The Fading Fabric of Family

The world’s largest democracy appears to be at a defining moment in its history, where fundamental questions are once again being raised about the future of the state, politics, constitutionalism, the judiciary, the media, and the country’s broader social order. Consecutive electoral victories by Prime Minister Narendra Modi and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) have elevated the ideology commonly known as Hindutva, often associated with Hindu majoritarian politics, to the centre of India’s political discourse. Its proponents describe it as an effort to reclaim India’s ancient civilizational identity and cultural heritage. Critics, however, argue that the notion of a single, unified ancient Indian civilization oversimplifies the subcontinent’s historical evolution. For centuries, the Indian subcontinent has been shaped by a mosaic of religions, kingdoms, languages, ethnic communities, commercial networks, and cultural exchanges. Rather than reflecting a single, monolithic civilization, its history reveals a continuously evolving and pluralistic civilizational stream. In today’s interconnected digital age, many historians and political commentators argue that reconstructing such a singular historical identity is neither historically accurate nor socially attainable. They contend that the project has placed India’s constitutional secularism, communal harmony, and federal balance under unprecedented strain. Since assuming office in 2014, the Modi government has introduced a series of policies that have generated intense political debate both within India and internationally. The abrogation of Article 370, which revoked the special constitutional status of Jammu and Kashmir, the Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA), discussions surrounding a Uniform Civil Code, legislation targeting religious conversions, incidents of mob violence associated with cow protection, and the use of “bulldozer politics” in several states have all contributed to deep political polarization. According to many political observers, Hindutva has evolved beyond an ideological movement into a powerful influence over electoral politics, state institutions, public discourse, and sections of the media. Critics argue that Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Dalits, and, at times, even Hindus expressing dissent have experienced growing political and social pressures. The government and its supporters reject these allegations, maintaining that the rule of law applies equally to all citizens and that such criticisms are politically motivated. Debate has also intensified over the independence of India’s judiciary, Police, investigative agencies, and media institutions. Former judges, retired civil servants, journalists, and civil society representatives have, on various occasions, expressed concerns regarding institutional autonomy. The government, however, insists that India’s constitutional institutions continue to function independently and effectively. The role of the media has emerged as another defining feature of this political transformation. Critics contend that sections of mainstream television increasingly amplify the government’s narrative while providing limited space for dissenting voices. Independent journalists and digital media platforms have similarly argued that the space for critical journalism has narrowed. Government representatives, on the other hand, maintain that India’s media landscape remains diverse, vibrant, and free. Electoral politics constitutes another important dimension of this debate. The BJP’s sustained electoral success is widely attributed to its highly organized party structure, the extensive grassroots network of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), sophisticated campaign strategies, an effective digital presence, and Prime Minister Modi’s personal popularity. Opposition parties, particularly the Indian National Congress, have repeatedly raised concerns regarding campaign financing, the alleged misuse of state institutions, voter registration practices in certain regions, and unequal political conditions. These competing narratives remain the subject of intense political contestation. Congress leader Rahul Gandhi has sought to counter the BJP’s political narrative through initiatives such as the Bharat Jodo Yatra and the Bharat Jodo Nyay Yatra. His central argument has been that India’s enduring strength lies in its constitutional democracy, religious pluralism, cultural diversity, and linguistic richness rather than in majoritarian politics. According to Gandhi, safeguarding constitutional institutions and preserving social cohesion are essential to India’s democratic future. Recent demonstrations, political mobilizations, and episodes of public unrest across different parts of the country have revived questions about whether India is entering a new phase of political transformation. Should these expressions of public discontent evolve into a broader nationwide movement, some analysts believe they could represent the most significant democratic mobilization since the Emergency imposed in 1975. Whether such a transformation materializes will ultimately depend on public participation, opposition unity, the state’s response, and the resilience of India’s constitutional institutions. Historically, India’s greatest strength has been its extraordinary civilizational diversity, religious pluralism, federal structure, and democratic traditions. If growing political divisions are not addressed through constitutional mechanisms, democratic dialogue, and the rule of law, their consequences may extend beyond India’s borders, affecting regional stability, economic cooperation, and prospects for peace across South Asia. The defining question, therefore, is not simply which political party will win the next election. Rather, it is whether India can preserve the foundational principles of its Constitution, democracy, federalism, religious freedom, the rule of law, and equal citizenship, for future generations. The answer to that question is likely to shape not only India’s political trajectory but also its role on the global stage in the decades ahead.

