Pakistan Turkiye Saudi Arabia: A Vision for a peac…

Today, is the 45-death anniversary of Miskeen Jahan Khoso, one of the legends of Thar. Miskeen Jahan Khan Khoso was a man who dedicated his life to serving the people of Tharparkar. He was born on July 9, 1909, in a Village Sami Veri near Nangarparkar Taluka Head Quarter. His father’s name was Bijar Khan Khoso. He joined the government job in police department which, he inherited from his father and grandfather. Not tolerating the exploitation of poor, peasants and marginalized in hands of landlords and Patels, rock-hard young yet a passionate Jahan Khan changed his mind other way, he resigned from the police job in 1937. He dedicated rest of his life in serving the humanity, in this way he spent 43 years in rendering a noble work. Not tolerating the exploitation of poor, peasants and marginalized in hands of landlords and Patels, rock-hard young yet a passionate Jahan Khan changed his mind other way, Many times, cases were registered against him to intimidate and punish. He was convicted and jailed for two years under a notorious goonda act. Carrying stakes of newspapers, with trademark cape on head and an iron wrapped baton in the hand, he either walked on foot or travelled through camels, horses and khekhras (GMC trucks 6×6) thousands of miles in his life. He would remain away from family and village for months. He never ever favored nepotism, he equally fought against his brothers while came to know they were illegally occupying the land of poor Kolhi farmers. As usual, he stood with poor farmers and lodged FIR against his own brothers. Miskeen always identified himself as a humble and down-to-earth character. He was known as the social worker of Thar by the poor people of Nagarparkar for his relentless efforts to help them in their times of need. Miskeen’s dedication to his people knew no bounds. He would associate with the Kolhis, Meghwar and Bheels, making them feel at ease, even though he came from an affluent family. He was not just a social worker or philanthropist; he was a true friend to the poor people of Tharparkar. He raised his voice against all forms of oppression and cruelty inflicted upon these communities by local waderas and feudal lords. Miskeen fought against these powerful and influential people through the power of the pen and the spoken word. His unwavering dedication to his people often landed him in trouble. He was imprisoned and jailed for raising his voice against the injustices suffered by the poor people of Tharparkar. Despite facing numerous FIRs and cases, Miskeen never gave up on his cause. He would return to his people after his release from jail, listen to their issues, and take them to the He was nominated for an international award in recognition of his services to the poor, marginalized, and oppressed communities in America. However, due to financial constraints, his son was unable to attend the ceremony. Miskeen did not undertake these social services for any personal gain or consideration. He did everything voluntarily out of his love and concern for his people. That is why he is also known as the Edhi of Thar, named after the late Abdul Sattar Edhi, a legendary Pakistani philanthropist who dedicated his life to serving the underprivileged. Miskeen’s efforts continue to be remembered and appreciated by the people of Tharparkar even after his death. He did great service without having or getting resources from others. He was a true humanistic and poor-friendly and did not believe in conversion of religion. Today, many Non-Government organizations and philanthropists are praised for helping the poor in Thar, but it’s important to remember that Miskeen served the needy purely out of humanitarian concern, without seeking recognition. It is encouraging to see that Miskeen’s legacy lives on in Tharparkar. Many people, such as Mama Vishan Thari, have taken up the mantle of continuing Miskeen’s work in their own way. Mama Vishan Thari, also known as the Edhi of Thar, is a resident of Mithi city. For over a decade, he has run a blood bank near the civil hospital Mithi, providing free blood to those in need and saving hundreds of lives. He does not categorize based on religion, caste, or creed, believing that everyone is equal and deserves help regardless of their background. Miskeen passed away on 23rd July 1980, leaving behind a remarkable legacy in Tharparkar. Majestic and resilient like Karoonjhar itself, his life story is far too vast to be captured in a few words.

