Where Innovation Counts

Pakistan presents a distinct demographic profile in the 21st century. According to the Pakistan Bureau of Statistics and UNFPA, 64% of the population is under the age of 30, with a median age of 20.8 years. This structure situates Pakistan within the category of youth-majority states. Consequently, an analysis of contemporary Pakistan is inseparable from an analysis of Generation Z, defined as individuals born approximately between 1997 and 2012. This cohort is not a prospective entity. It constitutes the current labor force, consumer base, and increasingly, the primary agents of cultural and economic production. The characteristics of Pakistani Gen Z can be understood through three interrelated dimensions: adaptability, initiative, and connectivity. The first dimension is adaptability coupled with digital fluency. This generation represents the first cohort in Pakistan to mature entirely within a digital ecosystem. DataReportal’s 2026 report indicates 111 million internet users and 71.1 million social media users in Pakistan, with internet penetration at 48.5%. The primary mode of access remains mobile broadband, which has effectively decentralized information and opportunity. This environment has cultivated rapid skill acquisition. The ability to learn and deploy new tools is reflected in economic outcomes. Pakistan currently ranks 4th globally in freelance earnings on platforms such as Upwork and Fiverr. Estimated annual freelance exports exceed $400 million. This phenomenon, often termed “digital remittances,” enables participation in the global economy without physical migration. The geographic implications are significant: a software developer in Peshawar, a content creator in Multan, and a designer in Lahore operate within the same digital marketplace, competing on skill rather than location. The second dimension is initiative and entrepreneurial orientation. In response to structural constraints in traditional employment, Gen Z has demonstrated a marked propensity toward self-directed economic activity. Data from the State Bank of Pakistan indicates a rising proportion of SME financing directed to individuals under 35. This is manifested in the proliferation of micro-enterprises, including e-commerce ventures, content creation channels, and home-based businesses. The underlying logic is one of experimentation and iteration: initiate at a small scale, acquire feedback, and scale operations. Importantly, this trend is not confined to metropolitan areas. Digital platforms have reduced barriers to market entry for individuals in Gilgit, Quetta, and rural Sindh, enabling access to national and international consumers. A craftswoman in interior Sindh can, through social commerce, reach buyers in Karachi and Dubai. This represents a structural shift in how economic value is created and distributed. The third dimension is connectivity and civic awareness. Pakistani Gen Z is the most interconnected generation in the nation’s history. Multilingualism is normative, with Urdu, English, and regional languages such as Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashto, and Balochi used fluidly. This linguistic dexterity mirrors a broader cultural orientation that is simultaneously local and global. This connectivity correlates with heightened awareness of social and global issues. During the 2022 floods, youth networks coordinated relief, fundraising, and volunteer mobilization within hours, utilizing WhatsApp, Facebook, and other platforms. The same infrastructure is used for peer-to-peer learning, dissemination of job opportunities, and advocacy around public health and education. Surveys by Gallup Pakistan and various youth organizations indicate participation rates in volunteerism among 18-30 year olds are substantially higher than in previous cohorts. Beyond present attributes, it is critical to articulate the vision of Pakistan held by this generation. Based on available survey data, academic research, and observable behavior, three core elements emerge. The first element is a vision of inclusive economic participation. Gen Z conceptualizes economic contribution beyond formal employment. The priority is productivity, skill utilization, and value creation. Key sectors of engagement include information technology, freelancing, e-commerce, EdTech, AgriTech, and creative industries. There is also a measurable increase in female participation. PBS data indicates that women constitute approximately 30% of registered freelancers, reflecting both economic necessity and changing social norms. The overarching goal is to convert Pakistan’s demographic dividend into tangible economic output. The second element is a vision of competency-based development. This cohort places primacy on skills, portfolios, and demonstrable output over credentials alone. There is growing demand for vocational training, digital literacy, artificial intelligence tools, and communication competencies. The emerging model is decentralized: one individual acquires a skill and disseminates it within their network. This peer-learning architecture has the potential to address gaps in formal education through non-formal channels. The third element is a vision of contributory citizenship. Gen Z associates nation-building with direct action. This includes environmental initiatives such as tree plantation, public health campaigns such as blood donation, and educational outreach in underserved areas. The conception of patriotism is thus operationalized. It is expressed not only through symbolic observance on 14th August, but through sustained engagement in community development. The narrative of 1947 is understood as securing independence. The narrative of 2026, from this perspective, is about deploying that independence toward institutional and social strengthening. Pakistan’s strategic advantage lies in this human capital. The generation is characterized by adaptability, enterprise, and networked awareness. The realization of this potential is contingent on the alignment of opportunities in skills development, digital infrastructure, and platforms for civic engagement. The trajectory of Pakistan will be determined in classrooms, in digital workspaces, in small enterprises, and in the aggregate of individual decisions made by over 110 million young citizens. With continued emphasis on learning, collaboration, and productive engagement, Gen Z possesses the capacity to advance national development objectives. This is their Pakistan, and the process of building it is already underway.

