Pakistan Turkiye Saudi Arabia: A Vision for a peac…

The signing of the Mecca Joint Defence Agreement by Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Türkiye on August 7 has opened a new and potentially consequential chapter in the security architecture of Asia and the Gulf. The agreement states that an armed attack against any one of the three countries will be regarded as an attack against all three, while envisaging deeper military coordination, joint exercises, intelligence cooperation and collaboration in areas including drones, electronic warfare, artificial intelligence and defence production. Türkiye has also indicated that the framework could eventually be expanded to other countries. What makes the development particularly significant is not simply the agreement itself, but the reaction from Washington. President Donald Trump has welcomed the pact as a “big, bold, important first step” towards regional countries being able to defend themselves more meaningfully. His words raise a larger strategic question, is the United States beginning to transfer a greater share of the burden of confronting Iran to regional powers, particularly the Gulf and Asian countries? Or making this region as its main combatant force against Iran? And what are the possible next steps? The answer is more complicated than a simple American withdrawal. Washington is unlikely to abandon the Middle East, its military assets, intelligence networks, diplomatic influence or relationships with Gulf states. What appears to be changing is the distribution of responsibility. The Trump administration’s broader philosophy of burden-sharing suggests that countries possessing substantial financial, military and strategic resources should assume greater responsibility for their own security rather than expecting Washington to carry the entire cost. In that sense, America may not be handing over the war against Iran, but it may be regionalising the consequences of that war. The distinction is crucial. A regionalised conflict can become much more dangerous because the number of actors involved increases. At the same time, regional ownership of security could eventually create a framework in which regional states themselves negotiate a new balance rather than remaining permanently dependent on an external power. The Pakistan-Saudi relationship provides the foundation for this transformation. The two countries signed their Strategic Mutual Defence Agreement in September 2025, committing themselves to collective security. The new Mecca agreement effectively brings Türkiye into a much broader strategic framework. Each country brings a different strategic asset. Saudi Arabia possesses enormous financial resources, energy influence and geographical importance. Türkiye brings one of the region’s most capable conventional militaries, a rapidly developing indigenous defence industry, drone technology and NATO experience. Pakistan brings a large and experienced military establishment and, uniquely among Muslim-majority states, a nuclear deterrent. The combination therefore has significance beyond its three signatories. It links the Gulf, South Asia and the eastern Mediterranean in a single security conversation. For Saudi Arabia, the agreement represents strategic insurance. Riyadh has increasingly understood that sophisticated American weapons alone cannot eliminate vulnerabilities created by missiles, drones, cyberwarfare and attacks on energy infrastructure. Diversifying its security relationships allows Saudi Arabia to maintain its partnership with Washington while simultaneously developing alternative sources of military capability. For Türkiye, the pact fits into Ankara’s long-standing ambition to exercise greater strategic autonomy. Türkiye remains a NATO member, but it has increasingly demonstrated that it does not want its foreign policy to be dictated by any single great power. A defence relationship stretching from Türkiye through Saudi Arabia to Pakistan expands Ankara’s influence across two strategically vital regions. For Pakistan, however, the equation is much more delicate. Pakistan has the opportunity to emerge as an important security bridge between South Asia and the Gulf, but it also has a geographical reality that cannot be ignored, it shares a border with Iran. Islamabad cannot afford to treat Tehran simply as an enemy without exposing itself to enormous security, economic and diplomatic risks. Pakistan therefore faces the most difficult balancing act of the three. Its relationship with Saudi Arabia is strategically important. Its relationship with Türkiye is deepening. Its partnership with China remains fundamental. Its relationship with the United States is economically and strategically significant. Yet Iran is its immediate western neighbour, with which it shares a long border and