences were horrified not because Nora committed a crime, but because she chose herself over an unhappy domestic life. Society could forgive a flawed husband more easily than it could accept a woman leaving the marriage altogether. Her departure symbolized individual dignity over social expectation. Today, in Islamabad’s family courts, one can observe echoes of the same historical transformation. Increasingly, people, particularly women, are refusing to remain in marriages they perceive as emotionally unbearable, unequal, or destructive. Whether one agrees with this shift or not, it represents a visible social reality. This does not necessarily mean that society has abandoned the institution of marriage. Rather, it may indicate that expectations from marriage are changing. Earlier generations often prioritized endurance and collective family reputation. Modern generations increasingly prioritize emotional compatibility, respect, mental peace, and personal autonomy. The pace of this transition, however, varies across societies. Europe underwent these debates gradually through industrialization, feminism, legal reform, and changing gender roles over decades. Pakistan, by contrast, is witnessing social change at a much faster pace due to urbanization, education, digital connectivity, economic pressures, and shifting cultural narratives. Ideas that once took generations to spread now travel instantly through social media, television, and global interaction. This is why the comparison with Ibsen’s drama becomes deeply relevant. History does not repeat itself in identical forms, but human societies often move through similar psychological and cultural stages. The same fears once expressed in nineteenth-century Europe, that family systems would collapse, morality would disappear, and social order would weaken, are now frequently heard in discussions within Pakistan. Yet it is important to approach this issue carefully and honestly. Recognizing this social transformation does not automatically mean celebrating divorce, nor does it mean condemning marriage. It simply means acknowledging that societies evolve, and that concepts once considered absolute eventually become contested. The sanctity of marriage remains deeply important for millions of families in Pakistan. At the same time, increasing numbers of individuals no longer believe that preserving a marriage at any cost is always the highest social virtue. Perhaps the real lesson from A Doll’s House is not about encouraging separation, but about understanding how societies react when individuals begin demanding dignity, identity and personal autonomy within family life. More than a century ago, Europe feared Nora’s door slam. Today, Pakistan is hearing similar sounds, not from theatre stages, but from courtrooms and homes. Whether this transformation strengthens or weakens society remains a question for future generations. But one thing is undeniable: social change, once it begins, rarely moves backward.

The real meaning of 14th August and the unfinished journey of Pakistan Every year, on 14th August, Pakistan dresses itself in green and white. Flags appear on buildings, vehicles and streets. National songs fill the air. Speeches remind us of the sacrifices of our forefathers, and we proudly celebrate the creation of Pakistan on 14 August 1947. And rightly so. Pakistan was not created without sacrifice. Millions suffered displacement, countless families were torn apart, and an entire generation endured enormous pain to establish a homeland. But every Independence Day should also make us ask a difficult question. What does independence actually mean? Is independence merely the absence of foreign rule? Or is true independence something much deeper? A country may possess a flag, a national anthem, a constitution, a parliament, an army and a sovereign territory, and yet its people may still remain trapped in poverty, injustice, corruption, ignorance, inequality and institutional weakness. If so, then perhaps political independence has been achieved, but the journey toward real national freedom is still incomplete. Freedom from whom, and freedom for what? The independence of 1947 gave the people of this land the right to govern themselves. But self-government carries a responsibility. The purpose of independence was not simply to replace foreign rulers with local rulers. It was to create a society in which people could live with dignity, justice, security and opportunity. The real question, therefore, is not whether Pakistan is an independent country. Of course it is. The real question is: Have we built the kind of society for which independence was meant to provide the opportunity? A nation is not truly free when an ordinary citizen cannot obtain justice without influence. A nation is not truly free when merit is defeated by connections. A nation is not truly free when public resources are treated as private property. A nation is not truly free when people are forced to pay bribes to obtain services that are already their legal rights. A nation is not truly free when the powerful can escape accountability while the weak struggle to be heard. And a nation is certainly not truly free when its citizens themselves participate in the corruption, dishonesty and lawlessness that they condemn in their rulers. The uncomfortable truth, governments are not the only problem We often blame