Greatest national asset

In the story of Pakistan’s creation, certain names shine with a brightness that time cannot dim. Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah stands as the founder of the nation, but standing quietly, resolutely, and often invisibly beside him for over two decades was his younger sister, Fatima Jinnah. History remembers her as Madar-e-Millat, the Mother of the Nation, a title she earned not through political office or public spectacle, but through an entire life of sacrifice, loyalty, intellect, and quiet strength. She was a woman decades ahead of her time, a qualified dental surgeon, a fiercely independent thinker, a stylish and modern presence in gharara and sleeveless blouse, and a woman who chose singlehood not out of misfortune but out of conviction. Her life offers Pakistani women today a template of dignity, purpose, and self-possession that remains as relevant now as it was in the twentieth century. Born on July 30, 1893, in Karachi, Fatima Jinnah grew up in a household that valued learning, even when it was unusual for girls of that era to pursue higher education. She enrolled at the University of Calcutta and earned a degree in dental surgery from Dr. R. Ahmed Dental College, becoming one of the first Muslim women in South Asia to qualify as a dentist. In 1923, she opened her own dental clinic in Bombay. This was no small achievement. At a time when most women of her class and background were confined to domestic roles, Fatima Jinnah built a professional identity through her own intellect and discipline. Her clinic flourished, and she earned both financial independence and social respect as a successful, self-made professional woman. She was, in every sense, a pioneer of women’s participation in modern professions in the subcontinent. Fatima Jinnah’s life took a defining turn following the death of Ruttie Jinnah, the Quaid’s wife, in 1929. Ruttie’s passing left both Muhammad Ali Jinnah and his young daughter Dina in a state of profound grief and vulnerability. It was at this moment that Fatima made a choice that would alter the course of her own life entirely, she closed her thriving dental practice and moved in with her brother to manage his household, raise Dina, and become his constant companion and confidante. This decision deserves to be understood not as a passive act of familial duty, but as a deliberate and enormous personal sacrifice. She was a woman who had built something of her own, a career, an income, an identity outside of any man’s shadow, and she set it aside willingly. From that point onward, she devoted herself entirely to supporting her brother’s political mission, managing his correspondence, organizing his household, accompanying him on tours across India, and providing the emotional steadiness that allowed him to focus on the arduous struggle for Pakistan. She sat beside him in All India Muslim League sessions, engaged with women’s wings of the movement, and became, in effect, his closest advisor on personal and even political matters. Few sacrifices in the history of the Pakistan Movement are as understated yet as consequential as this one. Fatima Jinnah’s devotion did not waver even after Pakistan was achieved. She remained with her brother through the exhausting, health-depleting years of his final illness. As the Quaid battled tuberculosis while simultaneously trying to steer a fragile new nation through its most turbulent infancy, it was Fatima who nursed him, traveled with him to Ziarat in his final days, and stayed resolutely at his bedside. When Muhammad Ali Jinnah breathed his last on September 11, 1948, Fatima Jinnah was there, not as a bystander, but as the one who had walked every step of that difficult journey with him. Her presence at his deathbed was the culmination of nearly two decades of unwavering companionship, sacrifice, and quiet strength. What makes Fatima Jinnah’s legacy even richer is the manner in which she carried herself. She was educated, articulate, and thoroughly modern in her outlook, yet she remained rooted in her cultural identity. She was famously elegant in her choice of dress, often seen in a gharara paired with a sleeveless blouse, a look that exuded both grace and quiet confidence. She wore her modernity with the same ease with which she wore her dupatta, never feeling the need to choose between tradition and progress. In photographs from that era, she appears composed, dignified, and utterly self-assured, a woman entirely comfortable in her own skin. Equally striking was her decision never to marry. In a society where marriage was, and often still is, treated as the singular measure of a woman’s worth and completeness, Fatima Jinnah chose a different path, not out of compulsion or circumstance, but by her own free will. She dedicated her life to her brother, to her country, and to her own principles. Later in her life, she also emerged as a formidable political figure in her own right, contesting the 1965 presidential election against General Ayub Khan and becoming a symbol of democratic resistance for a generation of Pakistanis. Fatima Jinnah’s life is not simply a chapter in a history book; it is a living lesson for Pakistani women today. She demonstrated that a woman could be professionally accomplished and personally devoted, modern in appearance and deeply principled in character, unmarried by choice and yet utterly complete as a person. She showed that sacrifice does not diminish a woman’s strength, it can, in fact, define it. In an age where women are still often measured by narrow societal expectations, Fatima Jinnah’s example urges us to reclaim our own definitions of dignity, purpose, and self-worth. As Pakistani women, we owe it to ourselves to emulate not merely her style, the elegant gharara, the graceful bearing but the substance behind it; her education, her independence, her unwavering integrity, and her refusal to be defined by anyone else’s expectations. Madar-e-Millat did not simply stand beside the founder of a nation; she stood as a model for what a Pakistani woman could be, then, and now.