important diplomatic and economic interests. This makes Pakistan potentially more valuable as a mediator than as a frontline combatant. If Islamabad can defend Saudi Arabia while simultaneously maintaining communication with Tehran, it could acquire an extraordinary diplomatic role. Pakistan could become one of the few countries capable of speaking to the Gulf, Iran, Türkiye, China and Washington at the same time. That possibility is already visible in Pakistan’s efforts to maintain diplomatic engagement with Iran while navigating its defence commitments to Saudi Arabia. The Iranian response will be critical. Although the three countries have described the agreement as defensive rather than an alliance directed against a particular state, Tehran will inevitably examine its military implications. A coordinated Saudi-Turkish-Pakistani security structure potentially means improved intelligence, air defence, military exercises, drone capabilities and defence-industrial cooperation around Iran’s strategic neighbourhood. But this could produce two very different outcomes. The first is escalation. Iran could interpret the emerging architecture as an attempt to encircle it and respond by strengthening its missile forces, regional partnerships and asymmetric capabilities. The Gulf could then become increasingly militarised, with every defensive measure interpreted by the other side as preparation for aggression. The second possibility is deterrence leading eventually to diplomacy. If Iran concludes that it cannot achieve regional dominance through military pressure, while Saudi Arabia and other Gulf states conclude that permanent dependence on American protection is neither sufficient nor sustainable, both sides may eventually have an incentive to negotiate a regional security arrangement. That would be the more constructive outcome. The danger, however, is that the emerging alliance could be interpreted through a sectarian lens. Saudi Arabia, Türkiye and Pakistan are all Sunni-majority states, while Iran is the region’s principal Shia power. If the new security architecture becomes identified as a Sunni military bloc confronting Shia Iran, it could revive precisely the sectarian competition that has destabilised the Middle East for decades. Pakistan should be particularly careful

I have a confession to make before I make an argument: I am not a neutral observer of Uzbekistan, and I have never pretended to be. My grandmother was born in Bukhara, and something of that inheritance has stayed with me my whole life, quietly, the way a language half-learned in childhood never fully leaves you. When I finally visited Uzbekistan as an adult, I did not feel like a foreign visitor taking in unfamiliar streets. I felt something closer to what my grandmother must have felt looking at me — an unearned, uncomplicated warmth that asked nothing in return. I have come to understand that feeling as the quiet, private secret of belonging to a place through blood rather than through a passport. Tashkent is, in every way that matters to me, my second home. It was in that spirit, long before he held the office he holds today, that I once had the chance to meet and listen to Shavkat Mirziyoyev. He was not yet President of Uzbekistan when I encountered him, and I remember being struck less by any title he carried than by the scale of what he was already thinking about out loud: an economic vision that did not stop at Uzbekistan’s borders, a water and energy strategy built for the whole of Central Asia, and a sense — unusual in a region that had spent decades looking inward — that Uzbekistan’s future was inseparable from the future of its neighbors, and ultimately from the future of Asia itself. I did not know, at the time, that I was listening to a future head of state. I knew only that I was listening to someone thinking at a scale most officials never attempt. That background should not surprise anyone who looks closely at his biography. Mirziyoyev is, by training, an irrigation engineer. He graduated in 1981 from the Tashkent Institute of Irrigation and Melioration with a degree in mechanical engineering, and went on to earn a doctorate in technical sciences — a foundation in water management and applied engineering, not in the abstractions of political theory. I find something quietly reassuring in that. A leader who has spent his formative years thinking about the physical realities of water — how it moves, where it is wasted, how a system either functions or fails on the ground — tends to bring a different discipline to the running of a country than one who has only ever studied power itself. When he took the presidential oath on 14 December 2016, he inherited a country that had spent decades in careful, deliberate isolation under his predecessor, Islam Karimov. What he has built since is, by any honest