politicians, bureaucrats, institutions and rulers for everything that is wrong with Pakistan. There is certainly plenty to criticize in our institutions and governance. But there is another uncomfortable question that we must have the courage to ask: What about us? Can a dishonest society produce an honest system? Can people who routinely evade taxes demand an honest government? Can someone who gives a bribe to get his work done then claim that corruption exists only in government offices? Can a person who uses political connections for personal benefit demand meritocracy when someone else gets an opportunity through influence? Can we demand justice from the state while refusing to practice justice in our own homes, businesses, workplaces and communities? This is where the real challenge begins. A nation’s character is ultimately reflected not only in its rulers, but also in the everyday conduct of its citizens. Corruption does not survive because only corrupt officials exist. It survives because there is often an ecosystem in which the giver, receiver, beneficiary and silent observer all contribute to its continuation. Independence without character is incomplete. The greatest weakness of a nation is not necessarily poverty. Nations can recover from poverty. They can recover from economic crises. They can rebuild after wars and natural disasters. But when dishonesty becomes socially acceptable, when corruption becomes a normal shortcut, when merit becomes negotiable and when people stop believing that laws should apply equally to everyone, the foundations of the state itself begin to weaken. This is why national independence must eventually become moral and civic independence. We must become independent from the mentality that says: “If everyone is doing it, why shouldn’t I?” We must become independent from: Corruption, bribery, nepotism, political favoritism, tax evasion, dishonesty in business, misuse of public property, intolerance, lawlessness, the worship of wealth and status, and the belief that rules are only for ordinary people. These are not merely personal weaknesses. When they become widespread, they become national problems. The mirror of 14th August Perhaps this Independence Day we should look into a mirror instead of merely looking at the flag. The flag tells us that we have a country. The mirror asks us. What kind of people are we becoming? We proudly say that Pakistan is a nuclear power. We proudly celebrate our armed forces, who have made enormous sacrifices in defending Pakistan. But a truly strong Pakistan must also possess strong institutions, rule of law, economic stability, justice, education and honest citizenry. We speak proudly about our sovereignty. But do ordinary citizens have economic, social and legal security? We celebrate democracy. But do we practice democratic values in our everyday lives? We demand accountability from rulers. But are we prepared to hold ourselves accountable? These questions may be uncomfortable, but Independence Day is precisely the right occasion to ask them. Real independence begins with the individual. We often imagine that changing Pakistan requires a great leader. Of course, competent and honest leadership matters. Good institutions matter. Strong laws matter. Independent courts matter. Professional administration matters. Transparent elections matter. But no institutional reform can permanently succeed if society itself refuses to change. Real national transformation begins much closer to home. It begins when a citizen decides. I will not give a bribe. It begins when an official decides: I will not misuse my authority. It begins when a businessman decides: I will not deceive my customer. It begins when a taxpayer decide. I will fulfil my responsibility. It begins when a teacher decides. I will teach honestly. It begins when a student decides. I will earn my degree through knowledge, not cheating. It begins when a voter decides. I will not sell my vote for

“The ‘I’ of Bulleh Shah represents man in his very essential capacity as a unit of creation”. —Najm Hosain Syed, Recurrent Patterns in Punjabi Poetry  Najm Hosain Syed’s reading of Bulleh Shah rescues one of Punjab’s most familiar poems from the ease of popular applause. Bullah ki jaana main kaun is commonly heard as a graceful confession that ultimate truth cannot be known. Najm sees something more demanding. Bulleh’s “I” is the elemental human being confronting the question “who?” Every answer offered by history—religion, institution, inherited status, nationality, relationship or dogma—tempts the seeker with a final identity. The poet accepts none as sufficient. His negatives are not an escape from commitment; they refuse to let any socially manufactured label exhaust the meaning of being human. This makes Bulleh Shah indispensable to our inquiry into poetry, power and humanity. Shah Hussain crossed the narrow passage between possession and freedom [Poetry, Power & Humanity—III:  Shah Hussain: Crossing the Narrow Passage of Love & Rebellion, Minute Mirror, July 21, 2026]. Bulleh Shah interrogated the walls on either side. Who constructed them? Who benefits when human beings are separated into pure and impure, believer and unbeliever, ruler and subject, high-born and low-born? His poetry exposes how identity, initially a source of belonging, can be converted into an instrument of hierarchy. اُٹھ گئے گوانڈھوں