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

When Henrik Ibsen wrote A Doll’s House in 1879, Europe was not prepared for Nora Helmer’s final act, where she left her husband. The sound of a woman shutting the door on her husband and children became one of the most controversial moments in literary history. To nineteenth-century society, the idea that a wife could leave an unhappy marriage was not merely immoral; it was considered an attack on the very foundation of civilization itself: the marriage. The reaction was so intense that German theatre managers forced Ibsen to change the ending. In the revised version, Nora looks at her sleeping children, collapses emotionally, and stays in the marriage. Society wanted the family preserved at all costs. Marriage was sacred. Separation was shameful. A woman’s identity was expected to remain tied to sacrifice, endurance, and silence. More than a century later, something similar is unfolding in Pakistan, particularly in Islamabad. According to recent reports, family courts in Islamabad are facing an unprecedented rise in khula and maintenance cases. More than 45,000 khula-related cases have reportedly already been filed this year, with over 300 new cases emerging daily. The number of family disputes continues to rise, reaching 100,000 cases in 2025. Alongside this trend, court marriages have also increased significantly, many ending in disputes soon after marriage. This phenomenon is often discussed only through statistics or social criticism. Yet beneath these numbers lies a deeper sociological transformation, one that history has witnessed before: a doll’s house. The most striking aspect is not the increase in divorce. It is the change in social attitudes toward marriage itself. Pakistan today appears to be experiencing debates that Europe confronted more than one hundred years ago. In traditional Pakistani society, much like Victorian Europe, marriage has long been treated as sacred, permanent, and socially untouchable. Previous generations often viewed separation as failure, dishonour, or rebellion against family values. Women were expected to tolerate emotional hardship, neglect, incompatibility, and sometimes even abuse for the sake of preserving the household structure. This is precisely the social environment that Nora challenged in A Doll’s House. At the time, audiences were horrified not because Nora committed a crime, but because she chose herself over an unhappy domestic life. Society could forgive a flawed husband more easily than it could accept a woman leaving the marriage altogether. Her departure symbolized individual dignity over social expectation. Today, in Islamabad’s family courts, one can observe echoes of the same historical transformation. Increasingly, people, particularly women, are refusing to remain in marriages they perceive as emotionally unbearable, unequal, or destructive. Whether one agrees with this shift or not, it represents a visible social reality. This does not necessarily mean that society has abandoned the institution of marriage. Rather, it may indicate that expectations from marriage are changing. Earlier generations often prioritized endurance and collective family reputation. Modern generations increasingly prioritize emotional compatibility, respect, mental peace, and personal autonomy. The pace of this transition, however, varies across societies. Europe underwent these debates gradually through industrialization, feminism, legal reform, and changing gender roles over decades. Pakistan, by contrast, is witnessing social change at a much faster pace due to urbanization, education, digital connectivity, economic pressures, and shifting cultural narratives. Ideas that once took generations to spread now travel instantly through social media, television, and global interaction. This is why the comparison with Ibsen’s drama becomes deeply relevant. History does not repeat itself in identical forms, but human societies often move through similar psychological and cultural stages. The same fears once expressed in nineteenth-century Europe, that family systems would collapse, morality would disappear, and social order would weaken, are now frequently heard in discussions within Pakistan. Yet it is important to approach this issue carefully and honestly. Recognizing this social transformation does not automatically mean celebrating divorce, nor does it mean condemning marriage. It simply means acknowledging that societies evolve, and that concepts once considered absolute eventually become contested. The sanctity of marriage remains deeply important for millions of families in Pakistan. At the same time, increasing numbers of individuals no longer believe that preserving a marriage at any cost is always the highest social virtue. Perhaps the real lesson from A Doll’s House is not about encouraging separation, but about understanding how societies react when individuals begin demanding dignity, identity and personal autonomy within family life. More than a century ago, Europe feared Nora’s door slam. Today, Pakistan is hearing similar sounds, not from theatre stages, but from courtrooms and homes. Whether this transformation strengthens or weakens society remains a question for future generations. But one thing is undeniable: social change, once it begins, rarely moves backward.

