Greatest national asset

When rain descends from the folds of clouds, it assumes the form of divine mercy for the earth—reviving parched soil and spreading smiles across the weary faces of farmers. Yet, when this very rain turns unbridled and the administrative apparatus built to welcome it pulls a heavy shroud of negligence over its eyes, this descent of mercy transforms into a harrowing shape of torment and sudden calamity. Gujrat, a historic and industrial city of Punjab that holds a unique global identity through its civilizational expanse, skilled artisans, and proximity to the Chenab River, presents the terrifying spectacle of a pond and a swamp every monsoon season. Here, urban flooding is no longer merely a climatic accident; rather, it has become a chilling confession of administrative apathy, unscientific planning, and a criminal denial of historical geographical realities. When the hydrological management of cities is evaluated on a global scale, the concepts of “Sponge Cities” are put into practice, but our reality stands in stark opposition. When the state of urban drainage in Gujrat is objectively reviewed through the corridors of history, one’s eyes are opened to the bitter truth that the rulers and elements who dominated this city consciously hollowed out its roots at every level for the gratification of greed. The city’s drainage and sewerage system, in particular, fell prey to the plunder of commission agents belonging to the corruption mafia. It is an immensely agonizing chapter of history that two decades ago, when a renowned international Japanese company completed a detailed survey of Gujrat, officially announced its complete reconstruction on modern lines, and promised a world-class drainage system, the hungry brokers sitting in the echelons of power burnt this magnificent project in the fire of personal lust. The people of Gujrat can never forget the actors who sacrificed the Japanese company’s dream at the altar of kickbacks. Later, when times changed and Chaudhry Pervaiz Elahi assumed the helm of this region as Chief Minister, he released heavy, voluminous funds amounting to billions of rupees to radically improve and modernize Gujrat’s decrepit and worn-out drainage system. Yet the tragedy was that these billions of rupees in Gujrat’s history remained restricted to a few specific and powerful pockets, and to openly divide these funds, the entire system was mortgaged to a fostered contractor mafia. With an exceptionally substandard, superficial, and unprofessional approach, this mafia played a game of window-dressing that instead of fixing Gujrat’s sewerage system, ruined it permanently and turned the entire city into an artificial swamp. Today, the agony of drainage dancing through the city’s streets and roads offers no hope of deliverance from this terrifying urban flood unless a severe accountability of these true, deceitful culprits is carried out. The political leadership that followed also made efforts suited to their respective statures for the betterment of the city; and although their own technical errors consistently hampered this improvement, every resident of Gujrat continues to carry the heavy burden of those primary sinners who devastated Gujrat’s history, civilization, and urbanity. Last year, when urban flooding once again descended upon the city as a mortal torment, uproar echoed everywhere, the wheel of life halted, and the situation reached a point where the Chief Minister of Punjab had to personally make an emergency visit to Gujrat to rescue the district administration from this storm of incompetence. During this visit, a heavy downpour of announcements and promises took place, accompanied by the release of special funds worth billions for complete and sustainable improvement next year. Despite the sincere efforts and financial provisions of Honorable Maryam Nawaz Sharif, the district administration—entrenched in a colonial mindset—spent all its energies throughout the year on personal image-building and photo sessions rather than the timely completion of this vital sewerage project. As ill luck would have it, as soon as the monsoon season arrived once again this year, the colorful balloon of good governance and claims deflated entirely, exposing the bitter reality that this malaise of flawed planning persists and rainwater continues to rain down as a torment upon citizens’ lives. And when this rainwater has already devastated citizens’ lives, wounding their homes and businesses, only then do the traditional efforts of WASA and district institutions begin to bear fruit, with water finally receding from the streets after prolonged suffering. Success drums are then beaten over this very temporary performance, adding salt to the injuries of the citizens. A profound study of Gujrat’s urban geography reveals that its foundations and topography are deeply embedded in its centuries-old historical backdrop. Built during the Mughal era, the Akbari Fort