Youth, Extremism, and the Fight for Tomorrow

For eighteen years, I have made a quiet, sometimes lonely case: that technology, not more paperwork and more offices, is the only honest path to good governance in Pakistan. I did not arrive at this conviction from a textbook. I arrived at it from a desk inside the Planning Commission, watching a system that was designed — on paper — to deliver development, and instead delivered delay, opacity, and grievance. Anyone who has sat through the sanctioning of a Public Sector Development Program (PSDP) project knows the ritual. The feasibility study is glowing. The PC-1 is approved with confident projections. Committees nod. Funds are released. And then the project disappears into the machinery of provincial implementation, where oversight thins out and accountability evaporates. What was promised on paper and what is delivered on the ground are, more often than not, two entirely different stories. I watched this happen again and again, and each time the gap between sanction and delivery was not explained by a shortage of money or expertise. It was explained by bureaucracy — a system built not to serve citizens but to preserve itself. This is not an abstract observation. It is the root of a very real and very dangerous problem. A significant part of the unrest we see in Balochistan, in Azad Jammu and Kashmir, and in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is not simply about resources or geography. It is about the absence of transparency and the absence of governance that people can see, question, and trust. When a citizen cannot find out where a development fund went, when a project sanctioned in Islamabad never materializes as promised in a district headquarters, when the only visible authority is a bureaucrat with a stamp and a discretionary signature, resentment grows. People do not rebel against distance from the capital. They rebel against being governed by a system that treats them as subjects to be managed rather than citizens to be served. And here is the tragedy that too few are willing to name plainly: the bureaucratic architecture we still operate under was never designed to serve the governed. It was designed by the British Raj to control a colonized population — to extract revenue, maintain order, and ensure that authority always flowed downward from a distant center, never upward from the people. Files, layers of clearance, and the personal discretion of an officer were features of a colonial control system, not instruments of democratic accountability. We inherited that machinery at independence and, astonishingly, kept it largely intact. The tool built to pacify a colony has been repurposed, with barely a redesign, to govern a republic. It should trouble us deeply that a structure engineered to keep a colonized people in check is now one of the principal reasons that Pakistan’s most marginalized regions distrust their own government. So when the conversation turns, as it periodically does, to creating new administrative units — carving out new divisions, new districts, new tiers of provincial machinery — as the answer to Balochistan’s or KPK’s grievances, I feel obligated to push back, loudly. Before we draw a single new administrative boundary, we must confront the core disease, not multiply its symptoms. New units will not dilute bureaucratic power; they will replicate it. Every new administrative tier is another office, another set of discretionary signatures, another opportunity for the same colonial-era logic of gatekeeping to entrench itself further. For the aggrieved citizen in Turbat or Muzaffarabad or Bannu, a new secretariat is not relief. It is simply a new address for the same unaccountable authority. We would be handing the bureaucracy — an institution that has shown a consistent instinct for self-preservation — more territory to govern, not less power to abuse. Real relief requires shrinking the space in which discretion operates unchecked, not expanding the number of desks where it can be exercised. This is precisely why the moment for AI-enabled local governance has arrived, and why Pakistan can no longer afford to treat it as a distant aspiration. Around the world, and notably across India, urban local bodies and municipalities are moving beyond basic digitization toward what might be called algorithms of accountability — systems purpose-built to increase transparency, limit human discretion where it invites abuse, and protect citizen data. These frameworks generally rest on a few consistent pillars: ensuring that automated public decisions on things like welfare disbursement or tax assessment can be audited and challenged rather than buried in a file; protecting citizen data through clear legal safeguards; requiring any private vendor supplying government technology to disclose how its systems work; and actively checking automated tools for bias against marginalized communities. The Indian experience offers concrete, transferable lessons. Municipal bodies in cities like Delhi and Bengaluru now use satellite imagery and mapping systems to flag unauthorized construction and property tax discrepancies — but critically, they pair this with a human-verification step, so an algorithm’s flag is only ever an advisory alert, not a final punishment, creating a documented trail a citizen can actually contest. States such as Telangana and Maharashtra have deployed multilingual citizen chatbots to handle civic complaints, built with data-masking safeguards that strip personal information before it ever touches a broader system. Smart-city command centers in Surat and Pune operate under strict data retention rules, so surveillance footage is automatically deleted unless tied to an active investigation, preventing the machinery from becoming a permanent surveillance state. And where facial-recognition attendance systems have been used to track municipal staff, unions pushed successfully for dispute mechanisms so that a technical glitch never costs a worker their wages. None of these systems eliminate human judgment. What they eliminate is unaccountable, invisible, discretionary human judgment — the exact currency the colonial bureaucracy was built to trade in. That is the reform Pakistan needs at the local government level: not another administrative layer, but a transparent, auditable, citizen-facing system that makes it structurally difficult for a project to vanish between sanction and delivery, and structurally easy for a citizen in the

