The Fortress Endures: Pakistan and the Vision of I…

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

By Saqlain Abid Tarrar The 60-day U.S.-Iran understanding expired on August 17 without the breakthrough Washington and Tehran had hoped—or claimed—to seek. The agreement has effectively stalled, the Strait of Hormuz remains at the centre of the confrontation, and both sides continue to blame the other for the diplomatic failure. Iran has now warned that it could shift towards a more offensive posture if diplomacy does not progress. This leaves a disturbing question on the table: is the nuclear option becoming the next neutralisation node in the Iran war? The question gained momentum after former Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene claimed that the use of nuclear weapons had been discussed in Trump administration strategy meetings. Such a claim should be treated cautiously because there is no independent evidence that President Donald Trump has ordered or formally approved a nuclear strike. Nevertheless, the allegation itself demonstrates how far the strategic debate has moved. The White House has maintained that nuclear use is not a proposal on the table. Yet Trump’s own rhetoric has made the situation increasingly difficult to ignore. He has declared that the United States has “total control” of Hormuz and described the idea of making the strategically vital waterway U.S. territory as attractive. The Strait of Hormuz is not merely another battlefield. Around one-fifth of the world’s oil and gas supplies normally pass through this narrow maritime chokepoint. Any prolonged closure therefore creates consequences far beyond Iran and the United States: higher energy prices, disrupted shipping, inflationary pressure and another shock to an already fragile global economy. So, what are the chances of the United States actually using nuclear weapons? At present, they remain extremely low—but low is not the same as impossible. History demonstrates how quickly supposedly unthinkable options can become military realities. The United States became the first country to use nuclear weapons in warfare when it dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945. However, it would be historically inaccurate to argue that those attacks were simply conducted to test plutonium and uranium against the Soviet Union. The motives remain debated, including compelling Japanese surrender and influencing the emerging post-war balance with Moscow. The lesson, nevertheless, is unmistakable: once a state believes that an extraordinary weapon can achieve an extraordinary political objective, the threshold can become dangerously negotiable. That is why today’s situation deserves scrutiny. The Trump administration needs an exit from a war that has become increasingly difficult to convert into a decisive political settlement. The USS Abraham Lincoln has also endured an exceptionally long deployment, reportedly more than 240 days at sea, adding another layer of military and political pressure. But nuclear weapons would not provide a rational solution to that problem. Iran’s nuclear capability is certainly a serious concern. The IAEA reported that Iran had accumulated about 440.9 kilograms of uranium enriched to 60 percent before the 2025 attacks disrupted international verification. That material could theoretically produce significant quantities of weapons-grade material if further enriched, but possession of 60-percent enriched uranium does not mean Iran already possesses nuclear weapons. Iran, meanwhile, has suffered severe economic and infrastructural damage, yet its resistance has not disappeared. Tehran continues to signal that it will not simply surrender under pressure. The danger is therefore that military escalation creates the very nuclear insecurity Washington says it wants to prevent. Russia and China could condemn any nuclear use and mobilise diplomatic opposition. The United Nations could debate emergency resolutions. European governments could strongly object. But none of these actors could physically intercept an American warhead once Washington had made the decision. That makes the most important restraint internal: the political and strategic judgment of the American leadership itself. And there is an even larger regional consequence. If Iran were struck with nuclear weapons, Gulf states could reach a frightening conclusion: conventional alliances may no longer provide sufficient security. Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Türkiye and others could reconsider their long-term strategic options. Nuclear hedging and proliferation could become increasingly attractive. That would transform the Middle East permanently. The irony would be profound. An American nuclear strike intended to prevent Iran from becoming a nuclear power could encourage an entire region to seek nuclear deterrence. Hormuz may eventually be reopened through negotiations, military pressure or a new regional security arrangement. But once the nuclear taboo is broken, restoring it would be far more difficult. The nuclear option should therefore remain the last option—not because it is weak, but because its consequences are stronger than any victory it could deliver. Power can neutralise an opponent. But when power is unleashed without restraint, it can ultimately neutralise the international order itself.