The United Nations was founded in 1945 after the League of Nations had failed to preserve peace. Its Security Council was designed for the world that emerged from the Second World War, with five permanent members holding the veto and a small number of elected seats. That basic architecture has scarcely changed since 1965, when the non-permanent membership rose from six to ten. The veto was meant to keep the great powers inside the system and to prevent open conflict among them. Eight decades later the organisation still carries the imprint of 1945 while the membership of the United Nations has grown to 193 states and the global population exceeds eight billion. The Council’s composition therefore no longer reflects the international community it is supposed to serve. In 2008 the General Assembly launched the Intergovernmental Negotiations to consider reform. The discussions have centred on five linked questions: categories of membership, the veto, regional representation, the size of the Council and its working methods. Africa still has no permanent seat. Latin America, South Asia and large parts of the Muslim world remain under-represented. The present arrangement is widely seen as a remnant of the colonial order that concentrates power among a few states. Many argue that emerging powers and significant regional actors—Pakistan, Brazil, Egypt, South Africa, Nigeria, Indonesia, Türkiye, Saudi Arabia, Mexico and India among them—ought to enjoy greater weight if the Council is to regain legitimacy and effectiveness. Yet the debate is locked. The Group of Four seeks permanent seats for itself and two for Africa. The African Group demands two permanent seats with full veto rights. France and Mexico urge the permanent members to refrain voluntarily from using the veto in cases of mass atrocity. The Uniting for Consensus group, led by Pakistan and supported by Italy, Mexico, Argentina, Canada and South Korea, rejects any enlargement of the permanent category. It proposes instead an expansion of elected seats that would be longer-term and renewable. The rival camps cancel one another’s majorities, leaving the process stalled. Enlarging permanent membership would not reform the Council so much as entrench new privileges. Additional veto-holders would multiply the occasions on which national interests can block action. The repeated American vetoes that have shielded Israel and allowed the destruction of Gaza to continue illustrate how a single permanent member can nullify the will of the rest. More permanent members would introduce further competing interests and raise the risk of paralysis. Once granted, permanent status is effectively irreversible; the new members would be free to obstruct any future attempt to revise the arrangement. India’s claim to a permanent seat invites particular scrutiny. Permanent membership requires sustained confidence in a state’s fidelity to the Charter. India’s refusal to implement successive Security Council resolutions on Jammu and Kashmir, its rejection of a United Nations-supervised plebiscite and its unilateral constitutional changes in the territory sit uneasily with that standard. Concerns about human-rights practices in the disputed region and elsewhere, the suspension of the Indus Waters Treaty, reports of transnational repression, the Citizenship Amendment Act, the treatment of Rohingya refugees and a foreign policy that has offered strategic comfort to Israel all raise legitimate questions. India’s status outside the Non-Proliferation Treaty and the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty adds a further layer of unease. Germany’s candidature faces different objections. Europe already holds two permanent seats. Adding a third would deepen regional imbalance. Recent German positions on Gaza have been criticised as inconsistent with the very humanitarian principles permanent members are expected to uphold. The country’s failure to secure even a non-permanent seat in a recent election suggests that its aspirations do not command the necessary breadth of support. The Uniting for Consensus proposal offers a more measured path. Expanding the elected membership from ten to twenty would open opportunities for Africa, Asia-Pacific, Latin America and the Caribbean without creating new permanent centres of power. Periodic elections would keep members accountable to the wider membership. Rotation would allow more states to contribute to the maintenance of peace and security. Broader participation could improve the quality of deliberation on intractable questions such as Palestine, Ukraine and other long-standing disputes, without multiplying vetoes that have so often produced deadlock. Reform should strengthen the Council’s legitimacy without sacrificing its capacity to act. Expanding permanent membership would create additional privileged seats, heighten the risk of institutional paralysis and make subsequent change more difficult still. Wider geographical representation is better achieved by enlarging the elected ranks. The Uniting for Consensus approach preserves the existing institutional framework, enhances inclusivity, promotes accountability through regular elections and reflects the interests of the membership as a whole. Sustainable reform therefore lies in widening participation and reinforcing regional balance rather than in extending permanent privilege and the veto.