یار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Uth gaye gawandhon yaar Rabba hun ki kariye The Beloved has left the neighbourhood; Lord, what am I to do now? اُٹھ چلّے ہُن رہندے ناہیں ہویا ساتھ تیار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Uth chale hun rehnde nahin Hoya saath tayyar Rabba hun ki kariye He has risen and departed; the caravan stands ready, and he will remain no more. Lord, what am I to do now? ڈاڈھ کلیجے بل بل اُٹھے بھڑکے بِرہوں نار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Daadh kaleje bal bal uthe Bharke birhon naar Rabba hun ki kariye The depths of my heart are aflame, kindled by the fire of separation. Lord, what am I to do now? بُلھا شاہ پیارے باجھوں رہے اُرار نہ پار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Bulla Shah piyare bajhon Rahe uraar na paar Rabba hun ki kariye Without the Beloved, says Bulleh Shah, I remain stranded midstream, reaching neither shore. Lord, what am I to do now? The kafi begins with departure, though it does not end in private sorrow. The familiar neighbourhood has lost its centre; the traveller is left between shores. This is the existential moment preceding Bulleh’s interrogation of identity. Once the familiar world departs, inherited answers can no longer shelter us. “What am I to do now?” becomes the cry of every human being whose social certainties have collapsed. Bulleh Shah lived in a Punjab experiencing political dislocation, declining Mughal authority and sharpening religious and social conflict. His spiritual choice itself challenged inherited hierarchy. Born into a Syed family, he accepted Shah Inayat, traditionally identified with the Arain community, as his murshid. Knowledge and spiritual worth were thus placed above genealogy. Their relationship was not merely devotional; it denied the proposition that dignity could be inherited by one group and withheld from another. His choice of Punjabi carried similar democratic force. Persian was associated with administration and cultivated elites; Arabic commanded religious authority. Punjabi was the living speech of cultivators, artisans, women, faqirs and labouring communities. Through the kafi, philosophy ceased to be the exclusive property of courts and seminaries. It could be remembered, sung and transmitted without permission from those controlling formal knowledge. The kafi was central to Bulleh Shah’s poetic expression and to the wider Sufi traditions of Punjab and Sindh. Bulleh’s resistance becomes sharper in the following kafi, where he compares the ostentatiously pious with dogs. راتیں جاگیں کریں عبادت راتیں جاگن کُتے تیتھوں اُتے Raatin jaagein karein ibaadat Raatin jaagan kutte Taithon utte You remain awake at night in worship; dogs keep vigil too— and surpass you. بھونکنوں بند مول نہ ہندے جا روڑیں تے سُتے تیتھوں اُتے Bhonkanon band mool na honde Ja roorin te sutte Taithon utte They never cease their watchful barking, then sleep upon a refuse heap— and surpass you. خَسم اپنے دا در نہ چھڈدے بھاویں وجن جُتے تیتھوں اُتے Khasam apne da dar na chhadde Bhaven vajjan jutte Taithon utte They never abandon their Master’s door, though struck repeatedly— and surpass you. بلھے شاہ کوئی رَخت وِہاج لے نہیں تے بازی لے گئے کُتے تیتھوں اُتے Bulleh Shah koi rakht vihaaj lai Nahin te baazi lai gaye kutte Taithon utte Bulleh Shah, acquire provisions for the journey, or the dogs will carry away the prize— and surpass you. The poem reverses an established hierarchy with deliberate audacity. The dog, conventionally treated as impure, becomes the moral teacher; the visibly devout human being becomes the object of satire. Bulleh does not ridicule worship. He asks what worship is worth when it produces neither loyalty nor humility. The dog remains at its master’s threshold despite hunger, rejection and blows. The worshipper may remain awake, although ritual performed for reputation can coexist with pride, cruelty and the pursuit of power. This distinction is critical. Bulleh Shah’s target is not religion but its conversion into social capital. Piety becomes another possession—something to display, trade and employ against others. In Erich Fromm’s terms, the mode of “having” invades faith: one “has” learning, sanctity, lineage and followers. Bulleh insists upon the mode of “being”, where truth appears through conduct rather than claim. The dog’s fidelity defeats the worshipper’s performance. The same assault on borrowed identity culminates in three immortal lines: بلھیا! کی جاناں میں کون Bulleya, ki jaana main kaun? Bulleh, how can I know who I am? نہ میں مومن وچ مسیتاں نہ میں وچ کفر دیاں ریتاں Na main momin vich maseetan Na main vich kufar diyan reetan I am not confined to the believer in the mosque, nor to the rituals called unbelief. نہ میں موسیٰ، نہ فرعون Na main Moosa, na Firaun I am neither Moses nor Pharaoh. Bulleh removes the available answers one after