For years, people uploaded photographs, videos and voice recordings believing they were sharing moments or building audiences. What many did not realise was that public material could become training data for artificial intelligence. Large AI systems may be developed using datasets containing personal information collected from websites and platforms. European regulators acknowledge that AI models can be trained on personal data, while the UK Information Commissioner says developers still need a lawful basis even when information comes from the open web. Training a general model and cloning a person are not identical. The first learns patterns across datasets; the second uses targeted samples to reproduce an identifiable voice or appearance. Yet both raise the same question: who authorised the use? A new proposition is emerging: instead of companies quietly collecting human material, people may knowingly license their faces, voices and movements for AI development or commercial digital replicas. In return, they could receive a one-time payment, royalties or a fee whenever their synthetic identity is used. This is beginning. Shutterstock operates a contributor fund that compensates contributors when material from its library is licensed for AI model development. SAG-AFTRA has negotiated protections for digital replicas. The voice platform Narrativ allows performers to set prices and advertising preferences for AI-generated versions of their voices, with payment for approved uses. At first glance, this is progress. People’s data has already been feeding digital systems, often without their knowledge, meaningful choice or financial benefit. A transparent marketplace could be fairer. At least individuals would know that a voice sample or facial scan was being collected. There would be a contract, and some value created from human identity could return to the human being. It could also create work. A person might license a recorded voice for educational narration in several languages. A model could approve a digital replica for advertisements without attending repeated shoots. People far from production centres might gain opportunities previously unavailable to them. But payment is not the same as protection. A person offered a modest amount may sign away far more than they understand. A broadly written agreement could allow a company to reproduce a face or voice for years, transfer it to other businesses, train additional models and place the replica in contexts the person would never endorse. The human receives one payment; the synthetic version may generate revenue indefinitely. Faces and voices are not ordinary digital products. A password can be changed after a breach. A face cannot. A cloned voice can imitate a family member, support a fraudulent request or manufacture a statement that was never made. The US Federal Trade Commission has warned that scammers can create convincing voice clones from short audio clips found online. The answer is not to ban every voluntary AI licence. It is to establish non-negotiable human protections. Consent must be specific, informed and renewable. Companies should state whether material will be used for training, identity replication or both. Agreements must define the product, audience, country, platform and time period. Permission for an educational video must not silently become permission for political advertising, gambling, medical claims, intimate material or religious messaging. Compensation should continue when the replica continues earning. Where a digital identity is repeatedly used, the person should receive royalties or per-use payments, not merely a small initial fee. Individuals should be able to set minimum prices, reject industries and see where their replica appeared. There must also be a genuine right to stop future use. Companies should delete source files, block new generations and notify third parties when a licence ends. Independent audits should test compliance. Strong security and penalties for leaks are essential because biometric material cannot simply be replaced. Every synthetic performance should carry visible disclosure and a machine-readable marker. The European Union’s transparency rules, applicable from 2 August 2026, require certain AI-generated or manipulated material to be identifiable and deepfakes to be disclosed. Labels will not prevent every abuse, but they help preserve the distinction between human action and machine-generated imitation. Children need stronger protection. Parents should not be able to permanently commercialise a child’s future identity. Any limited agreement should expire and require the individual’s fresh consent upon adulthood. Pakistan should treat this as urgent. As of 2026, the country still lacks a comprehensive enacted personal data protection law. This creates vulnerability just as international companies may seek diverse and comparatively inexpensive populations for AI training.  The greatest risk is not that humans will earn from AI. Fairly sharing value could correct years of silent extraction. The danger is that people will exchange permanent control for temporary payment. As AI advances, societies must recognise the face, voice and digital personality as extensions of the human person, not raw material waiting to be harvested. Without consent, continuing compensation, traceability and the power to say no, we may lose more than jobs or privacy. We may lose the trust that allows us to believe what we see, hear and recognise. AI should expand human possibility, not gradually replace human ownership of the self.