“Federalism is self-rule plus shared rule”—Daniel J. Elazar The recurring demand for creating new provinces in Pakistan resurfaces with remarkable regularity. Whenever governance falters, regional disparities widen or perceptions of neglect become politically expedient, voices emerge advocating the redrawing of provincial boundaries. Southern Punjab, Hazara, Bahawalpur and other regions are periodically cited as compelling examples of territories whose aspirations can supposedly be fulfilled only through separate provincial status.  The proposition appears deceptively simple: smaller provinces would bring government closer to the people and consequently ensure better governance. Yet constitutional questions are seldom answered by geographical arithmetic. Before redrawing Pakistan’s political map, we must first answer a more fundamental question: what is the constitutional purpose of a province within a federation? The quote by Daniel J. Elazar, one of the foremost scholars of federalism is a simple expression that encapsulates the philosophy underlying every successful federation. A federation is neither a unitary state nor a loose confederation of independent entities. It is a constitutional partnership in which constituent units voluntarily participate in the exercise of shared sovereignty while retaining their distinct political identities. The essence of federalism, therefore, lies not in the number of constituent units but in the constitutional balance between unity and diversity. Pakistan’s provinces were never intended to function merely as administrative divisions. Punjab, Sindh, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan represent historical regions possessing distinct linguistic, cultural and political identities. Their constitutional status cannot be viewed solely through the lens of administrative convenience. They constitute a federal compact upon which Pakistan’s constitutional structure rests. Altering provincial boundaries is therefore not merely a question of improving governance; it involves reconsidering the architecture of the federation itself. None of this implies that demands for new provinces are devoid of merit. Those advocating separate provincial status often point towards genuine grievances. Regions distant from provincial capitals frequently complain of inadequate public investment, poor infrastructure, unequal employment opportunities, weak political representation and an enduring sense of neglect. Such concerns deserve neither dismissal nor ridicule. Every federation must continuously reassess whether its institutions are responding equitably to the aspirations of all its citizens. There are, undoubtedly, persuasive arguments in favour of creating additional provinces. Smaller administrative units may improve governmental accessibility, reduce bureaucratic distance, strengthen regional representation and permit more focused development planning.  India’s creation of states such as Chhattisgarh, Uttarakhand and Telangana was largely justified on similar considerations. In certain instances, administrative decentralisation has indeed facilitated more responsive governance. It would therefore be intellectually dishonest to dismiss the proposal merely because it challenges existing boundaries. Yet comparative constitutional experience also counsels caution. Nigeria expanded from three regions to thirty-six states without eliminating corruption, insecurity or administrative inefficiency. India itself continues to witness demands for further statehood despite repeated territorial reorganisation. The number of constituent units has never, by itself, guaranteed good governance. Effective administration ultimately depends upon the quality of institutions rather than the quantity of provinces. This distinction is often overlooked in Pakistan’s public discourse. Governance failures are frequently attributed to geography when they are, in reality, institutional. Weak local governments, politicised bureaucracies, uneven fiscal distribution, inadequate accountability and inconsistent policy implementation cannot be remedied simply by drawing new boundaries upon a map. Multiplying provinces without simultaneously strengthening constitutional institutions merely reproduces existing weaknesses on a smaller scale. Perhaps the most neglected dimension of this debate is local government. Modern constitutional democracies recognise that genuine democracy begins not in distant capitals but within local communities. The closer government remains to the citizen, the greater its responsiveness and accountability.  