serves as the greatest metaphor for the region’s military, political, and administrative history. Viewed from a geographical and topographical standpoint, the Akbari Fort is situated on a relatively high mound or plateau, and the city’s older structural layout spreads outward from this height in gradual slopes in all directions. Principally and naturally, this elevation of the fort and the surrounding natural slopes should have stood as an exceptional geographical blessing for a drainage system—provided the natural pathways of water flow had been preserved and left unmolested by grotesque tampering. The tragedy, however, is that over time, unbridled urban expansion and a flood of encroachments mutilated this natural sloping system so ruthlessly that today, that very height and slope have turned into a bane for the city. Unchecked commercialization and illegal constructions in and around the Akbari Fort and its adjoining low-lying areas have blocked all traditional water routes in such a manner that water finds no outlet. The consequence is that when rainwater flows down from the elevated parts of the fort, instead of finding an open path or paved drain ahead, it encounters dead alleys, narrow sewage pipelines, and an endless siege of encroachments. Consequently, this water accumulates in lower regions to form a permanent lake, leaving city residents weeping over their helplessness. Gujrat’s tragedy is not merely the accumulation of rainwater; it is a reflection of that collective apathy and corruption which wakes up with the arrival

By Muhammad Imran, Staff Member, SAHSOL-LUMS and Asma Rahmat, Final Year Law Student, SLC, Superior University Introduction: The Makkah Joint Defence Agreement was always likely to generate a degree of unease in Tehran – actually, this is not the case. Any emerging collective-security arrangement involving Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, and Türkiye was bound to attract scrutiny in Iran, particularly against the backdrop of longstanding strategic rivalries in the Persian Gulf, shifting regional alignments, and uncertainty regarding the eventual scope, institutional structure, and strategic trajectory of the agreement. Nevertheless, Iran’s official response has so far been notably measured, restrained, and constructive. This approach deserves particular recognition at a time when the Middle East is already experiencing profound geopolitical uncertainty and strategic volatility. Iran’s Measured Diplomatic Response: Some degree of skepticism among Iranian politicians, commentators, and strategic analysts is neither surprising nor inherently problematic. What is considerably more significant, however, is the position adopted by the Iranian government itself. Rather than immediately portraying the agreement as an emerging threat or an instrument of strategic encirclement, Tehran has adopted a comparatively cautious and pragmatic interpretation. Iranian Foreign Ministry spokesperson Esmaeil Baqaei has characterized recent regional developments as indicative of a broader transformation in the way Middle Eastern states perceive and pursue their security interests. In particular, he has suggested that regional countries are increasingly recognizing that their long-term security cannot remain excessively dependent upon external powers, particularly the United States. This interpretation is strategically significant. It enables Tehran to acknowledge the emergence of new regional security arrangements without necessarily interpreting them through an exclusively confrontational lens. More importantly, it creates diplomatic space for Iran to engage with the evolving regional security architecture without prematurely positioning itself in opposition to the emerging arrangement. Not an Anti-Iran Arrangement: Perhaps even more consequential is Tehran’s indication that it sees no compelling reason, at least at this stage, to regard the Makkah Agreement as being directed against Iran. By emphasizing the deep historical, cultural, civilizational, economic, and diplomatic ties connecting Iran with Pakistan, Türkiye, and Saudi Arabia, the Iranian Foreign Ministry has sought to place the agreement within the broader context of regional developments rather than reducing it to a zero-sum strategic competition. This diplomatic framing is important. At a particularly sensitive juncture in Middle Eastern politics, the manner in which states interpret one another’s strategic initiatives can be almost as consequential as the initiatives themselves. Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, and Türkiye have emphasized the defensive character of the agreement and have maintained that it is not directed against any particular state. Tehran’s apparent willingness to acknowledge that position reduces the possibility that the agreement will become the subject of an unnecessary cycle of suspicion, countermeasures, and strategic miscalculation. This, however, does not mean that Iran will disregard the agreement or refrain from carefully assessing its potential implications. Tehran will undoubtedly examine its institutional structure, military dimensions, strategic objectives, operational capabilities, and possible future trajectory. Every major regional actor is likely to do the same. Diplomatic reassurance and strategic calculation are not mutually exclusive: states can remain vigilant regarding developments affecting their national security while simultaneously choosing diplomacy over confrontation. A Critical Formative Stage: The Makkah Agreement remains at a relatively early stage of development. Its eventual character, institutional capacity, strategic purpose, and regional consequences will depend substantially upon how its participating states define, institutionalize, and implement it over time. At this formative stage, responsible rhetoric and prudent diplomacy are therefore particularly important. Prematurely treating the agreement as an instrument of confrontation could create precisely the tensions that its participating states claim they seek to avoid. Conversely, maintaining strategic ambiguity alongside diplomatic reassurance may provide sufficient space for the arrangement to evolve without immediately becoming embedded within the region’s existing patterns of rivalry. Iran could have responded with immediate hostility, framing the agreement as a direct threat to its national security and thereby contributing to another cycle of regional polarization. Instead, at least for the present, Tehran has chosen a different course. By maintaining a measured tone, recognizing the possibility of legitimate regional security concerns, and leaving open the possibility of dialogue, Iran has preserved diplomatic space for engagement rather than confrontation. This approach should be welcomed by all concerned. Towards a Regionally Owned Security Architecture: The emergence of new regional security arrangements does not necessarily have to produce new geopolitical divisions. If Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Türkiye, and Iran can resist the temptation to interpret every strategic development exclusively through the lens of rivalry, the present moment could provide an opportunity to develop a more genuinely regionally owned security architecture. Such an architecture should not rest exclusively upon military deterrence. It should also incorporate dialogue, confidence-building measures, mutual reassurance, economic interdependence, diplomatic engagement, and respect for the legitimate security concerns of neighboring states. The long-term objective should be to reduce, rather than institutionalize, the structural mistrust that has historically characterized relations among major regional actors. Pakistan’s Emerging Strategic Role: The broader geopolitical context is equally significant. Pakistan appears to be assuming a more consequential role in regional affairs, supported by what its proponents regard as the dynamic and assertive leadership of Field Marshal Syed Asim Munir. At the same time, India is confronting significant diplomatic challenges in its regional and international engagement. This changing strategic environment provides Pakistan with an opportunity to pursue a more confident, balanced, and strategically autonomous foreign policy. Pakistan’s greatest diplomatic advantage may lie not in becoming another participant in a rigid bloc system, but in positioning itself as a bridge between competing regional interests. Its relationships with Saudi Arabia, Türkiye, Iran, China, and other regional actors provide Pakistan with diplomatic space that could potentially be used to promote communication and confidence-building among states whose strategic interests do not always converge. The Changing Role of the United States: Another important dimension of the Makkah Agreement concerns the evolving role of the United States in the Middle East. The agreement may, at least from the perspective of some regional observers, be understood as part of

Every 14 August, Pakistan awakens to the familiar colours of green and white. Flags appear on buildings, national songs fill the air, children dress in traditional colours, and speeches once again remind the nation of the sacrifices that accompanied independence. Yet Independence Day is not merely an occasion to celebrate the Pakistan we inherited; it is an opportunity to ask a more demanding question: What have we done with the Pakistan that was entrusted to us? On 14 August 1947, independence transformed millions of lives. Pakistan emerged from one of the most extraordinary political movements of the twentieth century, carrying the hopes of Muslims of the subcontinent for political security, social justice, dignity and the freedom to shape their collective future. Nearly eight decades later, the country possesses a substantial population, strategic importance, nuclear capability, a