measure, one of the most consequential transformations Central Asia has seen in a generation. Mirziyoyev dismantled that isolation almost immediately. Borders that had been tense and heavily restricted with Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan were resolved through negotiation rather than standoff. Trade and cross-border travel, once treated with suspicion, were opened. And rather than settling for improved bilateral relations, he proposed something more ambitious still: formalizing the informal annual summits among Central Asian leaders into a standing “Community of Central Asia,” with a rotating presidency and a permanent secretariat, built around shared trade, water management, transport infrastructure, and coordinated engagement with Afghanistan. It is the kind of regional architecture Central Asia lacked for the entire post-Soviet period, and it is very hard to picture it emerging under any of his predecessors. The economic numbers now validate what, in that early conversation, still sounded like ambition rather than achievement. Uzbekistan implemented $43.1 billion in foreign investment in its most recent reporting period, of which $38.2 billion arrived as foreign direct investment — a 24 % surge over the prior year, and enough to make Uzbekistan the largest recipient of accumulated FDI stock in Central Asia, ahead of Kazakhstan. FDI absorption climbed from $19.5 billion in 2023 to $31.9 billion in 2024 before reaching this year’s historic peak, with a single record quarter bringing in $1.7 billion in net balance-of-payments inflows. China remains the leading investor at $17.1 billion, followed by Russia at $4.8 billion, with Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Germany, the UAE, and the United Kingdom all expanding their footprints. The capital is not concentrated in one sector either: energy and renewables lead at $7.1 billion, including ACWA Power’s $2.4 billion wind installation in Karakalpakstan, alongside major investment in agriculture, construction, and mining. The country’s foreign reserves stood at roughly $63.75 billion as of June 2026, after peaking above $77 billion earlier in the year, while real GDP grew 7.7 % in 2025 and is projected to hold near 6.8 % through 2026. None of this happened by accident. Uzbekistan built nearly a thousand Free Economic Zones offering genuine tax relief and simplified customs. It collapsed business registration into a single electronic government portal, cutting the cost of starting a company to roughly $27. It fully liberalized its currency and removed the foreign exchange barriers that once made profit repatriation a genuine deterrent to investors. This is not a country hoping investors will come. It is a country that examined, line by line, every friction that had historically kept them away, and removed it. But the achievement I find most remarkable is geographic, because geography is the one obstacle policy alone usually cannot solve. Uzbekistan is one of only two doubly landlocked countries on Earth — a nation whose neighbors are themselves landlocked, placing it about as far from open water as any country can be. For most of its history, that was treated as a permanent constraint. Mirziyoyev has instead treated it as an engineering problem to be solved, which is precisely how an irrigation engineer would see it. The Trans-Afghan Railway, first proposed by Uzbekistan in 2018 and finally formalized in a trilateral framework agreement signed with Afghanistan and Pakistan in July 2025, will run roughly 650 kilometres from Termez on the Uzbek border through Mazar-i-Sharif, Kabul, and Logar, crossing into Pakistan

We Were Forewarned, Then Why Are We Drowning, and What Lies Ahead In March, when the glaciers were shedding their winter whites too early and the northern valleys stood bare against a sky that should have held snow, I wrote that the coming monsoon would test us. The National Disaster Management Authority had foreseen rains twenty-two to twenty-six percent heavier than the floods that killed more than a thousand souls the year before. Our embankments were still broken. Our protocols were still asleep. It is late July now. The test has begun. Riverine area dwellers stand at the edge of swollen rivers, watching the water turn from brown to something near black, carrying the upstream soil. There is that familiar murmur of disbelief from government corridors—the same soft gasp that follows every flood, as if the water had not been whispering its arrival for months. But the water does not whisper to those who will not bend their ear. It speaks in the language of saturated earth, and we have heard it before. We have simply chosen, again and again, not to listen. We were forewarned by the agencies. We were forewarned by the science. And we were forewarned by the very land beneath our