This 14th of August, as the green and white flags go up from Karachi to Khyber and the air fills with the crackle of fireworks, there is a question every young Pakistani must ask themselves: what exactly are we celebrating? Is it merely the fact that a nation was born at the stroke of midnight 79 years ago? Or is it something far more demanding — the unfinished promise of that birth, the dream that millions carried across blood-soaked borders, the conviction that Pakistan would be not just a homeland, but a beacon? Nisid Hajari’s book Midnight’s Furies does not let us off easy. It drags us back to the raw, unvarnished truth of 1947 — and in doing so, it hands our generation something precious: the tools to understand who we are, where we came from, and what we still owe to those who paid the ultimate price for our freedom. Hajari wrote that on 9 August 1947, a train pulls out of Delhi bound for Karachi, 800 miles away. Onboard are Muslim clerks and officials who had served the British-run government of India with distinction. With them are their families, their ribbon-tied files, their children’s toys, their prayer rugs, and the gold jewellery that represented their life’s savings. They are not refugees fleeing in panic. They are pioneers, volunteers for a great experiment — the world’s first modern Muslim nation. As the train whistles out of Delhi, cheers of “Pakistan Zindabad!” drown out the engine. These men and women believe they are building something unprecedented. Something magnificent. They never arrive. Sikh saboteurs — soldiers in all but name, their tiny community having supplied the Indian Army with fighting men far beyond their numbers — have laid gelignite charges along the tracks. The mine detonates. The Pakistan Special shudders. And in that moment, the euphoria of independence meets the savagery of Partition. Hajari, who spent over a year buried in archives across New Delhi, London, and Washington, D.C., reconstructs this tragedy not from myth but from the “demi-official record” — the diaries, army sitreps, embassy cables, and informant reports that tell the real story. And the real story is this: Pakistan was born not in a garden of roses, but in a furnace. The arithmetic of that furnace defies comprehension. One British official, working from casualty reports, put the dead at 200,000. Others, accounting for disease, starvation, and exposure, insist the figure exceeds one million. At least 14 million people were uprooted — the largest forced migration in human history. Western Pakistan was virtually emptied of Hindus and Sikhs; Indian Punjab lost almost all its Muslims. This was carnage on a scale unseen until Rwanda 1994. Yet here is what Hajari forces us to confront: the killing lasted only six weeks. The violence was contained. What was not contained — what metastasised — was the psychological wound. In those weeks, something broke between India and Pakistan that has never been repaired. Leaders on both sides began suspecting each other of complicity in genocide. Mutual mistrust pushed infant nations to war within a year. And Pakistan, flooded with refugees, its economy and bureaucracy teetering on collapse, developed what Hajari calls a ‘deep-seated paranoia’ about its larger neighbour that shapes our politics to this very day. Hajari’s book is unsparing about the failures of leadership that turned Partition’s trauma into perpetual conflict. Nehru and Jinnah — the very architects of freedom — allowed vanity, prejudice, and petty dislike to poison the well. Nehru’s reckless declaration in August 1946 that a strong government would make the Muslim League’s movement “go down” — what Viceroy Wavell called tossing “a match onto dangerously dry kindling” — helped trigger the Great Calcutta Killing, the dress rehearsal for Partition’s horrors. Five thousand dead. Ten to fifteen thousand maimed. The Statesman newspaper, grasping for words, called it “a fury” — a word from mediaeval history. This Independence Day, let us do something radical. Let us honour the dead not by reliving their fears, but by fulfilling their hopes. Jinnah’s address to the Constituent Assembly on 11 August 1947 was crystal clear: ‘You are free; you are free to go to your temples, you are free to go to your mosques or to any other place of worship in this State of Pakistan.’ He envisioned a secular nation where religion was private, not political. Where Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and Christians would be equal before the law. Where the state would be a servant of all its citizens, not a weapon of the majority. Hajari’s book ends on a note of hard-won wisdom: ‘Only once those mistakes are properly understood and acknowledged, perhaps, will India and Pakistan begin to bridge the vast and dangerous gulf that still divides them.’ Understanding does not mean surrender. Acknowledgement does not mean apology. It means maturity. It means the confidence to say: we know our history, we honour our sacrifices, and we refuse to let the furies of 1947 dictate our future. So when the flag goes up this 14th August, let it mean something new. Let it mean that Pakistan is done being defined by what it fears. Let it mean that we are ready to be defined by what we build — by our universities and our hospitals, our clean rivers and our fair courts, our poets and our scientists, our daughters who dream without limits and our sons who know that strength comes from justice, not just arms.