Dr. Abdul Jabbar Sahito Karachi, Pakistan The debate over creating new provinces in Pakistan has existed for decades, yet one crucial question remains unanswered: how can the public be convinced that administrative provinces are intended to improve governance rather than increase the burden on the country? Today, public trust in the state is already fragile. People are frustrated by corruption, bureaucratic inefficiency, and excessive government expenditure. Whenever the idea of creating new provinces is raised, many immediately assume that it will only produce more chief ministers, more governors, more provincial assemblies, more secretaries, chief secretaries, inspectors general (IGs), deputy inspectors general (DIGs), assistant commissioners, deputy commissioners, and an even larger bureaucracy. The public perception is straightforward: if corruption and inefficiency already exist with four provinces, what will happen if Pakistan has thirty-two or even thirty-six provinces? This concern must be addressed before any constitutional or administrative reform is proposed. The government should first present a clear governance model explaining exactly how these new provinces would function. People deserve to know whether these provinces will have provincial assemblies or whether they will operate through a compact administrative structure. Will each province be headed by a governor directly elected by the people? Will representation be limited according to population? These questions must be answered before asking the public for support. The objective of creating administrative provinces should never be to expand the bureaucracy. On the contrary, the government should explain that the existing administrative system can simply be reorganized. Unnecessary bureaucratic positions can be reduced, provincial cabinets can remain small, and major ministries can continue to operate under the federal government to avoid duplication. There should be only one chief executive for each province—either a governor or a chief minister, not both. Representation should remain limited and population-based instead of creating large provincial assemblies. The government must reassure the public that administrative reform will not increase financial burdens. Existing administrative and police structures can be reorganized instead of creating entirely new departments. A lean administrative structure is far more likely to gain public confidence than one that appears expensive and oversized. The purpose of administrative provinces is to bring governance closer to the people. Smaller administrative units can improve healthcare through new hospitals, strengthen education by establishing more schools and universities, expand road networks, and accelerate local infrastructure development. They can also encourage the emergence of new leadership, empower citizens to demand their rights, and make governments more responsive because they will be closer and more accountable to the people. Greater accountability should also become a central feature of this model. Institutions responsible for oversight, including NAB and other accountability bodies, would be able to monitor governance more effectively within smaller administrative units. Better administration can also attract greater investment, encourage industries and factories to expand, bring more businesses and brands into different regions, and create employment opportunities for local communities. The government should particularly engage the younger generation and begin this conversation in Sindh. It must make it absolutely clear that this proposal is not about creating provinces on ethnic or linguistic lines. It is not about separating Muhajirs from Sindhis or dividing communities. The proposal is purely administrative and aims to improve governance for every citizen. Instead of creating a province only for Karachi, every administrative division could become a province. Hyderabad, Nawabshah, Larkana, Mirpurkhas, Sukkur, Bahawalpur, and other divisions can each function as separate administrative provinces. If necessary, even the names of these provinces can be changed to prevent unnecessary political controversy. The purpose is not division—it is better administration. Such administrative provinces would encourage the establishment of more schools, universities, hospitals, IT parks, industries, factories, and businesses. They would provide young people with better educational opportunities, create employment, stimulate local economies, improve tax collection, strengthen infrastructure, support clean drinking water projects, facilitate the construction of dams, and promote environmental development through better local planning. However, none of these reforms can succeed unless the public fully understands the proposed governance structure. The government must organize seminars in universities, engage students and young professionals, and use the media to educate citizens about the objectives and practical benefits of administrative provinces. Public awareness must come before implementation. Ultimately, people will support administrative provinces only when they are convinced that the reforms are designed to create a government that is smaller, more efficient, more accountable, and closer to the people—not a larger bureaucracy with greater costs. Winning public trust is therefore the first and most essential step toward any successful administrative reform.  

