From Ayub to Munir: How the Pakistan Army Reinvents Its Political Role

A visual representation of successive Pakistani army chiefs from Ayub Khan to Asim Munir, illustrating how the military’s public narrative and political positioning have evolved across different historical crises.

 Pakistan Army political role has never remained static. From 1958 to 2025, the military has repeatedly reshaped its public identity during periods of institutional crisis. Each transition reflects adaptation rather than retreat. From Ayub Khan’s modernization narrative to Zia-ul-Haq’s ideological framing and Asim Munir’s security-centric rhetoric, the institution has altered its justification while preserving influence.

This is not a story of uninterrupted dominance. It is a story of recalibration.

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Ayub Khan: The Modernizer Model

In 1958, Field Marshal Ayub Khan imposed Pakistan’s first martial law. He did not present the intervention as ideological. He framed it as corrective.

Ayub positioned the Army as a technocratic alternative to unstable civilian politics. He introduced the Basic Democracies system in 1959. He aligned closely with the United States during the Cold War through SEATO and CENTO. He promoted industrial growth and infrastructure development.

Under Ayub, the Pakistan Army political role shifted from guardian of borders to manager of national development. Legitimacy was tied to stability and economic modernization.

The 1965 war with India weakened that narrative. Economic disparities widened. Public protest intensified. Ayub’s authority eroded, but the institutional model remained intact.

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Yahya Khan: Institutional Shock and Survival

General Yahya Khan inherited unrest. His tenure culminated in the 1971 war and the secession of East Pakistan.

The loss of Bangladesh was not only a territorial defeat. It was a crisis of institutional credibility. The Hamoodur Rahman Commission Report later examined the military and political failures of the period.

Despite the scale of the setback, the institution survived. The Army withdrew from direct rule and allowed civilian leadership under Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. This temporary retreat demonstrated a key pattern: tactical withdrawal to preserve long-term position.

The Pakistan Army political role did not disappear. It reorganized.

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Zia-ul-Haq: Ideological Reinvention

General Zia-ul-Haq seized power in 1977. His approach differed from Ayub’s developmental framing.

Zia anchored legitimacy in religious nationalism. Islamization policies reshaped legal codes, education, and public discourse. The Afghan war of the 1980s deepened the military’s regional influence. Pakistan became a frontline state in the Cold War.

During this period, the Army repositioned itself as both defender of sovereignty and guardian of Islamic identity. The institutional narrative shifted from modernization to moral authority.

This model expanded strategic depth doctrine and strengthened intelligence networks. It also embedded religion more deeply in state-security discourse.

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Pervez Musharraf: Strategic Realignment

General Pervez Musharraf assumed power in 1999 following political confrontation with Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif.

After 9/11, Musharraf aligned Pakistan with the United States in the War on Terror. He promoted “enlightened moderation” and opened space for private media channels while retaining regulatory oversight.

Under Musharraf, the Pakistan Army political role evolved into that of global security partner. The narrative emphasized professionalism and international cooperation. Civilian institutions functioned, but ultimate security authority remained centralized.

This period reflected adaptation to global counterterrorism realities rather than ideological transformation.

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Bajwa and Munir: Stability and Security Framing

In the post-2008 period, Pakistan returned formally to civilian rule. However, the military retained influence over foreign policy, India policy, Afghanistan strategy, and nuclear doctrine.

General Qamar Javed Bajwa articulated what analysts informally described as a stability doctrine. The military presented itself as neutral arbiter during political turbulence.

Under General Asim Munir, rhetoric has emphasized national sovereignty, security vigilance, and regional deterrence. Public speeches frame the institution as stabilizer amid economic strain and political polarization.

The language changes. The structural logic remains.

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Comparative Perspective

Pakistan is not unique in this pattern.

Turkey’s military historically positioned itself as guardian of secularism before shifting roles under political realignment.
Egypt’s military institutionalized its political role under successive regimes following crisis periods.

In each case, military institutions adapted narratives to preserve legitimacy during institutional stress.

Pakistan’s case stands out for the continuity of adaptation across decades.