feet—the old, patient land that absorbed until it could absorb no more, and is now quietly drowning. Yet when the skies opened, we were caught unprepared. And the heavy heart of Bhadoon is still to come. What the Old Farmers Knew For generations, the farmers of the Indus Basin have spoken of Sawan and Bhadoon not as months, but as temperaments. Sawan, the early monsoon of July and mid-August, is the gentle guest who fills the earthen pot. Bhadoon, the late monsoon of August and September, is the guest who arrives heavy with sorrow, and finds the door already swollen shut. There is an old understanding in the villages of Punjab and Sindh: if Sawan has been generous—if the rains have fallen day after day without rest—then Bhadoon must be received with care. Not because Bhadoon brings more rain, but because the earth, by the time Bhadoon arrives, has already absorbed all it can hold. The soil is no longer soil. It is a clay pot filled to the lip, trembling at the brim. The next drop does not nourish. It overflows. Modern science calls this Antecedent Moisture Condition. During a gentle Sawan, the land breathes; the rivers rise slowly, politely. But when the early rains come without pause, the land stops breathing. Its lungs fill with water. What was once a sponge becomes something heavy, something waiting. In dry years, only a fraction of rainfall becomes dangerous runoff. But once the soil is saturated, eighty to ninety-five percent of every new drop becomes immediate floodwater. The sponge has no choice. It must release what it cannot hold. It weeps. Nature does not betray us. It simply does what it has always done. It is we who forget the earth, who build our homes upon its floodplains and then feign surprise when the water remembers its ancient path home. The Water Remembers This is not a new story. The water has told it before, and it has told it gently, and we have not listened. In 1955, the Ravi rose with a roar that split the embankments of Lahore’s periphery. The river had been primed for weeks—day after day of July and August rain had filled the soil until the ground could no longer hold the September deluge. The peak at Madhopur was the highest ever recorded. The city woke to find its edges softened, dissolved, gone. In 1992, the same priming filled Mangla and Tarbela to their brims by mid-August. When the early September rains came, Tarbela’s flood-peak reduction capacity collapsed from thirty percent to two percent. The rest surged into the lower plains, uninvited and sorrowful. The engineers knew what was coming. The farmers had only the sound of the river changing pitch—a sound every old farmer knows, a sound that means it is time to gather the children and climb. In 2022, Sindh became an inland sea. Nearly a meter of rain fell on ground that was already thirty percent wetter than it should have been. The water had nowhere to go but into homes, into fields, into the places where people had built their lives on the quiet assumption that the land would always absorb their troubles. The years that followed did not forgive us. In 2023, the Chenab and Jhelum catchments drank until they were full, and when Bhadoon came heavy in September, communities that had barely recovered from 2022 found themselves underwater again. In 2024, the same quiet sorrow played across Sindh and Balochistan—early rains primed the soil, late rains broke the banks, and the katcha communities woke to find their world softened and dissolved. These were not catastrophes on the scale of 2022, but gentle, persistent reminders that the mechanism does not rest, and that a loaded sponge does not care whether the year is famous or forgotten. Then came 2025. The NDMA’s own reports confirmed what the old farmers could have recited without a single instrument: the rain fell on ground that was already wet. The system had no buffer, no forgiveness, no room for error. One thousand and thirty-seven people died. More than two hundred and seventy-five of them were children. Nearly seven million were affected. Three million displaced. Two hundred and twenty-nine thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three homes damaged or destroyed. These are not estimates. These are the quiet names and numbers of a nation that has grown accustomed to forgetting. Now, in 2026, the NDMA warns of an even more intense monsoon. The early snowmelt has already fed the rivers before the clouds even gathered. The reservoirs are high. The soil is full. The sponge is loaded. And Bhadoon has not yet arrived. The Quiet After the Warning The tragedy of this year is not that we did not know. It is that