By General Ghulam Mustafa & Arshad H Abbasi  We have stood together at the foot of the Great Wall of China more than once at different times, but today a thought has returned to both of us, unspoken until now. The Wall runs some 21,196 kilometres across dynasties and deserts, built stone by stone over centuries to secure a civilization’s frontier. Pakistan’s own most dangerous frontier — the Durand Line separating us from Afghanistan — runs roughly 2,625 kilometres, barely an eighth of that length. If a civilization on the scale of China could raise a barrier of that magnitude with the tools of the third century BC, then securing a border less than an eighth as long, with the tools of the twenty-first century, cannot be beyond the reach of the partnership Beijing and Islamabad have built. We do not ask China to build us a wall of stone. We ask Beijing to help us build something sturdier: a wall of enforced accountability against the militants using Afghan soil to bleed Pakistan dry. That bleeding is not a metaphor. Since the Afghan Taliban returned to power in Kabul, the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan has operated with a freedom of movement across our western border that it never enjoyed before. Balochistan burns. Khyber Pakhtunkhwa buries its soldiers and its schoolchildren in the same week. And now the shockwaves have reached Punjab, the country’s demographic and economic core. Every honest accounting of this violence traces back to the same source: sanctuary, training, and logistical freedom on Afghan soil, tolerated or unchecked by an administration in Kabul that owes its survival, in no small part, to Chinese patience and Chinese capital. This is why we write to Beijing, and to Beijing specifically, rather than to Washington, Brussels, or Moscow. Survey after survey inside Pakistan finds that well over eight in ten of our citizens consider China, not any Western power, to be Pakistan’s true friend. Our leaders have called this friendship higher than the Himalayas and deeper than the ocean, and we do not repeat that line as ceremony. We repeat it because it is the only frame in which Beijing can hear what we are about to say plainly: no other country on earth holds the leverage over the Taliban that China holds, and no other country has more to lose from squandering it. Consider what China has already built in Afghanistan without formal recognition of its government. The Xinjiang Central Asia Petroleum and Gas Company signed a twenty-five-year contract to develop the Amu Darya oil basin, committing roughly $150 million annually and scaling toward $540 million over three years. State-backed firms continue to negotiate the long-stalled Mes Aynak copper concession, one of the largest untapped copper deposits on earth, alongside serious interest in Afghan lithium and iron ore. Beijing has cut tariffs on 98 % of Afghan imports. An active Chinese embassy operates in Kabul today, accepting Taliban-appointed diplomats, even as formal recognition is withheld. This is not incidental engagement. This is the deepest economic relationship any major power currently has with the Taliban administration, and it gives China something no airstrike or sanction regime has ever given anyone: the ability to make continued investment conditional on results. We are asking Beijing to use that leverage with the same discipline it has already shown in defending its own security interests. China has made clear, repeatedly and without apology, that it will not tolerate the Turkistan Islamic Party or East Turkistan Islamic Movement fighters operating from Afghan territory against Xinjiang. We are asking only that China extend that identical, non-negotiable standard to the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan and its allied networks operating against us. If Kabul can be made to understand that Chinese mining contracts, Chinese tariff relief, and Chinese diplomatic cover all depend on a genuine, verifiable crackdown on TTP sanctuaries, this insurgency does not need years to end. It needs a Kabul administration that finally has more to lose from harbouring militants than from disowning them. But security pressure alone will not hold, and here we want to be honest about what Afghanistan actually needs from its neighbours, China chief among them. Afghanistan’s national literacy rate stands at just 37 % — 52 % among men, a mere 27 % among women — and UNESCO reports that more than nine in ten ten-year-olds in the country cannot read a simple sentence. Two point two million adolescent girls remain locked out of secondary school entirely, the only country on earth to enforce such a ban, at a projected cost to Afghanistan’s own economy of nearly $9.6 billion in lost potential by 2066. No pipeline, no copper mine, and no railway line will stabilize a country where the next generation cannot read the contracts, safety manuals, or engineering plans that would let them run these projects themselves. It is China’s duty, as the neighbour with the deepest economic stake and the clearest long-term interest in a stable Afghanistan, to make literacy, vocational training, and the reopening of girls’ education a hard condition of its investment — not out of charity, but because an illiterate, disenfranchised population is the same population the TTP and ETIM recruit from. Afghanistan does not need a foreign army. It needs classrooms, teachers, and a workforce equipped to build the country’s own future, backed by an investor patient and disciplined enough to insist on it. Every failed intervention in Afghanistan’s modern history has shared the same flaw: outsiders who came to fight a war, not to build a neighbour. Britain came and left. The Soviet Union came and left, at ruinous cost to itself. NATO and the United States spent two decades and did not leave functioning institutions behind them. China is different in the one respect that matters most: China is not leaving. It shares a border with Afghanistan. Its investments are measured in decades, not electoral cycles. And it has, through the Belt and Road Initiative and the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor, already built the template for what real