From Laraib Zahra Once upon a time, far from Earth, beyond the reach of our skies, there existed a planet called the Worthlands. In the Worthlands, there was an equal proportion of humans and ghosts. Whenever a human was born, a little ghost was born by their side. These little ghosts were called Hounds. Every Hound possessed a superpower: it could know exactly what its human companion was thinking. The entire planet was ruled by three powerful ghosts, commonly known by humans and Hounds as the Great 3Gs. Each of the three had a separate kingdom. They were the Ghost of Guilt, the Ghost of Productivity, and the Ghost of Fear. The Ghost of Guilt was the eldest of the three. He controlled the capital of the Worthlands. He had his own Guilt Police and Guilt Pumps. Guilt was a magical liquid found inside these pumps. The Guilt Police, along with the Hounds, kept a constant check on the behaviour of the people in the capital. Their job was to make sure that nobody ever ran out of fuel—the fuel of guilt. Whenever a person was caught running out of guilt, the Hounds immediately reported them to the Guilt Police. They were then provided with more guilt fuel to make sure that nobody went “insane.” The biggest crime in the capital was the Rest Crime. As soon as a person became exhausted and decided to take some rest, the Hounds would begin fiercely whispering in their ears: “Strong people don’t stop.” They would tell them not to rest until they reached somewhere. But where exactly this “somewhere” was, nobody really knew. Sometimes, when a person was genuinely unable to work any further because of an overwhelming workload, the Hounds would call specialised therapists known as the Fear Feeders from the Kingdom of Failure for counselling—a kingdom I shall discuss in greater detail later. On the other hand, the entire north of the Worthlands was ruled by the second Great Ghost: the Ghost of Productivity. Unlike the Guilt Police, who were actually in charge of the capital, there was no such police force in the north. Instead, there was a ministry known as the Ministry of Merit. The humans there were never supposed to sit idle. Instead, they were expected to work harder and harder to make sure that they remained at the top of the list maintained by the Ministry of Merit. Every year, there was a grand ceremony known as the Annual Worth Ceremony. The humans who earned the highest number of merit points received a golden star carved with their names in the Worth Register of the Ministry of Merit. Every time a human refused to rest in order to increase their productivity, the Hounds would greet them by saying: “Congratulations! You have earned three merit points.” Humans were comparatively happier in the north than in the other two kingdoms because here, they were rewarded with golden stars bearing their names. The more golden stars a human had beside their name in the Worth Register, the more likely they were to become part of the Hounds—the most respected position in the Worthlands. After all, the Hounds had the superpower to read human minds, and they could even fly. Their slogan was: “You could be doing more.” To the south lay the third kingdom—the Kingdom of Failure, ruled by the Great Ghost of Fear. This kingdom was the most terrible of them all. The humans there were weak and diseased. Every second person was a victim of anaemia. They looked as though they had been starving for days, perhaps even weeks. On the contrary, the Great Ghost of Fear was the fattest of the three ghosts. The reason for this strange contrast was hidden in the Hounds. Unlike the Hounds in the north and the capital, the Hounds in the south had a distinct name. They were called Fear Feeders. The Fear Feeders had one duty: to sense fear-bearing thoughts in human minds and suck them out, because the Great Ghost of Fear fed on those thoughts. There were many kinds of fears that humans carried in that kingdom: The fear of not doing enough. The fear of getting left behind. The fear of failure. And many more. The Fear Feeders collected these thoughts and presented them to their master. The Great Ghost of Failure had one dish that was especially dear to him. It was his favourite dish of all: “What If” Spaghetti. “What If” Spaghetti was a special dish found in all three kingdoms, but it was particularly abundant in the Kingdom of Failure. The humans looked starved because they had to constantly produce fear in their minds so that they could feed it to the Fear Feeders. These fears were produced through a process called whispering, carried out by Hounds that were not themselves Fear Feeders. Then, one day, something unexpected happened. A few Hounds disappeared. Seven Hounds. Everyone in the Worthlands was deeply concerned about their sudden disappearance. The Guilt Police, along with other investigation departments, launched a search operation. But not even a single missing Hound was found. The humans whose Hounds were missing were arrested and questioned. The results of the investigation shocked everyone in the Worthlands. The Hounds could only exist if their humans obeyed them. This was something that neither the Hounds nor the humans had ever known before. The humans whose Hounds had disappeared were, surprisingly, close friends. During the investigation, they confessed that one day, they had decided to step back from their usual exhausting routines and take a break to rest their tired and ruptured nerves. All of a sudden, seven Hounds appeared and began whispering their usual slogans: “Strong people don’t stop.” “What if you get left behind?” And their most favourite: “You could be doing more.” The humans became lost in their thoughts once again and decided to give up on their plan to rest. But then, suddenly, a voice echoed through the room: “But

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