Pakistan does not need an external adversary to explain its economic decline. It has one at home, operating out of two regulatory buildings in Islamabad: the National Electric Power Regulatory Authority and the Oil and Gas Regulatory Authority, backstopped by a Ministry of Power and a Ministry of Petroleum that have spent two decades signing contracts, indexing tariffs, and deferring hard decisions in ways that now function less like national stewardship and more like a slow, self-administered dismantling of the country’s own industrial base. There is an old Urdu instinct for this kind of failure — “apne pairon par khud kulhari maarna,” to swing the axe onto your own foot — and it captures the pattern better than any conspiracy theory could. Nobody needs to have plotted Pakistan’s energy collapse. Two regulators simply kept striking the same foot, quarter after quarter, determination after determination, until there was nothing left to stand on. Start with NEPRA, and start with the number that should embarrass every member of its board. On August 10, 2026, the Authority approved a 30-year, 9.4-US-cent tariff for the 102 MW Gulpur hydropower project — a project whose tariff history is itself a case study in regulatory drift, having been revised in 2015, modified again in 2021 for exchange-rate relief, and delayed by force majeure claims for the better part of a decade before finally being settled this month, over the recorded dissent of one of NEPRA’s own members. Three weeks earlier, the same regulator had approved a tariff of just 3.0899 US cents for a 269 MW hybrid wind-and-solar project at Dhabeji.  A regulator capable of holding both of those numbers in its hands in the same month and treating them as equally acceptable outcomes is not pricing risk. It has simply stopped asking what things should cost. Then, in February 2026, NEPRA turned the same instinct on ordinary citizens. Its Prosumer Regulations 2026 dismantled the one-to-one net metering framework that had made rooftop solar a rational household investment, replacing it with net billing: excess power sold back to the grid at the National Average Energy Purchase Price of roughly Rs 10–13 per unit, while the same household buys grid electricity back minutes later at full retail rates. A citizen who financed their own panels, took on their own installation risk, and asked nothing from the state now effectively subsidizes the grid every time the sun shines. Compare that to Gulpur’s sponsors, who face none of that asymmetry and are guaranteed indexed returns for three decades. The Ministry of Power approved this framework and let it stand, even after the Prime Minister was reported to have ordered a NEPRA appeal to protect existing solar users — an appeal that, months later, has changed remarkably little for new applicants. OGRA, the sister regulator for oil and gas, has been just as busy inflicting damage of its own kind, and its failures deserve equal billing, because it is the gas sector, not electricity, that has produced Pakistan’s most persistent circular debt crisis. By July 2026, Pakistan’s gas circular debt had reached roughly Rs 3.44 trillion, and the country had missed an IMF deadline for a gas tariff notification that the Fund treats as a structural benchmark for the entire bailout program. OGRA’s own determinations tell the story: SNGPL and SSGC continue to report system losses well above the “unaccounted-for-gas” allowances built into their tariffs — 8.8 % actual against a roughly 7 % allowance for SNGPL, and a startling 13.6 % actual against an 8.2 % allowance for SSGC — with the gap simply passed through to consumers as cost rather than treated as the operational failure it is. In July 2026, when OGRA’s own recalculated prescribed prices should have lowered consumer gas bills, the federal government instead chose to keep tariffs unchanged and let SNGPL bank a projected Rs 44 billion surplus and SSGC a smaller one, rather than pass relief to the households and factories paying the bill. This is not regulation. It is bookkeeping in service of institutional convenience, dressed up as prudence. The consequence of all this — NEPRA’s mispriced generation contracts, its punitive treatment of rooftop solar, OGRA’s tolerance of chronic system losses, and both ministries’ shared unwillingness to force a reckoning — is a business environment where foreign direct investors cannot model their own electricity or gas costs five years out, let alone thirty. Industrial production stalls not because Pakistani manufacturers lack skill or ambition, but because no factory can plan around a power bill and a gas bill set by regulators who reward legacy contracts over least-cost technology and who treat circular debt as something to defer rather than solve. Pakistan’s Interior Minister recently said publicly that “the system has collapsed” — a remark aimed at governance and security, but one that describes the energy sector with uncomfortable precision, and one the security establishment has been strangely slow to connect to its own economic consequences. A country cannot out-negotiate a debt crisis it keeps manufacturing at the regulator’s desk every single quarter. None of this requires