The devastating floods of 2022 severely affected the education system of Sindh, damaging thousands of schools either fully or partially. In order to tackle such climate crises and floods, the Government of Sindh, in collaboration with international donors and partners such as the Asian Development Bank, Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), UNICEF, and others, has designed a comprehensive and well-planned strategy to reconstruct and repair the flood-affected schools across the province in order to provide conducive learning environment and quality education to the children whose education suffered due to the catastrophic floods. According to the data of the Sindh Education Department, during the floods of 2022, around 19,821 schools were affected, impacting very badly the infrastructure and education system of the province. The media, citing official sources, reported that major reconstruction projects were initiated with significant financial allocations. Under these initiatives, thousands of schools were selected for rehabilitation and reconstruction, and work is continuing in different districts of Sindh. Around 1.4 million students are expected to benefit from the restoration of educational facilities and the reopening of repaired schools. Under the Provincial Annual Development Programme (ADP), 2405 schools were included for repair and rehabilitation. Similarly, maintenance and repair schemes were also launched to restore basic facilities in schools. Under these schemes, classrooms, compound walls, washrooms, drinking water facilities, and other essential requirements were fulfilled to ensure the resumption of education. For flood affected schools, the Sindh School Education Investment Programme for Flood-Affected Areas (SSEIP-FA) was launched with the support of the Asian Development Bank. The project is considered one of the major initiatives for the restoration of education in the province. Under this programme, 1,607 schools are being rehabilitated across the targeted districts of Sindh. The initiative aimed at rebuilding climate-resilient infrastructure, including classrooms, and the provision of quality education to the children. The plan is expected to end by 2027. Apart from this, the Government of Japan and the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA) have also been major partners in the drive of repair and reconstruction of flood-hit schools, making the infrastructure climate-resilient and stronger enough to face and combat floods and other disasters. JICA, in this context, believes that this initiative is part of the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), including Goal 4 (Quality Education), Goal 5 (Gender Equality), and Goal 13 (Climate Action). The programme includes the reconstruction of educational facilities, additional classrooms, and the provision of water, sanitation, and hygiene (WASH) facilities, apart from the repair and reconstruction of flood-affected schools. JICA has also supported the upgrading of 20 primary girls’ schools into elementary schools in rural areas of Sindh. Under this project, the Government of Japan provided grant assistance of 1,686 million Japanese Yen. The project aims to promote girls’ education and improve access to education facilities in remote areas of the province.The Embassy of Japan in Pakistan says that the programme ultimately aims to specially promote girls’ education and support students in remote areas of Sindh. It is commonly observed that the Government of Sindh, with the support of international donor agencies such as UNICEF, the Asian Development Bank, JICA, and the European Union, has repaired, reconstructed, and upgraded thousands of schools in the province. It is a fact that the climate crisis has badly impacted the infrastructure and education system of the province. Amidst these challenges, the efforts of the Government of Sindh, particularly the determined initiatives led by the Minister Education Department have begun to bring rays of hope and meaningful change.The rehabilitation of flood-affected schools is a major challenge, keeping in mind the huge number of damaged schools and financial constraints. A closer analysis indicates that some schools, particularly in remote areas of the province, are still awaiting reconstruction and repair, but one can’t deny the fact that, despite certain challenges and financial constraints, the Education Department of Sindh, in collaboration with the mentioned international partners, has been striving to rebuild infrastructure, provide a conducive learning environment to children, and especially focusing on promoting girls’ education in the province. The Education Department is well aware of the issues and challenges and believes that, the support of parents, civil society, and teachers, is of vital significance to improve the quality of education and provide a conducive learning environment to the children of the province. The rebuilding of the schools in Sindh following the floods of 2022 is not only about concrete-made walls and ceilings, but, in fact, it is the rebuilding of hope for a sustainable future and hope to combat the climate crisis.