By Latif Tunio Imagine two people standing outside a bakery. One has not eaten since yesterday. The other has already had breakfast but buys every loaf on the shelf because nobody else should have one. The first person is hungry. The second is greedy. That is the difference we often forget. Human needs are surprisingly small. We need food, shelter, safety, affection and dignity. Yet somewhere along the road to modern civilization, our desires stopped listening to our needs. We no longer ask, “Do I need this?” We ask, “Will people notice if I don’t have it?” Perhaps that is why we live in an age where skyscrapers grow taller while patience grows shorter. Greed is not new. Kings fought wars for gold centuries ago. Empires swallowed nations for spices, land and power. But today greed wears expensive perfume, carries a smartphone and speaks the language of success. It no longer hides in dark corners; sometimes it sits on television panels giving motivational speeches. A hundred years ago, a respected person was often remembered for honesty, wisdom or service to the community. Today, many people first ask, “What car does he drive?” or “How much is she worth?” Character has quietly been replaced by price tags.Social media has made this worse. Every morning millions of people wake up and immediately begin comparing their ordinary lives with someone else’s carefully edited highlights. One person posts a luxury vacation. Another uploads a new phone. Someone else announces another achievement. Nobody uploads sleepless nights, unpaid bills or family arguments. We compare our behind-the-scenes life with everyone else’s movie trailer.Then we wonder why we feel poor. The market has discovered something dangerous: making people dissatisfied is excellent for business. If people become content, who will buy the next upgrade Advertisements rarely sell products anymore. They sell insecurity. Frankly They whisper, “You are incomplete without this watch.” “You are unsuccessful without this car.” “You are unattractive without this cream.” Apparently even happiness now comes with monthly installments. Yet greed is not always born from vanity. Sometimes it grows out of fear. A father worried about rising school fees saves every rupee he can. A mother fears another economic crisis. A young graduate sees unemployment everywhere and begins believing that only endless money can guarantee safety. Fear slowly changes saving into hoarding, and caution into obsession. There is an old saying often attributed to Mahatma Gandhi: “The Earth provides enough for everyone’s need, but not everyone’s greed.” The tragedy is that many people no longer know where need ends and greed begins. Another reason is that we have quietly lost the art of contentment. Previous generations owned fewer things but often worried less about owning more. Today many people possess wardrobes full of clothes while insisting they have “nothing to wear.” We buy bigger houses only to spend less time inside them. We own faster internet but have slower conversations. Modern life keeps promising that the next purchase will finally complete us. It never does. Greed also flourishes where justice is weak. When honest people struggle while corrupt people become celebrities, society learns a dangerous lesson. Bribes become “connections.” Fraud becomes “smartness.” Tax evasion becomes “good business.” Before long, honesty begins looking like a financial disability. The message becomes painfully simple: if cheating pays and integrity suffers, why remain honest? This is how corruption stops being an individual crime and becomes a social culture. The damage reaches far beyond bank accounts. Families break apart over inheritance before the funeral flowers have even dried. Lifelong friendships disappear over business deals. Brothers become strangers because land suddenly becomes more valuable than blood. Perhaps the saddest part is that greedy people rarely enjoy what they collect. They spend years protecting possessions they never truly have time to use. They own everything except peace. Nature also pays the bill. Forests disappear because cutting trees is profitable today, even if floods arrive tomorrow. Rivers become sewers because treating waste reduces corporate profits. Mountains are blasted apart, oceans filled with plastic and clean air sold back to us in expensive machines. Humanity has become astonishingly efficient at converting tomorrow’s disasters into today’s profits. Can greed be reduced? Not by preaching alone. Children should learn that success includes honesty, kindness and responsibility—not only salaries. Schools should celebrate integrity as loudly as achievement. Families should teach gratitude before ambition. We also need digital wisdom: learning that a perfect life on a screen is often nothing more than excellent lighting and careful editing. Governments have responsibilities too. Laws must punish corruption without asking whether the offender is rich, famous or politically connected. Justice loses its meaning when it becomes negotiable. Above all, we need to rediscover contentment—not laziness, but the wisdom of knowing when enough is truly enough. A society does not become civilized because it builds taller buildings or produces richer billionaires. It becomes civilized when people can trust one another, when honesty is rewarded instead of mocked, and when success does not require sacrificing conscience. The greatest poverty in the twenty-first century may not be empty pockets. It may be full wallets attached to empty hearts. The writer is a Social activist. He can be reached at tunio.latif786@gmail.com