By Aleena Saif Ullah The writer is an MPhil Scholar in International Relations, specializing in global defence and security, University of the Punjab, Lahore. On February 28, the first day of Operation Epic Fury, a strike hit the Shajareh Tayyebeh girls’ elementary school in Minab, in Iran’s Hormozgan province. Iranian state media reported that 168 children and 14 adults were killed. Anadolu reported two strikes roughly forty minutes apart. President Trump said on March 7 that in his opinion Iran had done it, citing Iranian inaccuracy with munitions. Bellingcat had already established otherwise. Its researchers identified a Tomahawk cruise missile — a munition no other belligerent in the conflict fields — in footage released by Iran’s Mehr agency, and geolocated the strike sequence. The New York Times, the Associated Press and CNN reached compatible conclusions through independent satellite and video analysis. By March 11, NPR reported that a preliminary Pentagon assessment had determined the United States was at fault. Five months later, the accountability failure is not the one I described when I first wrote about this case, and the actual failure is more instructive. A process was initiated. On March 13, Secretary Hegseth announced a formal command investigation, with CENTCOM appointing a senior officer from outside the command to lead it — the correct procedural choice. Lawmakers have said that officer submitted an initial report in April. CENTCOM has held it since. On May 19, Admiral Brad Cooper told lawmakers under oath that the investigation was complex, near completion, and that “I’m fully committed to transparency” once it concluded. No findings have been published. Then in July, CNN reported the detail that reframes the case. Within a week of the strike, the first two stages of the battle damage assessment were complete, establishing that American forces had hit the location. The third stage — the standard review in which Defense Intelligence Agency analysts examine the full body of satellite imagery and intelligence to determine holistically what occurred — had not been ordered as of early July. One source familiar with the matter told CNN there had been no detailed analysis and that CENTCOM had locked down the investigation. NBC reported that preliminary findings pointed to outdated intelligence as the likely cause. This is a different kind of institutional failure from the one international lawyers usually describe, and it is worse. An absent process can be demanded. A process that ran, produced a document, and stopped is much harder to move, because officials can accurately say an investigation took place. The context makes it harder still. On May 13 the Pentagon’s own Inspector General found that the Department had systematically failed to implement its Civilian Harm Mitigation and Response Action Plan, with all eleven objectives reclassified as at risk and the legally mandated Civilian Protection Center of Excellence lacking key staff and leadership. The architecture built specifically to prevent and account for incidents like Minab had been allowed to decay before the war that tested it. Congress has asked the right questions and been ignored. A letter led by Senator Chris Van Hollen and signed by more than forty senators asked Secretary Hegseth directly whether American forces conducted the strikes, what the intended target was, whether AI tools were used in targeting, and whether a no-strike list was established before operations began. Answers were requested by March 18. More than 150 House members signed a parallel letter on the broader civilian toll. The comparison the Pentagon itself invites is unflattering. As NBC noted, the Department has publicly disclosed its role in comparable incidents before: a special forces raid in Yemen, a bombing in Iraq that killed more than a hundred civilians, the strike on an Afghan hospital that killed at least forty-two, a drone attack in Afghanistan that killed ten. Disclosure in those cases was not generous, but it happened. What Minab demonstrates is that the binding constraint on accountability is not evidence. Volunteer open-source investigators, working entirely from public material, established the essential facts within nine days. The state that conducted the strike established them internally within seven. The constraint is that no mechanism exists to compel publication of a report a government has decided not to publish — not the Rome Statute, to which the United States is not a party; not the Security Council, where it holds a veto; and not the Inspector General, who can find institutional failure but cannot release another command’s findings. One lever remains, and it is domestic rather than international. Congress can require declassified release of the findings through the National Defense Authorization Act. Whether it does will indicate more about the state of accountability for civilian harm than any further open-source analysis. The evidence is not missing. The report is not missing. Both exist. Neither can be read.    