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

If someone were to say today that neither Iran nor the United States actually wants war, the immediate question would be: “Then why is this conflict happening?” The answer depends on whom you ask. Each side presents its own narrative, blaming the other for provoking the crisis and insisting that it is merely responding to aggression. From the Iranian perspective, the United States is portrayed as a global bully with a long history of military interventions. Iranian supporters argue that Washington has once again resorted to force, launching a sudden attack on February 28 that allegedly eliminated Iran’s top political and military leadership. They contend that the reported killing of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, along with members of his family, is an act that cannot simply be forgotten or forgiven. In their view, they now possess the moral right to seek revenge. If their highest leader was targeted, they argue, then retaliatory action against U.S. President Donald Trump, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, and those associated with them is justified. For many in this camp, revenge has become a national rallying cry. The American position is fundamentally different. Washington argues that Iran’s religious establishment under the doctrine of Wilayat al-Faqih has destabilized the Middle East for more than four decades. According to this view, Tehran has built, funded, and armed militant proxy groups not only around Israel but also across neighboring Gulf and Arab states. U.S. officials point to Syria, where former President Bashar al-Assad—despite belonging to a minority sect—was accused of carrying out decades of repression and mass violence against the Sunni majority, allegedly with Iran’s political and military backing. Similar accusations are made regarding Iraq, where Iranian influence is said to have fueled years of instability. In Lebanon, critics argue that Hezbollah, widely regarded as Iran’s most powerful proxy, has effectively established a state within a state, operating beyond the authority of the Lebanese government. They claim the group has not only maintained continuous hostility toward Israel but has also contributed to Lebanon’s internal political and economic paralysis. According to this narrative, tensions have escalated to the point where Lebanon’s elected government has explored understandings with Israel aimed at confronting these armed groups. American officials further argue that Iran’s regional influence has created deep anxiety among Israel as well as neighboring Gulf Arab governments, who fear that Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) or its affiliated groups could threaten their security at any time. They also maintain that the military action taken on February 28 was rooted in the events of October 7, when Hamas—described by Washington as an Iranian-backed organization—launched an unprecedented attack inside Israel that killed approximately 1,200 civilians and resulted in around 250 hostages, including women and children. Despite these deep divisions, the United States and Iran, with the mediation of Pakistan and Qatar, reportedly signed a Memorandum of Understanding aimed at reducing tensions. One of its key provisions allegedly guaranteed that the Strait of Hormuz would remain open, allowing international shipping to pass freely without Iran imposing fees, restrictions, or obstacles. However, according to the American account, tensions flared again when missiles were reportedly fired at Saudi and Qatari vessels passing through waters near Oman. Critics questioned the justification for such an action, arguing that instead of acknowledging responsibility or seeking de-escalation, elements within Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps insisted that the Strait of Hormuz should remain closed to commercial shipping. They further allege that the IRGC instructed Yemen’s Houthi movement to block the Bab el-Mandeb Strait in order to disrupt Saudi oil exports to Europe. If the Strait of Hormuz has already strained Asian energy markets, they argue, closing Bab el-Mandeb could create similar disruptions for Europe. Such developments would pose serious economic and strategic challenges for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Adding to these concerns, Yemen’s Houthis—who are widely viewed by Western