The debate over the creation of new administrative units and provinces in Pakistan has once again occupied the national discourse after Federal Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi declared that the country’s existing governance system had “collapsed” and argued that governance must be brought closer to the people through new administrative units. His remarks have revived an issue that has periodically surfaced since independence but has rarely moved beyond political rhetoric. While some interpreted his statement as a call for creating additional provinces, others argued that he was advocating broader administrative restructuring. Regardless of terminology, the debate has exposed the structural weaknesses of Pakistan’s governance architecture and compelled policymakers, constitutional experts and political parties to revisit an important question: can Pakistan continue to be governed effectively under its existing administrative framework, or has demographic growth, urban expansion and governance complexity made institutional restructuring unavoidable?  Pakistan today is home to more than 250 million people, yet it continues to function primarily through four provinces established under historical rather than administrative considerations. At independence in 1947, the population and governance challenges were dramatically different. Since then, urbanisation, economic diversification, internal migration and increasing demands for public services have transformed governance requirements. Provincial capitals often remain geographically and administratively distant from citizens living in peripheral districts. Residents of South Punjab, Hazara, southern Balochistan, merged districts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and interior Sindh frequently complain that decision-making remains concentrated in provincial capitals, resulting in unequal development, delayed service delivery and inadequate representation. Mohsin Naqvi’s argument rests on the proposition that governance has become excessively centralised and that citizens are compelled to travel long distances merely to access basic government services, courts and administrative offices. He further argued that countries with expanding populations have responded by creating additional administrative units rather than maintaining outdated structures. Whether one agrees with his assessment or not, his central observation deserves serious consideration because governance effectiveness is measured not by the size of government but by the accessibility, responsiveness and accountability of institutions.  The debate itself is not new. Successive governments have proposed South Punjab Province, Bahawalpur Province, Hazara Province and even administrative restructuring in Karachi and Balochistan. Parliamentary resolutions regarding South Punjab have previously been adopted, yet constitutional consensus has remained elusive. Political parties have often supported new provinces while in opposition but have shown considerably less enthusiasm after assuming power. Consequently, proposals have become election slogans rather than governance reforms.  Critics of creating new provinces argue that administrative fragmentation alone cannot solve governance failures. They point out that Pakistan’s primary problem is not necessarily the number of provinces but weak institutions, bureaucratic inefficiency, political interference, corruption and inconsistent implementation of laws. According to this perspective, multiplying provinces without institutional reform merely replicates existing inefficiencies across additional administrative boundaries. New provincial governments would require assemblies, governors, chief ministers, secretariats, police structures, judicial infrastructure and enormous recurring financial expenditures. Unless accompanied by governance reforms, decentralisation may simply increase administrative costs without improving public service delivery. Supporters, however, contend that administrative proximity improves governance outcomes. Comparative international experience demonstrates that countries such as India have periodically reorganised states to improve administrative efficiency and political representation. Smaller administrative jurisdictions often enable faster decision-making, improved monitoring, stronger accountability and more equitable distribution of development resources. Citizens generally experience better governance when government institutions are physically and administratively closer to them. These arguments have gained renewed attention following Naqvi’s intervention.  