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Conclusion

The Pakistan Army political role has evolved across five major phases:

• Modernizer under Ayub

• Shock survival after Yahya

• Ideological guardian under Zia

• Global security partner under Musharraf

• Stability and sovereignty defender under Bajwa and Munir

Institutional survival in Pakistan has depended not on static doctrine, but on narrative flexibility.

Territory defines sovereignty.
Institutional narrative defines endurance.

The history from Ayub to Munir suggests that reinvention, not retreat, has been the Army’s consistent strategy.

When Democracy Becomes a Slogan: Pakistan’s Crisis of Selective Freedom

 In Pakistan, democracy has become a strangely selective idea. It is spoken with passion when directed upward, toward powerful institutions, but handled with silence when it points inward, toward homes, traditions, and social authority. Over time, democratic language has turned into a posture rather than a principle. Anti-establishment rhetoric has quietly replaced a deeper commitment to freedom itself.

Living in Karachi, you encounter this contradiction daily. In chai dhabas and drawing rooms, people speak fluently about constitutional rights, missing persons, and the abuse of state power. Often, these critiques are justified. But shift the conversation to child marriage, women’s autonomy, or authority inside the home, and the tone changes. Suddenly, democracy is accused of being foreign. Law becomes intrusion. Protection is reframed as insult.

Karachi is not unique in this, but it makes the contrast visible. This is a city where political awareness is sharp, yet social coercion is normalized. The same society that demands accountability from distant institutions often resists accountability within its own moral boundaries.

That resistance exposes a central flaw in how democracy is understood.

Opposing state authoritarianism is necessary, but it is not the full measure of democratic belief. Democracy is not defined by who you oppose. It is defined by whose rights you are willing to defend, especially when doing so unsettles tradition.

Pakistan’s Constitution is clear on this point, even if public discourse often is not. Article 8 invalidates any law or custom inconsistent with fundamental rights. Article 9 guarantees the right to life and liberty, which courts have repeatedly interpreted to include dignity and autonomy. Article 14 explicitly protects human dignity and privacy. Most critically, Article 25(3) allows the state to make special provisions for the protection of women and children.

These clauses were not added as decoration. They reflect an understanding that societies do not always protect their most vulnerable members on their own. That is why constitutional democracies exist in the first place.

This legal logic has been reinforced by Pakistan’s courts. In Shehla Zia v. WAPDA, the Supreme Court expanded the meaning of the right to life beyond mere survival, linking it to quality of life and human dignity. In Suo Motu Case No. 1 of 2004 (regarding child custody and welfare), the Court reaffirmed that the welfare of the child overrides custom, tradition, and adult interest. More recently, courts have consistently held that consent, agency, and age are not negotiable concepts when children are involved.

Against this backdrop, the defense of child marriage as a form of protest or cultural resistance collapses. When laws meant to prevent harm to minors are dismissed as “attacks on faith” or “Western interference,” children are turned into political instruments. This is not dissent. It is moral evasion.

I recall a conversation years ago in Karachi, sitting in a modest living room, the ceiling fan rattling as it struggled against the heat. Someone argued, earnestly, that restricting child marriage was a cultural betrayal. The argument was fluent, even emotional. What was missing was the child herself. Not as a symbol, but as a person. Her fear, her lack of consent, her future were never mentioned. She existed only as an idea—useful for argument, invisible as a human being.

That absence tells us everything.

The debate is often framed as a choice between an overreaching state and an authentic society. This framing is dishonest. When the state fails and society refuses self-correction, it is women, children, and minorities who are left unprotected. Karachi knows this reality well. When formal law recedes, informal authority steps in. Elders decide. Honor replaces consent. Power flows downward, unchecked.

Rejecting all state intervention in the name of tradition is not neutrality. It is alignment—with those who already hold power.

Human rights cannot be defended in pieces. You cannot oppose censorship while excusing control over bodies. You cannot condemn dictatorship in uniform while defending dictatorship at home. If coercion only offends you when it is exercised against you, then your objection is not to oppression itself, but to its direction.

This is where much of Pakistan’s democratic rhetoric falters. It is angry at authority, but not committed to liberty. It resists domination selectively. Democracy becomes transactional: valid when useful, negotiable when inconvenient.