The legality of a constitutional settlement cannot compensate for the absence of time, preparation and protection required to implement it The collapse of the Cabinet Mission Plan did more than extinguish the last comprehensive attempt to preserve a united India. It transformed a constitutional dispute into an administrative and humanitarian emergency. Indian National Congress proceeded with the Constituent Assembly, the Muslim League withdrew its acceptance of the Plan, and political distrust increasingly gave way to confrontation. Communal violence spread across different parts of India, demonstrating that the approaching transfer of power could no longer be treated simply as an exercise in constitutional drafting. By the beginning of 1947, Britain had reached a decisive conclusion. Its rule in India could not continue indefinitely, while no constitution acceptable to all the principal political parties had emerged. On February 20, 1947, Prime Minister Clement Attlee announced that British authority would be transferred to Indian hands no later than June 1948. The statement also acknowledged that, in the absence of an agreed constitution, Britain would have to determine whether power should pass to a central authority, provincial governments or some other arrangement. The possibility of more than one successor authority had now entered official policy. Lord Louis Mountbatten arrived as the last Viceroy in March 1947 with a mandate to supervise this transfer. He inherited a political order already close to collapse. The Cabinet Mission framework had ceased to command common confidence, the interim government was paralysed by rivalry between Congress and the Muslim League, and communal violence had exposed the fragility of provincial administration. Mountbatten’s task was not to negotiate within a stable constitutional environment. It was to construct a settlement while the institutions through which it had to be implemented were rapidly disintegrating. The central question was whether the deadline of June 1948 provided sufficient time to undertake an orderly transfer or whether delay would deepen violence and political uncertainty. Mountbatten chose acceleration. On June 3, 1947, the British Government announced a plan under which British India could be divided and power transferred to two successor governments. Punjab and Bengal would decide whether they should themselves be partitioned; separate constituent assemblies could emerge; and referendums would determine the future of the North-West Frontier Province and the Sylhet district of Assam. The date for transfer was brought forward from June 1948 to August 1947. The acceleration was defended as a response to deteriorating conditions. British authority was weakening, communal violence was spreading and the principal political parties had accepted that Partition had become unavoidable. Mountbatten and his supporters believed that a definite and immediate date would end uncertainty and compel the parties to assume responsibility. The opposing view deserves equal attention. A constitutional transformation of such magnitude required the division of provinces, armed forces, civil services, financial assets, railways, irrigation systems, records and administrative institutions. It required the establishment of two governments and the settlement of territorial boundaries affecting millions of people. Compressing this process into a few weeks inevitably reduced the time available for administrative preparation, security arrangements and the protection of vulnerable communities. The question is therefore not simply whether British withdrawal had become inevitable. It plainly had. The more difficult question is whether the decision to advance the transfer by approximately ten months converted political urgency into administrative recklessness. The Indian Independence Act received Royal Assent on July 18, 1947. It provided that two independent Dominions—India and Pakistan—would be established from August 15, 1947. It partitioned Punjab and Bengal, empowered the respective constituent assemblies to legislate for the new Dominions and terminated British responsibility for governing India. Parliamentary sovereignty, exercised from London for generations, legislated itself out of the subcontinent in an extraordinarily compressed period. The legal instrument was concise. Partition was not. An Act of Parliament could establish two Dominions, confer legislative authority and terminate imperial jurisdiction. It could not divide villages, canals, railway lines, police forces, military units, families and centuries of shared social existence with comparable simplicity. Constitutional law could provide a date for independence, but it could not by itself produce the administrative capacity necessary to manage the consequences of territorial division. The most visible illustration of this haste was the work of the Punjab and Bengal Boundary Commissions. Sir Cyril Radcliffe was appointed to chair both bodies and was required to determine the boundaries separating Muslim-majority and non-Muslim-majority areas. The task involved densely populated territories in which religious communities, agricultural systems, transport networks and commercial centres were deeply interwoven. He was given only a matter of weeks to complete it. Punjab and Bengal could not be divided by applying census figures mechanically. District-level majorities concealed substantial minorities, while