However, the current debate suffers from one significant omission. It largely ignores Pakistan’s weakest democratic institution: local government. Before creating additional provinces, policymakers must honestly evaluate why local governments have repeatedly failed. Pakistan has experimented with local government systems under different constitutional and political arrangements, yet these institutions have rarely been allowed to function independently and consistently. Elected local governments are frequently dissolved, elections are delayed and financial autonomy remains severely restricted. Provincial governments often resist devolving meaningful authority because local governments are perceived as political competitors rather than governance partners. This brings the issue of local body elections to the centre of the discussion. The Constitution envisions democratic decentralisation, yet local government elections have remained irregular across several provinces. In many cases, elected councils complete only partial terms or remain financially dependent upon provincial governments. Consequently, citizens seeking municipal services, sanitation, water supply, local roads, building regulation or community development frequently confront administrative paralysis. A country that struggles to sustain functioning local governments cannot realistically expect that merely creating additional provinces will automatically improve governance. The experience of Pakistan’s devolution reforms provides valuable lessons. The Local Government reforms introduced in the early 2000s attempted to decentralise authority by empowering districts and local councils. Although those reforms had weaknesses and generated political controversy, they demonstrated that bringing government closer to citizens can improve responsiveness when accompanied by fiscal authority, administrative autonomy and institutional accountability. Unfortunately, subsequent governments reversed or weakened many of these arrangements, resulting in repeated cycles of centralisation and decentralisation. Political reactions to Mohsin Naqvi’s proposal reflect Pakistan’s broader constitutional divisions. Some leaders have welcomed discussion on governance reform while supporting greater administrative decentralisation. Others have questioned both the timing and constitutional implications of the proposal, expressing concerns that restructuring provinces without broad political consensus could intensify ethnic, linguistic and regional sensitivities. There are also concerns that debates over provincial boundaries could distract attention from more immediate governance priorities, including economic recovery, inflation, institutional reforms and electoral credibility. The political diversity of these reactions demonstrates that constitutional restructuring cannot succeed through executive statements alone; it requires sustained parliamentary dialogue, provincial participation and national consensus.  The constitutional dimension cannot be overlooked. Creating new provinces requires constitutional amendments and political agreement among federal and provincial stakeholders. Such reforms inevitably involve questions relating to resource distribution, National Finance Commission allocations, Senate representation, civil service restructuring, judicial jurisdictions and provincial assets. Therefore, any attempt to redraw administrative boundaries without extensive consultation risks generating political instability rather than administrative efficiency. The opportunities nevertheless remain significant. Properly designed administrative restructuring could reduce regional disparities, improve public service delivery, enhance

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.

As a journalist, my entire professional life has been dedicated to defending freedom of expression, civil liberties, and an independent press. Throughout more than two decades in journalism, I have firmly believed that the right to express one’s views is a fundamental human right, protected not only by Pakistan’s Constitution but also by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the laws of most democratic nations. However, no right in any civilized society is absolute. Every freedom comes with responsibility. When freedom is divorced from responsibility, it ceases to be a force for reform and instead becomes a source of disorder. That is why every mature democracy has established legal and ethical boundaries to ensure that freedom of expression serves the public interest rather than undermining it. The rise of social media has revolutionized the flow of information. Today, an ordinary citizen possesses communication power that was once reserved for major media organizations. A smartphone, a short video, and a single click can spread information, allegations, or opinions across the globe within minutes. Used responsibly, this technology promotes transparency, accountability, and public awareness. Used recklessly, without verification or evidence, it can inflict irreparable damage on individuals, institutions, and