The true test of democratic belief is uncomfortable because it demands surrendering power we consider natural—over daughters, over children, over tradition—rather than only challenging power imposed from above. It asks whether freedom is a principle or a tactic.

The question, then, is not who is speaking against which institution. That is political theatre. The real question is quieter and more revealing: Who are you standing for when no one is forcing you to? The individual with agency, or the tradition that demands obedience? The child with a future, or the ideology that needs a symbol?

In Karachi, and across Pakistan, democracy will remain incomplete until it travels inward as confidently as it travels upward. Until we apply the language of rights not just to the state, but to ourselves. Until freedom is no longer selective.

Only then will democracy stop being a slogan—and start becoming a practice.

Why Pakistan Can’t Easily Say “No” to a Superpower

 

You don’t hear it announced.
No press conference. No official memo.

But everyone knows when a country stops being able to say no.

It happens quietly. In budgets. In loan schedules. In delayed approvals. In phone calls that don’t need to sound threatening to be understood.

Pakistan crossed that line a while ago.

And pretending otherwise hasn’t helped.

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Power Isn’t a Moral Debate. It’s a Structure.

There’s a comforting lie we tell ourselves: that international politics runs on principles, resolutions, and speeches. That the world is governed by law.

It isn’t.

The world runs on power.
And since 1945, one country has sat at the center of that structure: the United States.

This isn’t about liking America or hating it. It’s about acknowledging reality.

The global financial system.
The dollar.
Multilateral lending institutions.
Security guarantees.
Diplomatic cover.

All roads, eventually, pass through Washington.

The United Nations exists, yes. But without American consent, funding, or tolerance, it becomes largely symbolic. Veto power alone ensures that no major action contradicts U.S. strategic interests.

That design was intentional.

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So Can Pakistan Say “No”?

Technically? Yes.
Practically? Rarely. And never cheaply.

When a country like Pakistan pushes back, the consequences don’t arrive as tanks or threats. They arrive as:

• stalled negotiations at the International Monetary Fund

• sudden pressure on foreign reserves

• “market uncertainty” that scares investors

• diplomatic cold shoulders

• delayed approvals that quietly hurt ordinary people

None of this needs to be coordinated openly. The system does the work on its own.

This is how modern power operates. Clean hands. Heavy outcomes.

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Why This Hits Pakistan Harder Than Others

Some countries can afford defiance.
They have reserves. Stable institutions. Policy credibility.

Pakistan doesn’t.

A weak economy turns sovereignty into a slogan.
Debt turns independence into negotiation.
Political instability turns foreign policy into damage control.

So when people ask, “Why doesn’t Pakistan just say no?” they’re skipping the hard part.

Saying no requires preparation.
Strength.
Alternatives.

We don’t build those overnight. And we didn’t build them when we had time.

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Moral Anger vs Strategic Reality

There’s a temptation, especially in emotional debates, to frame everything as betrayal. As if every compromise is cowardice.

That’s comforting. It avoids responsibility.

But the truth is harsher.

You don’t confront a superpower with slogans.
You confront it with leverage.

And leverage comes from:

• economic stability

• institutional credibility

• internal consensus

• long-term planning

Without these, resistance becomes performance. Loud. Costly. Ineffective.

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The Real Question We Avoid

The question isn’t why Pakistan doesn’t defy the United States today.

The real question is this:

Who left Pakistan so weak that defiance became unaffordable?

That answer isn’t in Washington.
It’s at home.

Decades of short-term decisions.
Cycles of crisis management.
Politics that traded reform for applause.

Superpowers don’t need to destabilize countries that won’t stabilize themselves.

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What Saying “No” Actually Requires

If Pakistan ever wants the freedom to say no, it won’t come from speeches or outrage.

It will come from:

• fixing the economy before flexing foreign policy

• building institutions that outlast governments

• choosing boring stability over dramatic defiance

• accepting that sovereignty is built quietly, not declared loudly

Until then, realism isn’t submission.
It’s survival.

And survival, right now, is the floor. Not the ceiling.

Maybe that’s the most uncomfortable truth of all.