young generation, a resilient economy and a remarkable human resource. But the distance between Pakistan’s original aspirations and its contemporary realities remains a serious national question. The first mistake would be to interpret patriotism as silence about national shortcomings. Genuine patriotism requires the courage to identify weaknesses as well as the wisdom to recognise achievements. A country cannot strengthen itself by denying its problems. Nor can it progress through perpetual pessimism. Pakistan’s challenge in 2026 is therefore to move beyond both exaggerated self-congratulation and destructive cynicism. The political history of Pakistan demonstrates the consequences of institutional instability, confrontation and the excessive personalisation of politics. Governments have changed, political alliances have shifted, constitutions have been amended, and civilian and non-civilian institutions have repeatedly struggled over the appropriate boundaries of authority. The result has often been a political culture in which winning power becomes more important than strengthening institutions. This is particularly dangerous for a federation as diverse as Pakistan. Punjab, Sindh, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Balochistan, Gilgit-Baltistan and the regions of Azad Jammu and Kashmir possess distinct histories, cultures and political concerns. National unity cannot be imposed through administrative uniformity. It must be constructed through justice, representation, constitutionalism and an equitable distribution of opportunity. The recent political and social tensions surrounding Azad Jammu and Kashmir offer another reminder that national integration cannot depend exclusively upon slogans. Reports of violent protests, deaths and political grievances in the region demonstrate how quickly unresolved questions of representation, economic opportunity and political legitimacy can become matters of national concern. At the same time, the ongoing electoral process indicates that democratic participation remains an important mechanism through which political differences can be addressed. The lesson for Pakistan is broader than any particular political dispute: the federation becomes stronger when citizens believe that institutions listen to them. Religion presents another essential dimension of Pakistan’s identity. The country was created in the name of a political and social vision deeply connected with the religious consciousness of the Muslims of the subcontinent. But Islam cannot be reduced to national symbolism, political slogans or ceremonial references. Its deeper teachings demand justice, honesty, compassion, accountability, dignity and responsibility. The Qur’anic concept of Ummah is fundamentally connected with moral solidarity. It does not mean that differences disappear; rather, it teaches that human beings and communities are bound by principles of justice and mutual responsibility. The Qur’an repeatedly places justice at the centre of social life. Consequently, a religiously inspired Pakistan should not merely ask whether society looks Islamic from the outside. It should ask whether the weak receive justice, whether public resources are protected from corruption, whether the powerful are accountable, whether minorities live with dignity, and whether the poor have meaningful opportunities to improve their lives. Pakistan’s constitutional framework itself reflects this relationship between Islamic values and democratic citizenship. The Objectives Resolution, incorporated into the Constitution, describes democracy, freedom, equality, tolerance and social justice as principles to be observed, while also affirming the rights of minorities to freely profess and practise their religions and develop their cultures. This constitutional balance is important because religious identity and citizenship should not be presented as competing ideas. A confident Islamic state does not need discrimination to demonstrate its faith. It demonstrates its moral strength through justice. Protection of minorities is not a concession to another culture; it is part of the constitutional and ethical responsibility of the state. Pakistan’s social crisis, meanwhile, is perhaps more complicated than its political crisis. Millions of Pakistanis continue to demonstrate extraordinary resilience, entrepreneurship and generosity. Pakistani professionals have achieved distinction around the world, while ordinary citizens routinely support relatives, neighbours and communities in times of hardship. Yet social inequality, unemployment, educational disparities, population pressure, inflationary pressures and unequal access to healthcare continue to limit the potential of a large part of the population. The most important national resource is not the country’s geography, minerals or strategic position. It is its people. A nation with a young population cannot afford an education system that merely