governments as being aligned with Iran—have reportedly threatened to strike Saudi oil infrastructure. It is within this context that Pakistan has chosen to clarify its position. Beyond the longstanding religious, diplomatic, and strategic relationship between Islamabad and Riyadh, Pakistan has repeatedly maintained that any attack on Saudi Arabia would be regarded as a direct threat to Pakistan itself. Against this backdrop, Pakistan’s leadership reportedly conveyed a clear message to Tehran: “An attack on Saudi Arabia will be treated as an attack on Pakistan. That is our red line.” In line with this policy, Pakistan has reportedly deployed fighter aircraft and thousands of military personnel to Saudi Arabia, with forces positioned near the Yemeni border. Alongside air and ground deployments, Pakistani naval units are also said to be prepared to cooperate with Saudi and U.S. forces in securing maritime routes and responding to Houthi activities if required. Given these escalating tensions, Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps is urged by its critics to recognize the gravity of the situation and avoid actions that could bring Pakistan and Iran into direct confrontation. They argue that disrupting both the Strait of Hormuz and the Bab el-Mandeb would not only inflict severe damage on the global economy but would also deepen international opposition toward Iran—an outcome they believe Tehran can ill afford. According to this perspective, divisions are already becoming visible within Iran itself. Some observers argue that the country’s elected political leadership is increasingly uneasy with policies that risk further isolation and conflict. They see growing differences between Iran’s political and military establishments, even though these tensions remain largely behind the scenes. The funeral of Iran’s Supreme Leader reportedly drew millions of mourners, reflecting widespread public sympathy. Yet critics argue that this did not necessarily indicate universal support for perpetual confrontation or calls for vengeance. Reports also suggested that hardline supporters directed slogans accusing President Masoud Pezeshkian of betrayal, while Foreign Minister Seyed Abbas Araghchi allegedly faced verbal hostility and even physical attacks during the proceedings. Those who criticize Iran’s hardline factions argue that such behavior deserves condemnation rather than praise. In their view, the greatest burden of continued escalation will ultimately

The passing of Professor Amin Mughal in London on August 12, 2026, at the age of 91, has left me with an overwhelming sense of personal bereavement. I have lost a mentor, friend and former colleague; Pakistan has lost one of the last representatives of a generation for whom progressive politics was inseparable from humanism, scholarship, intellectual integrity and personal courage. Harris Khalique called his departure “یہ ماتمِ وقت کی گھڑی ہے”—an hour for mourning the times—and described him as “the last of the Mohicans who touched so many lives.” These words capture the magnitude of the loss. Professor Mughal belonged to a generation that imagined Pakistan as a democratic, pluralistic and egalitarian state—not as a security-dominated order governed by fear, dogma and privilege. Born in Punjab in 1935, he taught English at Islamia College, Civil Lines, Lahore. His teaching career there ended because of his trade union activities. For Professor Mughal, principles were never dispensable instruments of convenience. Losing employment did not silence him. Along with Professor Manzoor Ahmed, he helped establish Shah Hussain College, transforming an act of official victimisation into another avenue for education and intellectual resistance. As a leader of the National Awami Party, he was imprisoned more than once. His politics sprang from compassion for workers, peasants, minorities and all those denied dignity by structures of power. It was not the doctrinaire radicalism of slogans. It was a deeply humane commitment to freedom from exploitation, arbitrary authority and cultural suffocation. He was associated with Lail-o-Nahar and later with the weekly Viewpoint, edited by the legendary Mazhar Ali Khan. I had the privilege of working with Professor Mughal at Viewpoint from 1979 to 1984. Its modest office at 4-Lawrence Road, Lahore, became my real university. Mazhar Ali Khan, I.A. Rehman, Zafar Iqbal Mirza—affectionately