Unfortunately, Pakistan has historically oscillated between centralisation and reluctant decentralisation, often treating elected local governments as temporary administrative experiments rather than permanent constitutional institutions. Before concluding that additional provinces constitute the solution, we ought first to ask whether meaningful local self-government has ever been sincerely allowed to flourish. Equally important is the constitutional process itself. The creation of new provinces cannot become an instrument of transient political expediency or electoral bargaining. It must emerge from broad constitutional consensus, careful economic evaluation, administrative necessity and, above all, the informed consent of those directly affected. Constitutional engineering undertaken without social consensus has rarely strengthened federations; more often, it has deepened existing divisions. The debate, therefore, should not be framed as one between those who favour additional provinces and those who oppose them. The real issue is whether territorial reorganisation genuinely addresses the underlying causes of poor governance or merely offers an attractive political slogan. A federation derives its strength not from the number of provinces appearing on its map but from the confidence its citizens repose in the fairness of its institutions. Where constitutional principles are respected, resources distributed equitably and local governments empowered, both large and small provinces can flourish. Where these foundations are absent, no amount of territorial rearrangement can compensate for institutional decay. Pakistan’s future will ultimately be determined less by the cartography of its provinces than by the constitutional maturity of its federation. If new provinces emerge through genuine constitutional consensus and demonstrable administrative necessity, they may well strengthen the federal structure. If, however, they arise merely as instruments of political convenience or regional rivalry, they risk replacing the promise of federalism with the peril of fragmentation.  The challenge before Pakistan, therefore, is not simply to decide how many provinces it should have. It is to determine whether the federation can faithfully uphold the constitutional promise of self-rule and shared rule upon which every enduring federal democracy ultimately depends. _____________________________________________________________________________ The writer, lawyer and author, is former Adjunct Faculty at Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS), a member Advisory Board and Senior Visiting Fellow of Pakistan Institute of Development Economics (PIDE) 

The most pitiable creature I know is not the beggar who asks for bread but the gentleman who must borrow a personality. He dresses in another man’s taste, speaks in another man’s phrases and mistakes imitation for refinement. He is everywhere respectable and nowhere original. Nations occasionally acquire the same unfortunate habit. Their politics become echoes, their ideals reflections, and their revolutions little more than borrowed costumes. There was a time when borrowing was the necessity of poverty. We borrowed machines because we had no factories, medicines because we had no laboratories, and books because we had no presses. Such borrowing was neither shameful nor unusual; indeed, civilisation itself advances through exchange. The Greeks borrowed from Egypt, the Arabs preserved and enlarged the inheritance of Greece, Europe rediscovered Aristotle through Muslim Spain, and Japan modernised by learning from the West without surrendering its soul. Borrowing knowledge is the beginning of wisdom. Borrowing identity is the beginning of decline. There is another form of borrowing that no customs official can intercept and no tariff can discourage. It enters silently through the imagination. A society begins by borrowing opinions, then aspirations, then indignation. Before long, it borrows its heroes, its villains, its vocabulary and, eventually, its revolutions. It ceases to ask, “What does our history require?” and instead asks, “Whose history should we imitate?” That, I fear, is the predicament into which much of Pakistan’s public discourse has drifted. During the past several weeks, social media has been flooded with admiration for the recent political resistance witnessed across the border in India. Video clips have travelled faster than thoughtful analysis. Slogans have crossed the Wagah frontier with greater ease than ideas. Among countless young Pakistanis one question has become almost fashionable, Why can’t Pakistan have a movement like this? The question is understandable. It is also profoundly revealing. Hidden within it is an assumption that our political future must resemble