produces certificates. Pakistan needs education that produces critical thinkers, scientists, entrepreneurs, skilled workers, ethical professionals and responsible citizens. Artificial intelligence is rapidly transforming economies and professions, making it even more urgent for Pakistan to reform its educational priorities rather than simply expand enrolment. The same principle applies to women and young people. A country cannot speak convincingly about development while large sections of its human capital remain underutilised. Pakistan’s future competitiveness will depend increasingly upon the quality of its education, digital capacity, scientific research, vocational training and entrepreneurial ecosystem. Independence also has an international dimension. Pakistan’s geography has historically placed it at the intersection of major geopolitical interests. Its relationship with China, Saudi Arabia, Türkiye, the Gulf states, the United States, Europe, Afghanistan and other regional partners reflects the complexity of its strategic environment. But the strongest foreign policy is ultimately built upon domestic strength. Economic stability, political credibility, social cohesion and institutional continuity provide a stronger foundation for diplomacy than dependence upon temporary geopolitical alignments. National security, therefore, should be understood in a broader sense. A secure Pakistan is not merely one with strong borders and capable armed forces. It is also a Pakistan where a child can

I have lived long enough, and travelled enough, to know that a buggy ride is royal. This week, a buggy ride was held in Islamabad and that ride has become a centre of all drawing room discussions. Let me start with what I have seen with my own eyes, many times over, on the streets of London. I walk those streets often, and I see mounted police there almost every week. Big handsome horses, officers sitting tall in the saddle, moving through crowds at football matches, at protests, at royal parades. But here is the thing I want you to notice. Those horses are working. The officer on that horse is doing a job. He is controlling a crowd, keeping an eye on trouble, making sure that thousands of people move safely through narrow streets. Nobody in London looks at a mounted police officer and thinks of him as a king. They think of him as a policeman who happens to have four legs helping him do his job better than two legs could. Then there is the other side of the horse story in London, the royal family. Once or twice a year, you will see the King or a prince ride out in a grand carriage, gold trim, footmen in uniform, the whole show. And it is exactly that, a show. It is theatre, built on centuries of tradition, and everybody watching knows exactly what it is. Royalty is a different breed. Nobody expects the King to explain why he has running water or why the country’s roads have potholes. He was born into that role, and the carriage is part of a costume that comes with the job. People do not confuse that costume with the daily business of government. Now bring me back home, to Islamabad, on our own Independence Day. I watched the video like everybody else did. The chairman of the Capital Development Authority and the inspector general riding in a horse drawn carriage, arriving grandly at the ceremony. And I felt they were not kings. This was not centuries of tradition. This was a serving civil servant and a serving police officer, the very same officers who are supposed to answer to the public every single day, arriving like they were opening a coronation. Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi explains the story behind that ride. He said what happened was not appropriate, but insisted it was not the fault of the IG or the chief commissioner. He says that he and the chief guest were delayed because of the president’s meeting with the prime minister, and that the crowd had been waiting since five in the evening. Around six, when it was clear they would be late, he says he told the officers to start the programme so the public would not have to wait any longer. The buggy, he said, had been arranged for the chief guest, and the officers were only supposed to ride with him, but due to unavoidable circumstances they ended up using it alone. He added that both officers had initially resisted starting the program without him, and that he personally instructed them to proceed, for the convenience of the public. I keep thinking about that journalist who asked a simple, honest question. Have you ever seen the police commissioner of London ride around in a royal buggy? The answer, of course, is no. Because he knows his job is to serve, not to be served. That is the whole difference in one sentence. A horse carriage is a fine thing, in the right hands, for the right reason. In London, it either works, or it performs. In Islamabad this week, it did neither. It simply left a bad taste in everybody’s mouth.