known as ZIM—Alys Faiz and Amin Mughal represented journalism as a public trust rather than a commercial enterprise. Reflecting on those formative years in my tribute to ZIM, I wrote: “Amin Mughal and Alys Faiz were so proficient in writing that few could match their stature. They also taught me the art of journalism with great affection and dedication.” That remains one of the greatest blessings of my life. Professor Mughal taught by example. His scholarship was vast, his editing precise and his intellectual standards uncompromising. He corrected younger colleagues without belittling them and encouraged inquiry without demanding conformity. The Viewpoint collective stood firm during General Ziaul Haq’s brutal dictatorship, when truth invited censorship, dismissal, imprisonment or exile. Literature and journalism became important sites of resistance during those years. Professor Mughal understood that control over language, culture and historical memory was central to authoritarian rule. His engagement with Urdu and Punjabi literature was therefore never merely aesthetic; it was part of a larger struggle to recover suppressed voices and alternative visions of Pakistan. Forced into political exile in 1984, he settled in London and never returned to Pakistan. Exile, however, could not sever his intellectual or emotional relationship with his homeland. He worked for Daily Jang and, in the early 1990s, edited the Urdu daily Awaaz. Although the newspaper survived for only a little over a year, it represented another attempt to provide Britain’s Pakistani community with a serious and progressive public forum. Writing in The News on Sunday in 2008, Arif Azad recalled Professor Mughal as looking “his usual sharp and buoyant self, dressed in impeccable attire as is his wont.” He described him as belonging to “the vanishing breed of left-wing Pakistan intellectuals” in whom one could still discern the lofty and humane aspirations associated with Pakistan’s early journey. The description was exact. Professor Mughal’s impeccable dress reflected something deeper: an inner discipline, dignity and refusal to be diminished by adversity. Political persecution could deprive him of employment and homeland, but it could not deprive him of intellectual independence or personal grace. His Finchley home gradually became, in Arif Azad’s memorable formulation, “a port of call” for visiting writers, politicians and political and cultural activists from both sides of the border. For decades it served as an informal salon, archive and classroom. Generations of visitors encountered there a formidable memory, an incisive mind and a host of unfailing generosity. Even when he withdrew from active engagement in South Asian politics, he remained an enduring reference point for politically conscious Pakistanis in Britain. His interests ranged across philosophy, literature, history, political economy and contemporary affairs. He wrote perceptively on Bhagat Singh and, following Benazir Bhutto’s assassination, produced After Benazir Bhutto: Some reflections. Although he had opposed her politics, he recognised her courage and wrote that in the imagination of the masses she had acquired a mystical significance destined to inspire future struggles. That ability to rise above personal political preference and acknowledge truth distinguished him as a genuine intellectual. Professor Mughal’s life reminds us that exile is not merely physical displacement. It is also the condition imposed upon ideas that a state refuses to accommodate. Pakistan expelled or marginalised many of its finest minds and then wondered why intolerance, intellectual poverty and historical amnesia prevailed. Professor Mughal remained physically in London, but intellectually he never ceased to inhabit the Pakistan for which he had struggled. One by one, the great teachers of my Viewpoint years have departed. Their passing makes the country feel lonelier and its moral landscape immeasurably poorer. Professor Amin Mughal leaves no office, fortune or monument carrying his name. His true legacy survives in the minds he liberated, the writers he encouraged, the causes he defended and the generations he taught to question received wisdom. Farewell, dear mentor and friend. You lived in exile, but your ideas never left us. They will remain at home wherever people struggle for a democratic, pluralistic, just and humane Pakistan.