The true measure of a society is not its skyscrapers, motorways, economic statistics or political slogans. It is revealed by something much simpler: how safe its children are. If a child cannot feel safe at home, in the neighbourhood, at a madrassa, at school or even on the street, then all our claims of progress deserve to be questioned. The growing number of cases of child abuse in Pakistan is not merely a matter of crime statistics. It reflects our collective indifference, weak institutions and a social culture that too often chooses silence over justice. Behind every reported case is a childhood that has been stolen, a family that has been shattered and an innocent mind carrying wounds that may never fully heal. According to the material available for this article, 1,914 cases of child abuse were reported across Pakistan during the first six months of 2026. Meanwhile, Sahil’s report recorded 3,630 cases of child abuse across the country in 2025, an increase of eight per cent over 2024. These figures were compiled from reports published in 81 newspapers across the four provinces, Islamabad, Azad Jammu and Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan. According to the report, more than nine children were subjected to some form of abuse every day in 2025. But is this the complete picture? Probably not. These figures represent only the cases that were reported. Countless incidents never reach the police or the courts because of fear, social stigma, family pressure, financial difficulties and the long, exhausting process of seeking justice. The reported numbers, therefore, should not be mistaken for the full scale of the problem. There is also a widespread assumption that children are mainly at risk from strangers. The reality is far more complicated. Long-term analyses of child abuse cases have repeatedly shown that a significant number of incidents involve people known to the child or the family. This is an uncomfortable truth, but one that parents must acknowledge. Teaching children simply to avoid strangers is no longer enough. They must also be taught that if a relative, teacher, neighbour, family acquaintance or influential person makes them uncomfortable or pressures them into doing something they do not want to do, they have the right to speak up. They should know that they can tell their parents or another trusted adult without fear of being blamed or punished. Such education is not about frightening children. It is about giving them confidence.Perhaps the most painful aspect of this crisis is that danger sometimes comes from the very place that should be a child’s safest refuge. Home is a child’s first shelter. The family environment is supposed to provide love, security and protection. But if that space becomes unsafe, where does a child go? Parents also need to pay close attention to sudden and unexplained changes in a child’s behaviour. Fear of a particular person, refusing to go to school, unusual silence, anger, withdrawal or a sudden change in behaviour may sometimes be warning signs. Not every behavioural change means that a child has been abused, but ignoring every unusual change is certainly not wise. Pakistan does not lack laws relating to child protection. The Zainab Alert, Response and Recovery Act 2020, the Juvenile Justice System Act 2018 and various provincial laws and policies provide a legal framework for protecting children. The real problem, however, is not the absence of laws. It is the failure to translate those laws into effective action. During a hearing at the Islamabad High Court in June 2026 concerning the implementation of the Zainab Alert law, the court was informed that some important provisions, including the practical operation of an immediate alert mechanism for missing children, had yet to be implemented as intended. The court was also told that 562 criminal cases relating to missing children and child abuse had been registered in Islamabad between 2022 and 2025. These figures raise a fundamental question: how seriously do we monitor the implementation of laws after passing them? The National Assembly’s Standing Committee on Human Rights also expressed concern in February 2026 over the performance of government institutions responsible for child protection and the lack of coordination between departments. It pointed out that several policies appeared to remain largely confined to official documents. We also need to understand that registering an FIR is not justice. It is merely the beginning of the process. If a child is abused, a case is registered and the accused is arrested, but the trial continues for years, witnesses come under pressure, evidence becomes weaker and the family eventually loses hope, then where is the justice despite the existence of laws? Cases involving children require a particularly sensitive approach to investigation and prosecution. Making a child repeatedly recount a traumatic incident, subjecting them to unnecessary questioning or taking their statement in an intimidating environment can deepen the trauma. Every district should therefore have properly trained child protection units where police officers, prosecutors, social workers and psychologists can work together. Specially trained investigators and prosecutors should deal with child abuse cases, while unnecessary delays in trials must be eliminated. We teach our children mathematics, science, English and computers. But do we teach them what to do if someone touches them inappropriately? Do they know that they have the right to say no? Do they understand that they are not obliged to obey an adult when something is wrong? Do they know whom to approach if someone threatens or intimidates them? Age-appropriate child safety education is no longer a luxury. It is a necessity. The purpose of such education should not be to frighten children but to give them a basic understanding of personal boundaries, appropriate and inappropriate touch, online risks and ways of seeking help. Parents and teachers also need training because children often communicate distress through changes in behaviour rather than directly asking for help. The dangers facing children today are not confined to streets, schools and neighbourhoods. Mobile phones and the internet have created another world in which children can