By Engineer Arshad H Abbasi, ahabasi@gmail.com, edited by Engineer Musa Arshad H Abbasi I write this from Islamabad, not as a diplomat or a historian, but as someone who spends his working life measuring rivers, glaciers, and energy systems — and who has spent the last year watching the instruments of my own profession become instruments of geopolitics instead. I am a water, energy and climate professional, not an expert in international relations. But you do not need a doctorate in strategic studies to feel what it means to live in a capital that sits within reach of two active fronts at once, and to watch a third, farther away, threaten the fuel that keeps my own country’s lights on. To the east, the Indus itself has become a weapon in a dispute I once only studied on paper. Since April 23, 2025, one day after the Pahalgam attack killed 26 people in Jammu and Kashmir, India has held the 1960 Indus Waters Treaty in abeyance, and as recently as July 3, 2026, New Delhi reaffirmed the suspension will continue until Pakistan “credibly and irrevocably” ends cross-border terrorism. Pakistan calls any interruption of that water an act of war. I measure river flows for a living, and I can tell you that a treaty which survived two wars and decades of hostility between 1960 and 2025 was never really about engineering — it was about restraint. Watching that restraint erode between two nuclear-armed neighbors, over a river that irrigates the fields I grew up walking beside, is not an abstraction to me. It is personal. To the west, the war that began on February 28, 2026 between the United States, Israel, and Iran has turned the Strait of Hormuz — the channel that once carried roughly a quarter of the world’s seaborne oil and a fifth of its LNG — into a contested chokepoint. Iranian forces have mined and attacked shipping there on and off for months; a ceasefire and a June memorandum of understanding collapsed in July when Iran resumed strikes on vessels it deemed noncompliant. Even now, in mid-August, Tehran and Oman are still negotiating the terms under which the strait might fully reopen. Every Pakistani household that has watched fuel prices swing this year has felt that war, even though it is being fought a thousand miles from here. And Pakistan’s own western border is no longer a metaphor for instability — it is an active one. Since February 2026, Pakistan and Afghanistan have fought what both sides’ own defense ministries have called open war along the 1893 Durand Line, with Pakistani airstrikes on Nangarhar and Kabul, an Afghan cross-border offensive, and casualty claims running into the hundreds on each side before Qatar- and Turkey-mediated pauses briefly held. I know these are not the only fires burning on this continent, and an honest accounting has to look past South Asia. In Southeast Asia, a century-old dispute between Thailand and Cambodia over the ancient temples of Preah Vihear and Ta Muen Thom erupted twice in 2025 — first in July, then again in December — leaving at least 101 people dead and forcing more than half a million civilians from their homes before a fragile ceasefire, signed December 27, brought an uneasy calm. In East Asia, the map is a thicket of overlapping claims: China and Taiwan over the island’s sovereignty itself; China and Japan over the Senkaku/Diaoyu islands in the East China Sea; China and the Philippines over Scarborough Shoal and reefs across the South China Sea; and Japan and its neighbors over a scattering of other contested waters that keep regional navies on constant alert. Indonesia and Malaysia, too, carry an unresolved history — the armed 1960s Konfrontasi and a maritime boundary dispute over the oil-rich Ambalat block in the Sulawesi Sea that periodically flares even between otherwise friendly neighbors. And running beneath all of it is the oldest fault line of all: the decades-long conflict between Israel and its Arab neighbors, still reshaping alliances and battlefields from Gaza to Lebanon to Yemen, where Houthi strikes on Saudi infrastructure continue even this month. Set against all of that, look at Central Asia — building transit corridors instead of trench lines, settling water and border disputes through negotiation rather than force, and courting the same investors that war has driven away from South Asia, the Gulf, and the South China Sea. Even the Armenia-Azerbaijan peace process next door, however unfinished — initialed in Washington in August 2025, still unsigned a year later over Armenia’s constitutional language — has produced something rarer than victory: an actual framework both sides keep returning to, rather than abandoning for the battlefield. While I want to avoid romanticizing Central Asia to those who know the region far better than I do, it stands as a compelling model for peace. The region offers a practical demonstration that Asian states can prioritize economic integration over territorial reflexes—a choice that others, from Islamabad to Phnom Penh to Manila, have yet to make. The Ledger of Conflict: A Continent Still at War With Itself It is worth setting all of this down in one place, because scattered across a dozen news cycles it is easy to lose the scale of it. India–Pakistan, Kashmir and the Indus Waters Treaty. Held in abeyance since April 23, 2025; reaffirmed as of July 2026 to remain suspended until Pakistan “irrevocably” ends cross-border terrorism, in a dispute that touches the water security of more than 300 million people and involves two nuclear-armed states that have already fought a war in 2025. Iran, Israel, and the United States. War since February 28, 2026, with Iranian attacks on shipping through the Strait of Hormuz — a corridor carrying roughly a quarter of the world’s seaborne oil and a fifth of its LNG — still unresolved as Tehran and Oman negotiate terms for reopening it, even this month. Pakistan–Afghanistan, the Durand Line. Open war since February 2026 between two governments that have never