Let me begin where every honest sentence on this subject must begin: I condemn, without reservation, the murder of Mir Raza Ali, the 25-year-old founder of Karachi’s beloved dessert brand Wafflix. He left his home before dawn on July 28, 2026, telling his mother he would return in ten minutes. He never did. His body was found the next day in the bushes of Gulistan-e-Jauhar, bearing torture marks and a gunshot wound. Eighteen days later, his family still waits for the truth, and I appeal — as every citizen should — for a swift, transparent investigation and justice for his killers. Nothing that follows in this essay is meant to diminish that grief. It is meant to sit beside it, uneasily, and ask why our grief is so selective. Because for eighteen days now, Pakistan’s television screens have offered something close to a live tribunal. Home Minister Zia Ul Hassan Lanjar and Inspector General of Police Javed Alam Odho face anchors nightly. Forensic reports are dissected line by line. Postmortem findings, CCTV timelines, taxi records — every fragment of evidence is turned over on air with a rigor that would not embarrass The Hague. I do not begrudge this scrutiny; a young man is dead and the public deserves answers. But I confess, with something between astonishment and despair, that I cannot recall our media applying this same forensic hunger to the killing of the country’s economy. Even the assassination of former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto in 2007 — an event that reshaped this nation’s political history — did not receive this level of daily, granular dissection. Nor, in truth, did the world’s own gold standard for high-profile scrutiny, the 2018 murder of journalist Jamal Khashoggi inside the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, sustain eighteen straight days of forensic-audit-level coverage in the country that lost him. So where is that same appetite for NEPRA and CPPA? Here is what nobody puts on a talk show: over the past three years, dozens of Pakistanis — an elderly widow in Gujranwala, a mother of four in Jahanian, a young man in Faisalabad, a payphone operator in Peshawar — have taken their own lives after receiving electricity bills they could not pay. These were not abstractions. They were documented, named, buried. And yet no anchor has spent eighteen consecutive nights asking the chairman of NEPRA why. No panel has summoned the CEO of the Central Power Purchasing Agency to explain, plainly, in language a shopkeeper in Bahadurabad could understand, why this country of 260 million people pays some of the region’s highest power tariffs while its own regulator’s reports describe capacity sitting idle. Where is the media trial of the men who told us, from 2014 to 2018, that imported coal would be Pakistan’s “game changer,” and of the former prime minister who made the same promise about LNG-fired plants? Those promises are now line items in a debt-trapped economy, in a nation reduced, again and again, to a global begging bowl. But no one is asked to answer for them on camera. They sit, as it were, behind a veil — while the Director General of ISPR and the Chief of Defence Forces routinely stand before microphones and take hard questions. Why can Pakistan’s military spokesmen face the public, but not the men who set the price of electricity for every household in the country? I want to be precise, not merely aggrieved, so let me offer what I found when I went looking myself. CPPA-G’s own energy purchase data for May–June 2026 shows three nearly identical imported-coal plants — Huaneng Shandong Ruyi at Sahiwal (1,244 MW), China Power Hub in Balochistan (1,249 MW), and Port Qasim in Karachi (1,243 MW) — dispatched at wildly different rates. Huaneng ran at roughly 73 percent of capacity; Port Qasim at only 36 percent; China Power Hub at a mere 24 percent — this despite Huaneng being, by current fuel charges, the most expensive of the three at roughly Rs. 20.38 per unit, against Rs. 15.12 for Port Qasim and Rs. 16.09 for Hub. If Pakistan’s Economic Merit Order genuinely governed dispatch, the cheaper southern plants should be running harder, not idling at a quarter of their design capacity. Something else is deciding who generates and who doesn’t — transmission bottlenecks, take-or-pay contract terms that favor Sahiwal, or simple operational failure at Hub, whose output fell 37 percent in a single month. Whatever the cause, Pakistani consumers are still paying full capacity charges for roughly 760 to 940 idle megawatts at each underused plant — fixed costs for electricity that was never produced, quietly folded into tariffs nobody explains on air. This is not a call to relent on Mir Raza Ali. It is a plea that the same courage be extended elsewhere. I am not asking media to abandon one grieving family; I am asking whether this nation’s curiosity has been rationed, aimed carefully at the stories that move ratings but never at the ledgers that move our poverty. Who decides that a private tragedy in Gulistan-e-Jauhar deserves eighteen days of forensic television, while a public catastrophe costing every household thousands of rupees a month deserves none? Is there a veil, a ghost hand, guiding our screens away from NEPRA’s boardroom and toward whatever is easier to sell? My request to Pakistan’s media is respectful, not accusatory: summon the chairman and members of NEPRA and the CEO of CPPA, and ask them, on camera, to explain the dispatch logic behind May and June’s generation data, to quantify what idle capacity is costing consumers per unit, to say plainly whether transmission constraints are forcing reliance on costlier northern plants while cheaper southern capacity sits dark, and to commit to passing any findings transparently through the Fuel Charges Adjustment mechanism, as the NEPRA Act itself demands. Pakistan is the fifth most populous nation on earth, and yet the men who preside over its power sector — the chairmen and members of NEPRA and OGRA, the leadership