somebody else’s present; that history unfolds according to a universal script; that every nation matures by repeating the experience of another. It is an assumption born not of confidence but of intellectual dependency. The tragedy, therefore, is not that Pakistanis admire another people’s courage. Every decent society can appreciate courage wherever it appears. The tragedy is that many have become convinced that courage itself must now be imported. We seem increasingly unable to recognise our own political inheritance unless it first receives foreign approval. This habit is hardly confined to politics. It has become the defining condition of our intellectual life. We borrow theories from European universities before examining our own social realities. We borrow ideological fashions from America before asking whether they illuminate Pakistani society. We borrow debates from social media and mistake them for scholarship. We consume outrage manufactured elsewhere and wear it as though it were tailored for our own circumstances. We have become, in the deepest sense of the phrase, tenants in the house of our own imagination. The irony is painful. No civilisation lacking confidence in itself has ever become creative. Creation begins where imitation ends. Shakespeare borrowed stories but produced Hamlet. Iqbal studied Nietzsche and Bergson yet remained unmistakably Iqbal. Muhammad Ali Jinnah mastered the constitutional traditions of Britain but transformed them into a political movement rooted in the aspirations of Indian Muslims. Great minds borrow raw material; they do not borrow finished identities. The same principle governs nations. Civilisations borrow in order to create. Declining societies borrow in order to imitate. Perhaps nowhere is this confusion more visible than in our understanding of resistance. Resistance has become one of the most romantic words in modern political vocabulary. It evokes images of heroic crowds, defiant slogans, dramatic confrontations and triumphant victories. Social media, with its appetite for spectacle, has transformed resistance into a global performance. Every protest becomes a cinematic narrative; every confrontation seeks an audience; every slogan aspires to immortality through a hashtag. But history is not written in hashtags. Nor are nations transformed by theatrical moments alone. The anthropologist Leila Abu-Lughod offered an important warning nearly three decades ago in her influential essay The Romance of Resistance. She argued that scholars often romanticise resistance as though every act of opposition were inherently emancipatory. Such a view, she suggested, ignores the complex relationships of power, culture and history within which resistance acquires meaning. Acts of dissent cannot be detached from the societies that produce them. They are rooted in particular institutions, historical memories and cultural conditions. Her insight deserves careful attention today. To ask why Pakistan does not produce resistance identical to India’s is rather like asking why the Indus refuses to flow like the Ganges. Rivers obey their own geography. Nations obey their own history. Every meaningful political movement is shaped by its unique historical circumstances. The French Revolution emerged from fiscal collapse and aristocratic privilege. The American Revolution arose from disputes over representation and imperial authority. South Africa’s democratic transition was forged in the struggle against apartheid. None of these experiences can simply be photocopied for another society. History does not distribute identical examinations to different nations. Each country answers its own questions. Yet we continue searching for borrowed answers. Perhaps this is because borrowed revolutions are emotionally satisfying. They spare us the difficult labour of self-examination. It is always easier to admire another nation’s struggle than to confront the unfinished responsibilities of our own. Admiration demands nothing. Citizenship demands everything. That distinction has become blurred in contemporary Pakistan. Our public imagination has fallen in love with the romance of beginning anew. Every few years another movement captures our attention. We invest it with almost mythical expectations. We hope it will accomplish what institutions, constitutions and patient political reform have failed to achieve. We long for redemption through spectacle. But mature nations are not built upon permanent excitement. They are built upon permanent institutions. Hannah Arendt observed in On Revolution that the enduring achievement of successful revolutions lies not in the destruction of an old order but in the establishment of a