Just as the BRB Canal is often regarded as Lahore’s lifeline, the Indus River occupies a similar position for Sindh. It is, therefore, unsurprising that the river has remained at the center of the province’s political discourse for decades. Yet, since the passage of the 18th Constitutional Amendment, few issues have continued to unite Sindh’s population across political divides and enable a collective political stance at the federal level. Today, the province’s politics remains broadly divided between urban and rural Sindh. In rural Sindh, apart from disputes over canals and water resources, there appears to be no issue capable of sustaining political mobilization against either Punjab or the federal government. As a result, water politics has become the principal rallying point for several nationalist parties. At times, this has also led to exaggerated claims or misleading narratives. The political logic is evident: abandoning canal politics would require these parties to confront more entrenched issues within Sindh itself, including feudal dominance, decades of corruption and the continued exploitation of ordinary citizens. The recent trial inauguration of the Jalalpur Canal briefly generated political unrest in Sindh. However, the initial wave of anger faded almost as quickly as it emerged. As videos showing water flowing through the canal circulated on social media, several anti-Punjab groups directed their criticism primarily towards Punjab rather than questioning the Sindh government. Arguably, the first questions should have been asked of the province’s own elected representatives. Why was the public not adequately informed about the project’s legal and administrative status? And why was Sindh unable to pursue its case more effectively through political and institutional channels? The concerns expressed by Sindh are neither new nor insignificant. By the time the Indus reaches the province, river flows have already declined substantially, affecting agriculture, fisheries and the livelihoods of communities living in the lower riparian region. At the same time, the Indus Delta continues to deteriorate while groundwater levels have fallen to alarming levels. Against this backdrop, many in Sindh believe that any additional diversion of water through projects such as the Jalalpur Canal could further reduce the province’s already constrained water availability. Punjab, however, has consistently maintained that the Jalalpur Canal is not among the six canal projects over which Sindh has formally raised objections. It further argues that the Indus River System Authority (IRSA) issued the Water Availability Certificate for the project in 2014, when Sindh was represented on the authority by Mazhar Ali Shah. If Sindh considered the project objectionable, Punjab argues, why were those objections not raised at that stage? Likewise, why was the issue not pursued more effectively when the project was placed before the   Executive Committee of the National Economic Council (ECNEC) for approval and when construction subsequently commenced? Sindh, for its part, maintains that the Provincial Assembly adopted a formal resolution against the canal in 2021. Three years later, in 2024, the provincial government formally placed the matter before the Council of Common Interests (CCI). Punjab nevertheless rejected Sindh’s objections there as well, reiterating that the Jalalpur Canal did not fall within the six disputed canal projects that remain under contention between the two provinces. Politically, however, the episode exposed the Sindh government’s difficult position before its own electorate. The documentary record indicates that the provincial government had registered its reservations through official forums. Yet it failed to convert those institutional objections into an effective political narrative because Punjab’s position appeared stronger from both procedural and technical standpoints. This became particularly evident when Sindh Chief Minister Syed Murad Ali Shah acknowledged during a press conference that the Jalalpur Canal was not among the six canal projects to which Sindh had consistently objected. That admission effectively defused the anti-Punjab momentum that had briefly gathered pace following the canal’s trial inauguration. For years, the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) has sought to accommodate Sindh’s nationalist parties within the framework of mainstream politics by assuring them political representation at both the provincial and federal levels. At the same time, nationalist parties themselves appear conscious of the electoral limitations of their own rhetoric. Many recognise that slogans traditionally associated with nationalist politics, including “Pakistan Na Khappay”, may have limited appeal when competing with mainstream political parties in electoral politics.