Rewriting the history of early universe

Since Ashura, the mothers of Sindh have been sitting in at Babarloi Bypass through suffocating heat and humidity, with one demand: return our missing and abducted children. For a mother, a child is her entire universe — and for years these women have lived in psychological anguish searching for theirs. Fazila Sarki of Thul vanished nearly seventeen years ago; her father named the local Wadero he says orchestrated it, yet she was never recovered. Priya Kumari of Sangrar is entering her fifth year missing — committees formed, updates promised, and still nothing, as if the earth or sky simply swallowed her. Sindh’s landlords and chieftains have built a parallel state, one that operates above the law. If not, why would fourteen children currently be missing, why would the soil be stained with young blood over trifles, why would mothers go blind from weeping and cemeteries keep expanding? Innocent young women are still declared Kari and honor-killed — denied even a ritual bath, shroud, or funeral prayer, sometimes dumped in rivers. The law exists on paper; hundreds of thousands of officials draw salaries and perks from public taxes to enforce it — yet ordinary people have no protection at any level. The papers are full of these stories daily. The law exists, but it is locked away in books. Are the hands meant to enforce it helpless, or simply indifferent? Sukkur Civil Hospital — the teaching hospital for Ghulam Muhammad Mahar Medical College, and once a lifeline stretching from Balochistan’s Sibi, Nasirabad, and Bhag Nari to Kandhkot-Kashmore, Shikarpur, and Ghotki — has sunk to the level of Shikarpur’s Rai Bahadur Udhodas Hospital. Department heads sit in name only; real control rests with a handful of favorites who have run these institutions into the ground. Road accidents are a daily occurrence on the highways, and while the Orthopaedic Department stays busy, its facilities inspire only regret. With Nasir Shah and veteran politician Khurshid Shah both present, this hospital ought to be a model for Northern Sindh — instead it is anything but. Law and order, and justice, are the pillars any civilized society rests on. Where they hold, life, property, and honor are protected, and social harmony follows. Where they fail, fear, distrust, and unrest take their place — and our own society is proof enough of that; little more needs saying. An educated person lifts not just himself but his society; where ignorance and social ills grow instead, it is education that has failed first. Healthcare here tells the same story: women give birth in Qingqi rickshaws, medicine is scarce, and families buy even a disposable syringe out of pocket — though the budget for it exists. Doctors draw government salaries while absent, some working in Qatar or Saudi Arabia, others running private clinics. A friend recently told me PPHI, on taking over a government health unit, found a stockpile of medicines for heart disease, diabetes, and stomach ailments — worth a fortune, and only months from expiry. What tyranny is greater than this: medicine sitting unused while the needy go without? It is nothing short of an atrocity against the public. Hunger, disease, unemployment, lawlessness, and ignorance have battered Sindh until its people’s capacity for critical thought is paralyzed. The state, along with conscious citizens, politicians, and the well-off, must turn to this crisis — urgently.