believing anyone set out to sabotage the country. It requires recognizing that an institution can do a slow version of the same damage through nothing more than inertia, misaligned incentives, and a persistent unwillingness to price energy the way the rest of the world now prices it — cheaply, competitively, and honestly. NEPRA and OGRA do not need another IMF-mandated hearing or another quarterly adjustment. They need leadership willing to admit that thirty years of axe-swings at the country’s own foot is enough, and that the next tariff determination should finally start asking what things should cost, not merely what precedent allows. So who actually chooses the people who run NEPRA and OGRA? This is the part of the story that gets almost no scrutiny, and it should. Both chairmen are selected by the federal cabinet from shortlists assembled by selection committees chaired by a serving federal minister — for NEPRA, historically the Minister for

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

I will tell you exactly how it felt for Pakistanis all over the world the day the Makkah Defence Pact was signed. I am in London, and I can tell you that, for British Pakistanis, it felt like a wedding. I went to a café in central London and found a sort of celebration among Pakistanis. Phones were buzzing, television anchors were beaming, and for one evening, it seemed like every household in Lahore, Islamabad and Karachi was talking about the same thing: Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Turkiye standing together, promising to defend one another. In Riyadh and Ankara, the mood was no different. Flags, statements, warm handshakes. A celebration, plain and simple. I miss Pakistan right now. Right now, Pakistan is illuminated. It is a sort of festivity. Celebration is in the air. Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif and Field Marshal Asim Munir have made it possible to put Muslim countries on a single platform. But I am a curious man by nature, and celebrations make me curious in a particular way. When everyone in the room is smiling, I always want to know who is standing outside, looking in through the window. So I went looking. I wanted to know what India was saying, what Iran was saying, and what the UAE was saying. And what I found was a much more complicated story than the one being told at the wedding. Let me start with India, because that is where the unease runs deepest. Turkish journalist Aslı Aydıntaşbaş, who studies the region closely, said it would be too early to call this a “Muslim NATO” or “Sunni NATO.” But she also said something important: this pact shows a real desire among regional countries to build their own security system, owned by themselves. Strategic affairs expert Brahma Chellaney went further. He warned that this agreement could make it much harder to control tensions if India and Pakistan ever clash again. He pointed out that during Operation Sindoor, Pakistan received far more military help from China than from Turkiye, but Turkiye’s direct support made one thing clear: if a conflict with India happens, Turkiye is ready to stand by Pakistan. Former Indian ambassador to the UN, T S Tirumurti, was even more direct. He said the pact uses language similar to NATO’s Article 5, and that its effects will not stay confined to the Middle East. Given the long, tense history between Pakistan and India, he said, this has to be read with that relationship in mind. So, my friends in India must learn one thing: their government should think 10 times, or even more, before going into a military confrontation with Pakistan. Then there is Iran, and here the tone was different again. Ali Akbar Velayati, adviser to Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, did not criticise the new pact. Instead, in posts written in Persian, Arabic, English and Turkish, he spoke of the resilience of Iran’s armed forces and what he called the defeat of the United States and Israel. He said this defeat proved that foreign forces, which he called the main cause of insecurity, must leave the region. And in the same breath, he said that growing cooperation among regional states can secure the region’s own security. In other words, Iran is not against regional countries banding together. It simply wants outside powers to step back. The UAE, as I have written before, took the most careful line of all. No rejection, no celebration, just pointed questions about who exactly this alliance is meant to deter. For his part, Turkish President Erdoğan tried to calm every nerve in the room. He wrote that the pact follows Article 51 of the UN Charter, the right to self-defence, and is not directed against any country. It is open, he said, to any friendly nation that wants peace and stability in the region. So here is what I take from all this, writing as a Pakistani watching his own country’s celebration from the inside. Pride is natural, and this pact matters. But a wedding always looks different from outside the window. India sees risk. Iran sees an opening to push out foreign powers. The UAE sees questions still unanswered. As Pakistanis, we should enjoy this moment, but we should also read the room beyond our own hall.