society. The recent controversy involving the University of the Punjab illustrates this challenge. A video circulated on social media in which serious allegations were made against several faculty members. Shortly after the video surfaced, the university administration issued an official statement rejecting the allegations and referred the matter to the police, the Cyber Crime Investigation Agency, and other relevant authorities for investigation. The episode also exposed another troubling aspect of today’s digital environment. Several freelance vloggers and social media accounts amplified the allegations, yet many failed to present the university’s official response with equal prominence. One of the fundamental principles of journalism is to provide all concerned parties with an opportunity to present their position before public opinion is shaped. Based on the information currently available and my own research, the viral video did not publicly present independently verifiable evidence supporting the allegations. Nor has it been established that a formal written complaint was submitted through the university’s prescribed grievance mechanism before the video was released. If the ongoing investigation establishes otherwise, those findings must be accepted with the same commitment to fairness and truth. Equally important is ensuring that the investigation is not limited solely to the allegations themselves. If it is established that any individual or group deliberately misled students, orchestrated a coordinated campaign, or exploited social media to damage the reputation of an institution or its members, those responsible should also be held accountable under the law. Conversely, if the allegations are substantiated, the complainants deserve full justice without discrimination. Accountability must apply equally to everyone. This case extends far beyond a single university. It reflects the growing problem of irresponsible social media usage. Increasingly, individuals bypass legal forums, institutional complaint mechanisms, and investigative authorities, choosing instead to take their grievances directly to social media. Within minutes, a viral post can shape public opinion, damage reputations, and, in many cases, allow the “court of social media” to pronounce its verdict long before any formal investigation has concluded. Such a trend blurs the line between freedom of expression and irresponsible expression. Recognizing these risks, many developed countries have introduced stricter regulations governing digital platforms. The European Union’s Digital Services Act (DSA) and Digital Markets Act (DMA) require major technology companies to act swiftly against illegal content, terrorist propaganda, child sexual abuse material, counterfeit products, and other harmful content. These laws also require greater transparency in algorithms, stronger user protections, and comprehensive risk assessments, with violations carrying multi-billion-euro penalties. The United States follows a different constitutional model. While the First Amendment provides broad protection for freedom of speech, this does not mean that every form of online content is beyond regulation. Social media companies continue to enforce community standards against hate speech, incitement to violence, terrorism-related content, child exploitation, financial fraud, and other unlawful activities. Several U.S. states are also developing legislation addressing AI-generated deepfakes, child online safety, and digital privacy. In Pakistan, the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA) provides the principal legal framework for addressing cybercrime. However, concerns have repeatedly been raised by political parties, journalists, and human rights organizations regarding aspects of its implementation. This underlines the importance not only of effective legislation but also of its transparent, impartial, and constitutional enforcement. The rapid rise of artificial intelligence, deepfake technology, disinformation, and organized online propaganda has made responsible journalism and responsible social media use more important than ever. Freedom of expression remains the cornerstone of every democratic society, but using that freedom to damage individuals or institutions without credible evidence serves neither journalism nor democracy. Pakistan, like many other countries, faces the challenge of preserving free expression while preventing the misuse of digital platforms. The objective should never be to silence legitimate criticism or suppress dissent. Instead, it should be to ensure that freedom is exercised with honesty, evidence, and accountability.   Freedom of expression is the soul of democracy. Yet when it is separated from truth, integrity, and responsibility, it no longer remains freedom—it becomes disorder. A civilized society is one where the law protects those who speak the truth while holding accountable those who knowingly spread falsehoods. That balance represents the true spirit of free expression and remains the hallmark of every democratic, civilized, and dignified nation.    