Dr Pervez Butt died on the 26th of July, 2026, at the age of 84, and with him Pakistan lost one of the last living architects of its nuclear age. The obituaries will rightly recount the long arc of his public service: joining the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission in 1963, cutting his teeth on the design of KANUPP-I, Pakistan’s first commercial nuclear power plant, spending years at GE Canada absorbing the discipline of reactor engineering, and eventually rising to chair the PAEC from 2001 to 2006 — a tenure during which he oversaw the expansion of Chashma and laid groundwork that would carry Pakistan’s nuclear power programme well into this century. He would go on to serve as Federal Secretary for Science and Technology, as an adviser at the Planning Commission, and, until his final days, as a quiet counsel to the National Command Authority. Nishan-i-Imtiaz, Hilal-i-Imtiaz, Sitara-i-Imtiaz — the honours are a matter of record.     But I did not know him first as a chairman or a decorated public servant. I knew him as a teacher who happened to hold the keys to some of the country’s most consequential engineering decisions, and who chose, for reasons I am still grateful for, to hand a few of those keys to me. I want to remember him the way I actually experienced him — not through the official biography, but through three long afternoons at his house in F-11 Sector, Islamabad, where he taught me something the textbooks never quite manage: how the price of nuclear electricity in Pakistan is actually determined. Anyone who has sat through a lecture on tariff determination knows how dry the subject can be made to sound — EPC cost, fuel cost, capacity purchase price, energy purchase price, indexation, decommissioning liability. Dr. Butt made none of it dry. He made it a ritual. Each session began the same way, and the way it began told you everything about the man. There was no walking straight into the numbers. First came tea — always a full spread of dry fruits, delicate sandwiches, fresh fruit, chana chaat, and cappuccino. It was in his drawing room that I had my first Cortado, and my first Mocha, both poured by a man who clearly took as much pride in introducing a good cup of coffee as he did in explaining a heat-rate calculation. Only once the plates were cleared did the real class begin. He held nothing back. The sessions ran from ten in the morning until nearly four in the afternoon — six hours at a stretch, with no formal lunch break at all. Instead, somewhere past midday, a trolley would appear, loaded with Lahori chanay and naan, and he would keep teaching straight through it, tariff formulas in one breath and the economics of fuel fabrication cost in the next, a piece of naan in hand the whole time. I have sat in university seminars with more structure and far less learned. What I remember most, though, is the break. Every two hours, without fail, he would stop — not because he was tired, but because he knew I smoked, and he had built an orchard directly across the road from his house for exactly this purpose. We would walk over together, and his waiter would already be there ahead of us, a fresh cappuccino on the table, an ashtray set out with wet tissue paper folded neatly beside it — a small, deliberate touch that told you this man planned for his guests down to the last detail. And it was in that orchard, not at his desk, that the real teaching happened. He would ask me, plainly, to repeat back what I had just understood. Not to test me — to correct me, gently, if I had drifted, and to make sure the idea had actually landed before we walked back inside for the next round. I was, I suspect, an unlikely student for him to invest that kind of care in. I have never been a person drawn to nuclear energy for its own sake — the physics of it, the fission and the neutrons and the reactor cores, left me largely unmoved. What pulled me toward him was the economics: how a country decides what a unit of nuclear electricity should cost, how the capital recovery on a plant like K-2 or C-3 gets built into a tariff, how fuel cost and EPC cost and decommissioning liability all get stitched together into a number that regulators can defend and the public can pay. That was the language I wanted to learn, and he taught it to me the way he taught everything — thoroughly, patiently, and without ever once looking at the clock. Looking back, I think that was the most VIP treatment anyone taught by him could have asked for — not a title, not a certificate, but three full days of a man who had chaired the PAEC choosing to spend his mornings, his working lunches, and his smoking breaks making sure a subject I hadn’t cared about a week earlier had become one I could speak on with confidence. Pakistan will remember Dr. Pervez Butt for KANUPP and Chashma, for the plants he helped design and the institutions he helped build — the Pakistan Welding Institute, the nondestructive testing facility at Taxila, decades spent quietly ensuring that a technically demanding and politically sensitive programme kept working. Those achievements belong to the history books, and they are considerable. I will remember the orchard. I will remember a Cortado poured by a man who insisted the tea come before the tariff, and a lecture that never stopped even for lunch. That was his real gift — not just what he knew, but how completely he was willing to give his time to make sure someone else knew it too. Rest well, sir. The lesson stayed.