By Misbah Naz   Democracy derives its legitimacy from the principle that political power belongs to the people. Every citizen, regardless of family background, wealth, or social status, should have an equal opportunity to participate in governance and compete for public office. Yet, across many democracies, political power often remains concentrated within a handful of influential families. This phenomenon, commonly known as dynastic politics, raises an important question: can democracy truly flourish when leadership becomes a family inheritance? Political dynasties are not unique to one country or region. They exist in established and emerging democracies alike. From South Asia to North America, prominent political families have shaped electoral politics for decades. While family members have every democratic right to contest elections, democracy suffers when political succession depends more on lineage than merit. One of the greatest strengths of democracy is political equality. Elections are intended to provide a level playing field where ideas, competence, and public service determine electoral success. Dynastic politics undermines this principle by granting inherited political advantages. Established family names often enjoy greater access to party leadership, campaign financing, media exposure, and political networks than ordinary citizens. Consequently, capable individuals without influential backgrounds frequently struggle to enter mainstream politics. Dynastic politics also weakens internal democracy within political parties. Instead of selecting candidates through transparent and competitive processes, leadership positions may be concentrated within a single family or close associates. This discourages talented young leaders, limits political innovation, and reduces accountability. Political parties become personality-driven rather than institution-driven, making leadership transitions more dependent on family succession than democratic competition. Another concern is the weakening of public trust. Citizens expect elected representatives to prioritize national interests over personal or family influence. When political office appears to be inherited across generations, many voters begin to question whether democratic institutions genuinely offer equal opportunities. Declining trust in political institutions can reduce electoral participation, increase political polarization, and create public frustration with democratic governance. Political dynasties may also influence policymaking. Long-standing political families often develop extensive patronage networks that reward loyal supporters through appointments, contracts, or political favors. Such systems can encourage nepotism and undermine merit-based governance. Public institutions function most effectively when appointments are based on competence rather than political loyalty or family connections. Young people are particularly affected by dynastic politics. Across many developing democracies, youth constitute a significant proportion of the population, yet they remain underrepresented in political leadership. When political pathways are dominated by established families, emerging leaders with innovative ideas face structural barriers to participation. This disconnect between political leadership and demographic realities limits democratic renewal and policy innovation. However, it is equally important to avoid oversimplification. Belonging to a political family does not automatically make an individual an ineffective leader. Democratic principles do not prohibit relatives of politicians from contesting elections. The fundamental issue is whether they compete under fair conditions and remain accountable to voters. If political success is achieved through transparent elections, strong institutions, and genuine public support, democratic legitimacy remains intact. Problems arise when inherited influence consistently outweighs merit and competition. Strengthening democracy therefore requires institutional reforms rather than targeting individuals. Political parties should adopt transparent candidate selection procedures, encourage internal elections, and provide opportunities for grassroots leadership. Independent election commissions, campaign finance regulations, and stronger parliamentary oversight can further reduce undue political concentration. Equally important is an informed electorate that evaluates candidates on integrity, competence, policy vision, and public service instead of family legacy alone. Democracy is sustained not merely by regular elections but by equal political opportunity. Societies flourish when leadership emerges through merit, accountability, and public confidence rather than inheritance. Political dynasties may continue to exist in democratic systems, but they should never become substitutes for democratic competition. Ultimately, the health of any democracy depends on whether every citizen—not just those born into influential families—has a genuine chance to lead.

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