To watch Shakarparian today is to mourn a broken promise. Not a fleeting vow, but a masterplan—conceived with purpose, codified on paper, and abandoned by design. I went through archives at Bazar Road, Iqbal Hall G-7, poring over the original master plan drawn up in 1960 by the great Greek architect and city planner Konstantinos Apostolos Doxiadis and his team. It was there that I first understood what Shakarparian was always meant to be. Doxiadis and his fellow planners did not design this triangle-shaped green expanse near Zero Point as an afterthought, a leftover patch of land between roads. They designated it, deliberately and explicitly, as the lungs of Islamabad — a temperature regulator, a natural sound barrier, a groundwater recharge zone, and a protective forest without which the city’s clean air was never meant to exist. This was not sentiment. This was engineering. And we have spent the decades since betraying it. Islamabad in 1961 was home to barely 117,000 people. Today it holds well over 2.4 million. That growth was not an accident — it was, in part, the very success of Doxiadis’s vision: a green, livable, breathable capital that drew people in from across the country and beyond. But success has a cruel irony here, because the same city that grew because of its green lungs has spent decades quietly cutting into them. Between 1961 and 2024, Islamabad’s temperature has already climbed by 5 degrees Celsius, with projections warning of a further 0.7 degrees by 2039 and 2.2 degrees by 2069. This is the urban heat island effect, and it is not an abstraction — it is Doxiadis’s temperature regulator being dismantled, piece by piece, exactly as he warned it must not be. Shakarparian itself covers roughly 1,376 hectares, formally absorbed into the Margalla Hills National Park in 1980, sitting almost at the very heart of the capital — an emerald set into the city’s crown, as it deserves to be called. A biodiversity survey conducted in November 2014 found 155 animal species sheltering within it: 23 species of mammals, 104 species of birds spanning 16 orders and 42 families, 22 species of reptiles, and 6 species of amphibians. The same survey catalogued more than 661 plant species across 28 families, with six distinct dominant vegetation communities knitting the forest floor together. This is not a park. This is a living, breathing ecological archive sitting in the geographic center of a national capital — a rarity almost nowhere else replicated in the world. It was Roedad Khan — the legendary civil servant and statesman — who understood the fragility of this inheritance early enough to act. In 1989 he founded the Margalla Hills Society, and for decades that institution has done more than most government departments to keep the wider Margalla ecosystem intact. But Shakarparian, sitting apart within it, has not been so fortunate. It has instead become a recurring casualty of the very authority meant to protect it — the Capital Development Authority itself. Piece by piece, lease by lease, CDA has allowed Shakarparian’s protective forest cover to be carved away. Look at what now occupies ground that was meant to remain forest: the Parade Ground, the Pak-China Friendship Centre, the Islamabad Club, the Gun and Country Club, Lok Virsa, an open-air theatre, and a string of upscale hotels and restaurants. Each addition was, in its own file, justified. Together, they are a forest reduced to a backdrop for institutions that no longer need it and increasingly cannot coexist with it. This has happened in direct violation of Regulation 4(3)(b) of the ICT Zoning Regulations of Islamabad, which exists for the explicit purpose of preventing exactly this kind of land-use change, allegedly under sustained political pressure. Satellite imagery from Landsat and Sentinel spanning the last twenty years tells the story without need for further commentary: the southwest region of Shakarparian shows a stark, measurable retreat of forest cover. The judiciary, at least once, was willing to look squarely at this. On January 11, 2022, the Islamabad High Court delivered its verdict in Prof. Zahid Baig Mirza versus Capital Development Authority, and the ruling was unambiguous: the shifting of the Parade Ground into Zone 3, the widening of roads through the forest, and the construction of the China Friendship Centre inside Shakarparian all violated the ICT Zoning Regulations. It was, on paper, a vindication of everything Doxiadis intended and everything CDA had ignored. A court verdict that is not enforced, however, is simply another document gathering dust the way the original master plan itself so nearly did. And here I have to say something that will not make me popular in certain circles of this city: the NGO sector stationed in Islamabad has failed Shakarparian as thoroughly as CDA has bulldozed it. The single biggest failure of these organizations is that they will not raise their own voice — they wait, always, for the government to raise it first, as though advocacy requires official permission. That is not activism. That is choreography. Too many of these NGOs are, in practice, family businesses wearing the language of conservation: leadership passed quietly within the same households for years, boards that never rotate, and a business model built not around planting a single tree in Shakarparian but around producing glossy reports, attending conferences, and mastering the art of recycling the same handful of buzzwords — resilience, sustainability, nature-based solutions — into slightly different sentences for slightly different donors. They are experts in rephrasing a crisis. They are not experts in stopping one. When the chainsaws reached the H-8 green belt, it was a lone campaigner and a worried student who spoke up first, not the well-funded organisations whose entire mandate is supposed to be exactly this. This failure is made worse by the fact that the government itself is not short of obligations it has already signed onto. Pakistan is a party to the Convention on Biological Diversity, which binds it to conserve representative ecosystems and halt biodiversity loss