On 14 August 1947, Pakistan emerged as a new country with enormous challenges but also extraordinary potential. Seventy-nine years later, the question is not whether Pakistan has achieved anything, it certainly has, but why a country that began with comparable hopes to many newly independent nations has struggled to convert its human and natural potential into sustained prosperity, strong institutions and a secure future. The comparison becomes uncomfortable when we look at countries that began their modern journeys around the same period. Singapore became self-governing in 1959 and independent in 1965. Bangladesh became independent in 1971 after emerging from the same Pakistan that had been created in 1947. Taiwan’s post-war transformation accelerated from the 1950s onward. South Korea, independent since 1948, also started from extraordinary hardship. Their histories are very different from Pakistan’s, so simplistic comparisons would be unfair. Yet they demonstrate one important principle, institutions, continuity, human capital and economic strategy can transform countries even when starting conditions are difficult. Bangladesh is perhaps the most striking comparison because it began as the poorer and more politically disadvantaged wing of Pakistan. In 1971, its future looked extremely uncertain. Today, Bangladesh’s nominal GDP per capita is substantially higher than Pakistan’s, the World Bank reports about $2,593 for Bangladesh compared with about $1,479 for Pakistan in 2024. Bangladesh’s total GDP has also grown larger than Pakistan’s despite having a much smaller land area according to world bank open data. Singapore represents an entirely different model. A small island with few natural resources, it concentrated on competent administration, education, trade, infrastructure, investment and institutional discipline. Its 2024 GDP per capita was approximately $90,674, compared with Pakistan’s approximately $1,479. World bank open data says. Taiwan and South Korea followed another path, export-oriented industrialisation, investment in education and technology, strong state capacity and, eventually, increasingly democratic institutions. These countries did not become successful because their people were inherently more capable than Pakistanis. They created systems that allowed capability to produce results. So what happened to Pakistan? The first failure was institutional continuity. Pakistan spent much of its history moving between civilian governments, military rule, political confrontation and constitutional crises. Instead of allowing institutions to mature, every political transition often became a struggle over who controlled the state. The second failure was the weak rule of law. A country cannot become prosperous when laws are applied selectively, institutions are politicised and citizens do not have equal confidence in justice. Democracy is not merely the holding of elections, it requires constitutional supremacy, independent institutions, accountable government and protection of fundamental rights. The third failure was education and human capital. Pakistan has a huge young population, yet education has too often remained underfunded, unequal and disconnected from the needs of a modern economy. Countries that transformed themselves invested heavily in the quality of their people. Pakistan has frequently treated education as expenditure rather than as the country’s most important investment. The fourth failure was economic inconsistency. Pakistan repeatedly moved between economic models without developing a stable, long-term national strategy. Political governments changed priorities, economic crises produced short-term fixes, dependence on external financing repeatedly returned. Meanwhile, countries such as Bangladesh built globally competitive export sectors, particularly garments, while East Asian economies moved aggressively into manufacturing, technology and high-value exports. The fifth failure was population planning and social development. Pakistan’s population has grown enormously, while economic growth has not consistently kept pace with the needs of its people. The World Bank’s latest figures show Pakistan with a life expectancy of around 68 years, compared with 75 years in Bangladesh and 83 years in Singapore. The sixth failure has been our inability to build a culture of accountability without political revenge. Accountability is essential, but when it becomes a weapon used selectively against political opponents, it destroys trust rather than strengthening the state. The seventh and perhaps deepest failure is that Pakistan repeatedly confused national security with national development. Security is essential, but a nation’s ultimate security comes from educated citizens, a productive economy, social cohesion, constitutional government and opportunities for its young people. Pakistan’s people, however, did not fail Pakistan. Pakistanis have demonstrated remarkable resilience. They built businesses, universities, industries, hospitals, technology companies and a vast overseas community. Millions of Pakistanis work abroad and send billions of dollars home. In 2024, remittances were equivalent to about 9.4% of Pakistan’s GDP, according to the World Bank. The real tragedy is that the capacity of the Pakistani people has repeatedly been greater than the capacity of the systems governing them. Independence was supposed to mean more than freedom from colonial rule. It was supposed to mean dignity, justice, representation and opportunity. After 79 years, Pakistan therefore needs a different question. Not who is responsible for our problems? but what kind of state do we want to become? The answer cannot be another political slogan or another temporary economic package or presidential system of government . Pakistan needs constitutional supremacy, civilian and institutional stability, independent justice, free media, serious investment in education and health, economic continuity, women’s participation in the workforce, export-led growth, technological development and genuine local governance. The comparison with Bangladesh, Singapore, Taiwan and South Korea should not produce humiliation. It should produce reflection. We began with a dream. The unfinished task of Pakistan’s next generation is to turn that dream into functioning institutions, human development and dignity for every citizen. Seventy-nine years after independence, perhaps the most patriotic thing Pakistanis can do is not merely celebrate the birth of the country, but honestly ask why the promise of 1947 has still not reached every Pakistani.