The subject idea of “Road To The East” is conceived by me by a textbook when the store Marco polo was described a story with a title of road to the east. The fascination of culture is everywhere especially, within the walled city of Kashi which is located comparatively on a high altitude like a natural fort. As this area from central east was under the invasion of different ethnic communities in the past. I got a chance to walk through the downtown streets which are relatively wider than the downtown streets of Lahore. The construction of the houses is also showing its beauty and culture with their traditions. Now the walled city have totally been preserved by the Chinese government and as I mentioned the tourism have become one of the most important growing industry in the region. The most famous place historically in this region is called Eig Gah. That is this famous mosque was built during the fifteenth century with the capacity of 20,000 people, can offer a prayer within the, inside of compound. While there is a huge yard outside of this compound which is the center of an attraction for all the tourists. Vice President Pakistan-China Joint Chamber There was a camel ride for the tourist attraction and these camels are special, only found in the Gobie desert, with two humps. These kind of camels are also an iconic symbol of China same as panda. It was also arranged a horse ride for the tourist who love to have a picture by riding at the back of the horse. At one time, in this area, the horses were used to have mainly without saddles. The local people are very fond of music, almost every coffee house have the people to play the traditional music, as their tradition music is with the history of hundreds of years. Duff is one of a very important part of their music playing with one instrument called Algoza. Always with the musicians, there is a singer playing the ancient music even though I did not understand the meaning but I got to know that this was mainly related with the stories of their local warriors. The conventional tea houses normally have their dance performance showing heir culture and dance skill. That all is very amazing. I love to watch that performance in different tea shops. Now, the culture have expended in different restaurants where not only girls but also men perform their traditional dance. I hope we can be able to arrange a cultural linkage between the cities of Lahore and Kashgar. All that modern restaurants are very beautiful, a clean and rich with their construction style. The waiters always dressed up like a female servant serving in the royale courts. Most of them are very beautiful to pass an impression of a royale age. Food of Kashgar (Kashi) is very traditional and tasty. The local people are really lamb lovers. You can find halal food in every corner of Kashi. Where you never need to ask the food quality is halal or not. Despite that, I have experienced the most lamb served in all over China is mostly done by the Muslims. The horse meat is one of the traditional delicacy of this region. But normally in our society we refrain to eat it. Camel milk is served as a soveigner to all the visitors. It was my first time to experience the camel milk. Most of the Xinjiang due the weather is dry and the rainfall is very limited. Despite of this all, Xinjiang is very rich for its fruit production in recent years. Chinese government have paid a lot of attention to improve the agriculture and food industry. This have helped a lot for the locals to improve their life standard. The government have paid a special attention to develop an agricultural farming industry in this region.   Walnut once it was used to exported from Pakistan to China but the border trade now have become an iconic product of Yecheng, is normally called as the capital of walnuts. They have also developed a technology to cultivate pomegranate in a sandy surface. I really hope under the BRI agriculture, is one of the major subject in Pakistan. Can we be able to get an experience from China that how they converted their barren lands into green fields. This is my proposal to the green initiative Pakistan, is that they are willing to improve their yield capability by the technology that have already been successful in the similar environment. Pakistan with its huge barren land along with the Gilgit city which can be experienced by using the technology already existing in this region. Mines and minerals is one of biggest subject that we need to pay attention. Till today, we are not been able to address our natural resources in to a successive model. I have observed to Pakistan side is full of natural resources with mines and minerals while the other sider of the border have already established the biggest units of processing. My advice to our provincial government of Gilgit Baltistan that why they don’t take an opportunity as China is already a friendly country with Pakistan, with a will of the transfer of technology. That means this can change the entire financial position of this region. We feel there is a lack with the technology of preservation of food and fruits. GB as a basket of the fruits, is not able to perform its strength where there are a lot of chances to earn a technology or going for a joint venture to improve the life standard of locals.