Pakistan has a peculiar relationship with workplace merit. We talk about it constantly. Government departments are criticised for delaying promotions. Corporations are questioned over favouritism. Universities are urged to reward academic performance. Employers are told to retain talent. Media organisations routinely expose nepotism, extensions, political appointments and institutional injustice. But there is a question that is rarely asked: Do the organisations making these arguments follow the same standards inside their own walls? The question is particularly relevant to Pakistan’s media industry. Newspapers and television channels have considerable influence over how society understands fairness at work. They report on workers denied promotions, bureaucrats given extensions, senior officials superseded and institutions accused of favouritism. But journalism cannot demand accountability from everyone else while exempting itself from scrutiny. That is where the conversation around employee retention, promotions and extensions becomes uncomfortable. The Extension That Blocks an Entire Career Ladder In any hierarchical organisation, one senior position can determine the careers of dozens of people below it. When a person occupying a senior position retires, the organisation has several choices. It can promote someone from within. It can recruit externally. It can restructure the position. Or, where there is a genuine institutional requirement, it can retain the individual for a defined period. The problem begins when an exception becomes a culture. A six-month extension becomes another year. A temporary arrangement becomes a permanent arrangement. A retired employee is brought back. Another extension follows. Meanwhile, people below continue waiting. For them, the issue is not merely that someone has been allowed to continue working. It is that their own careers may have been placed on hold to accommodate someone else’s continued career. That distinction is often ignored in Pakistan. Even Dawn Has Written About This Problem Dawn itself has been among the publications highlighting the damage caused by prolonged temporary arrangements. In a May 2026 editorial titled “Ad hoc culture,” Dawn criticised the practice of keeping people in higher positions through prolonged temporary arrangements, noting that such practices can leave employees without formal promotion, financial benefits or recognition of seniority. It specifically highlighted the frustration of employees whose seniority is bypassed. That position is difficult to disagree with. In fact, it is precisely the position that responsible journalism should take. But it also raises a more uncomfortable question: What happens when the same principles are applied to the media organisations themselves? The Dawn Question Dawn has long presented itself as an institution committed to professional journalism, institutional accountability and workers’ rights. Its pages have repeatedly carried arguments in favour of merit-based promotions and against prolonged ad-hoc arrangements. A January 2026 Dawn editorial page contribution on academic promotions, for example, argued that delayed promotions erode meritocracy, demotivate employees and can drive talented professionals towards private institutions or overseas opportunities. In another recent editorial, Dawn argued that prolonged temporary arrangements can stagnate careers and deprive employees of financial progression and recognition. These are sound principles. But principles become meaningful only when they are applied consistently. And this is where, based on my own knowledge of the organisation, an uncomfortable contradiction deserves examination. Dawn’s senior management structure has itself seen prolonged extensions, while retired managers have, according to my knowledge, been brought back into employment in Lahore and elsewhere. That raises a straightforward question: If retaining retired or extended senior personnel is justified by institutional necessity, why should the same practice be criticised when governments or other organisations do it? And if prolonged extensions are capable of blocking the careers of younger employees in government departments, why would the principle suddenly cease to apply inside a media organisation? This is not an argument against experience. Nor is it an argument that every retired employee should automatically be removed. Experience has value. Institutional memory has value. A highly experienced editor or manager can be extremely difficult to replace. But institutional value cannot become a permanent justification for blocking succession. Fifteen Years Is a Long Time in Any Profession The question becomes even more significant when a senior position remains occupied for an exceptionally long period. From my own knowledge of Dawn, its editor has remained in the position for nearly 15 years through extensions. Again, the question is not whether an individual is competent. The question is whether an institution that advocates professional advancement should also have a mechanism for developing and promoting the next generation of leadership. Fifteen years is enough time for an entire generation of journalists to enter an organisation, build careers, become senior reporters, become editors and eventually expect to take on greater responsibility. If the top positions remain occupied indefinitely, where does that generation go? There is a very real distinction between retaining talent and preventing succession. A healthy institution must know the difference. The Supreme Court Has Now Entered This Conversation This is no longer merely an HR theory. Pakistan’s Supreme Court has recently addressed the issue in remarkably strong terms. In January 2026, the court ruled that government departments could not use administrative inefficiency and procedural delays as an excuse for denying employees timely consideration for promotion. It held that promotion is connected to merit, performance and operational requirements, and said employees should not suffer because a department failed to convene promotion committees or relied excessively on acting arrangements. Four months later, in May 2026, the Supreme Court went further. It held that prolonged ad-hoc, look-after, current-charge, acting-charge and additional-charge arrangements can amount to exploitation. The case involved a Pakistan Railways employee who had performed duties of a higher post for nearly eight years before receiving regular promotion. The court’s reasoning is important because it moves the debate beyond bureaucratic procedure. It is about human beings and their careers. A person who spends years doing higher-level work without receiving corresponding recognition, seniority or financial benefits is not merely dealing with an administrative inconvenience. Their career is being affected. What Happens to the Person Waiting Below? This is the part of the Pakistani workplace debate we often ignore. We discuss the person