By Syed Tahir Rashdi  The writer is a Shahdadpur-based contributing columnist, book reviewer, and climate change activist. He holds a BS degree in Pakistan Studies from University of Sindh Pakistan’s debate over new provinces has returned with familiar demands: South Punjab, Bahawalpur, Hazara, Karachi and, periodically, proposals for a more extensive reorganisation of the federation. There are credible arguments behind some of these demands. Population growth, administrative distance, uneven development and the persistence of regional identities have altered the circumstances in which Pakistan’s present provincial arrangement was conceived. Yet the debate tends to proceed from an assumption that deserves greater scrutiny: that creating smaller provinces will, in itself, improve governance. It may. But it may also not. The distinction is important because Pakistan’s principal difficulty has never been simply the size of its administrative units. It has been the weakness, discontinuity and politicisation of the institutions through which those units are governed. This does not make the case for new provinces illegitimate. It does, however, suggest that provincial restructuring should be considered as one component of administrative reform rather than as a substitute for it. Pakistan’s provincial boundaries have never been immutable. The One Unit scheme of 1955 consolidated the western wing into a single province, partly to establish parity between the two wings of the country. It was abolished in 1970, restoring the provinces. The episode remains relevant because it demonstrated the limits of administrative engineering. A territorial arrangement can be imposed constitutionally, but its durability ultimately depends upon political legitimacy. The present debate is considerably more complex. The demand for a South Punjab province contains at least three distinct strands: the historical claim associated with Bahawalpur, the linguistic and cultural politics of Saraiki identity, and the administrative argument that the southern districts have remained distant from the provincial centre in Lahore. There is also the persistent claim of regional economic neglect. These strands should not be conflated. Similarly, the Hazara demand has a strong identity component, while the Karachi question is inseparable from the city’s unusual demographic, economic and political history and the longstanding contest over authority between urban local institutions and the provincial government. The differences matter because different problems require different institutional responses. The Constitution does not make the creation of a new province a matter of political declaration. Article 239 provides a demanding procedure for constitutional amendment, including the approval of the concerned provincial assembly where provincial boundaries are affected. That requirement is not an accidental obstacle. It reflects the logic of federalism: a federation cannot permit the territorial boundaries of one constituent unit to be altered without giving that unit a decisive constitutional voice. The experience of the parliamentary commission on new provinces in 2012 illustrated the complexity of the exercise. Questions of boundaries, resources, representation, administrative structures and constitutional amendments quickly became inseparable from the political question of who would gain or lose influence. That is why the debate deserves to be insulated, as far as possible, from electoral expediency. There is, however, a more fundamental issue that receives considerably less attention. Article 140-A of the Constitution requires provincial governments to establish local government systems and devolve political, administrative and financial responsibility and authority to elected local representatives. This provision goes to the heart of the governance question. A citizen’s encounter with government is rarely with the federal government or even with a provincial assembly. It is with the school, hospital, police station, municipal authority, land office, sanitation service or local administration. Yet local governments in Pakistan have rarely acquired the institutional continuity, fiscal autonomy and political authority envisaged by the Constitution. The result is an unusual form of devolution. The 18th Amendment substantially strengthened the provinces by transferring functions and resources from the federation, but the transfer of authority has often stopped at the provincial level. Islamabad became less dominant. The provinces became stronger. The citizen did not necessarily become more powerful. This is perhaps the most important issue in the new-provinces debate. If a region is suffering because decisions are too distant from its population, the first question should be whether existing institutions can be decentralised before an entirely new tier of government is created. Comparative experience does not provide a universal answer, but it does offer useful cautions. Indonesia’s post-Suharto decentralisation transferred extensive responsibilities to subnational governments. The reform was necessary after decades of centralised rule, but decentralisation itself did not guarantee effective or accountable government. Subsequent reforms had to focus on institutional capacity, fiscal management and local accountability. Nigeria provides another caution. The creation of additional states was partly intended to improve political representation and accommodate regional interests. Yet the country continues to face substantial governance and institutional-capacity problems across its states. The lesson from both cases is not that administrative restructuring is futile. It is that territorial fragmentation and institutional development are different processes. South Africa offers a somewhat different model. Its Constitution explicitly recognises local government as a sphere of government and assigns municipalities constitutional responsibilities relating to democratic participation and service delivery. The significance lies less in the number of provinces than in the distribution of authority among the different levels of government. Switzerland’s federal tradition similarly rests on substantial cantonal and communal autonomy. Its relevance to Pakistan is not institutional imitation but a principle: government functions should be located at the level at which they can be performed most effectively, while higher levels retain responsibilities that require wider coordination. There is therefore no universally correct number of provinces. The appropriate administrative scale depends upon geography, population, fiscal capacity, the nature of the public service and, above all, institutional competence. Pakistan’s governance difficulties are familiar enough to require little elaboration: weak rule of law, politicisation of public institutions, patronage, corruption, uneven accountability, administrative discontinuity and the recurrent weakening of local government. None of these problems disappears when a provincial boundary is moved. A new province may shorten the administrative distance between a region and its provincial capital. It does not automatically make the police independent,