economic and geographic considerations frequently pointed in directions different from religious demography. Rivers, irrigation headworks, railways and markets crossed the proposed boundaries. Sikhs were particularly vulnerable in Punjab because their population, landholdings and sacred places were distributed across areas claimed by both successor states. The commissions were expected to resolve these questions while political authority was itself being divided. Their members were nominated from opposing political sides and were unable to agree on many decisive matters. The ultimate responsibility therefore rested with Radcliffe, who was required to draw boundaries under extraordinary pressure and with limited opportunity for local investigation. More troubling was the timing of publication. The boundary awards were made public on August 17, 1947, after independence ceremonies had already taken place. Large populations in Punjab and Bengal consequently entered independence without knowing with certainty on which side of the new international frontier they would fall. The delay may have been intended to prevent the boundary controversy from overshadowing the independence celebrations or provoking immediate disorder. Its effect was to deepen uncertainty at the precise moment when administrative clarity was most urgently required. Officials responsible for security, local government and transportation had little time to prepare for the territorial consequences. Ordinary people were left to respond to rumour, fear and rapidly changing political realities. No law expressly ordered a complete exchange of populations between India

A rise of anti immigration policies have been emerging rapidly across North America and Europe, especially in the United Kingdom and USA. The blue collar politicians and white people living there have expressed their concerns over these often labeled “illegal” immigrants causing crime and stealing the jobs of the “rightful” citizens. If looked closely upon, this is not about illegal immigration, rather it is a form of racism against the blacks, the Indians and rather anyone who is not white.   The United Kingdom had colonized a great part of the world which included the Indian subcontinent and a vast part of Africa along with other European colonizers whom they wanted to “civilize” as for them they were a “savage” race. This colonization resulted in thousands of black and Indian families migrating to Europe, especially the upper class who ought to receive English education and work in the British government.   This seems like a normal history dilemma where colonization led to great migrations and mixing, which the Europeans have now mayhaps forgotten. All over the UK, many rallies of white people have emerged in which they protested against immigration- however they in reality spread their similar racist views. These citizens may not realize the extent to which immigrants aided in growing the economy. If kicked out, the economy will collapse and suffer tremendously.   In recent years these anti immigration policies have caused major hurdles for students all over Asia, South America and Africa who are ambitious enough to study in the ivy leagues and settle abroad- however their visas being rejected have deteriorated their ambitions otherwise. This is being seen as a great disadvantage all over the world especially for the students who are forced into putting a hold on their education.   No more than the student, this poses a great threat to the Western countries themselves. Without the hands and minds of these students who are the future workforce who help stabilize and grow the economy, the countries will often suffer. Unlike most nations, Germany is seen as offering free education to these immigrants which has definitely bore the result making Germany one of the most powerful economies despite the restrictions imposed on them (after world war II).   The other side of this argument initiates from the government of respective countries like Pakistan whom the students and workers emigrate from- their government stating that they are much needed to support their own respective economies. Nevertheless, the great amount of corruption, instability and discrimination are the reasons in the first place for workers to emigrate seeking better secure jobs abroad. It is hard to revive the patriotic heart of civilians when the governments do not work in favour of them.   “France for the French” was said by Jean-Marie Le Pen since the immigrants are apparently threatening the French identity. The same french is spoken in 20 African countries who were forcefully colonized and turned into slaves, the countries who had their own languages (hundreds of them), cultures and identities. So it often seems extremely hypocritical to hear statements such as these.   Consequently, the immigrants framed as criminals are the result of centuries old racist ideologies. They pose no threat but the threat of looking different, which is again ironically hypocritical since white race is a minority in the world. Hence, even in the ripe year of 2026 racism thrives and the rest of the world suffers. Comments like “Immigration is not an opportunity. It is a tragedy.” ( by Marine Le Pen) are made openly without facing any backlash- instead receive grave support. Mayhaps immigration can stop once the British return the koh-e-noor, jewels and trillions of dollars worth of resources stolen from the sub continent.