یہ کالم کیوں ناپسند کیا گیا؟

 اور کیا یہ واقعی PECA کی خلاف ورزی تھا؟**

کبھی کبھی مسئلہ الفاظ نہیں ہوتے۔
مسئلہ وہ سچ ہوتا ہے جو خاموشی سے قاری تک پہنچ جائے۔

زورین نظامانی کا کالم “It is over” کسی انقلابی تحریک کی کال نہیں تھا۔ اس میں نہ بغاوت کی اپیل تھی، نہ کسی ادارے یا شخصیت کو نشانہ بنایا گیا، اور نہ ہی تشدد یا نفرت کی زبان استعمال ہوئی۔ اس کے باوجود یہ تحریر برداشت نہ کی جا سکی۔ سوال یہی ہے کہ آخر کیوں؟

کالم میں اصل بات کیا تھی؟

یہ تحریر دراصل ریاست اور نوجوان نسل کے درمیان بڑھتے ہوئے فاصلے کی نشاندہی تھی۔

مصنف کا مؤقف سادہ تھا:

• حب الوطنی لیکچرز اور سیمینارز سے پیدا نہیں ہوتی

• جب روزگار، رہائش، تعلیم اور انصاف میسر نہ ہوں تو نعرے بے اثر ہو جاتے ہیں

• نوجوان نسل ریاستی بیانیہ سنتی ضرور ہے، مگر اب اسے بغیر سوال قبول نہیں کرتی

• انٹرنیٹ اور عالمی رابطوں نے سوچ پر پہرا ممکن نہیں چھوڑا

یہ سب ایک سیاسی رائے تھی۔ سخت ضرور، مگر رائے۔

حکومت کو یہ تحریر کیوں ناگوار گزری؟

کیونکہ اس نے طاقت کے تین حساس دعووں کو بغیر نام لیے چیلنج کیا:

1. اخلاقی برتری کا دعویٰ
   کالم نے واضح کیا کہ اخلاقیات کا درس تب بامعنی ہوتا ہے جب مواقع بھی دیے جائیں۔

2. بیانیے کی اجارہ داری
   تحریر نے تسلیم کیا کہ نوجوان اب خود سوچ رہے ہیں، انہیں بتایا نہیں جا رہا کہ کیا سوچنا ہے۔

3. خاموش لاتعلقی
   یہ احتجاج کی بات نہیں تھی، بلکہ ایک ایسی نسل کی نشاندہی تھی جو شور کے بجائے خاموشی اختیار کر رہی ہے۔

طاقت کے لیے یہی خاموشی سب سے زیادہ تشویش ناک ہوتی ہے۔

کیا یہ PECA کی خلاف ورزی تھی؟

قانونی طور پر جواب واضح ہے: نہیں۔

PECA درج ذیل چیزوں کو جرم قرار دیتا ہے:

• تشدد پر اکسانا

• نفرت انگیز مواد

• ریاستی اداروں کے خلاف براہ راست اشتعال

• دہشت گردی یا سائبر جرائم

اس کالم میں:

• کسی ادارے یا فرد کو نشانہ نہیں بنایا گیا

• کسی قسم کی بغاوت یا تشدد کی اپیل نہیں تھی

• صرف حکمرانی کے نتائج پر سوال اٹھایا گیا

سیاسی اختلاف، تنقید یا مایوسی جرم نہیں ہوتی۔

اصل مسئلہ کہاں تھا؟

اصل مسئلہ قانون نہیں تھا۔
اصل مسئلہ اخلاقی ساکھ میں دراڑ تھی۔

یہ تحریر ریاست کے خلاف نہیں تھی،
یہ ریاست کی نوجوان نسل سے دوری کی نشاندہی تھی۔

اور شاید اسی لیے اسے ہٹا دیا گیا۔

نتیجہ

ریاستیں نعروں سے نہیں چلتی ہیں۔
وہ اعتماد سے چلتی ہیں۔

جب نوجوان یہ محسوس کریں کہ:

• وہ سنے نہیں جا رہے

• انہیں مستقبل نہیں دیا جا رہا

• اور ان سے صرف اطاعت مانگی جا رہی ہے

تو وہ احتجاج نہیں کرتے۔
وہ خاموش ہو جاتے ہیں۔

اور تاریخ بتاتی ہے کہ خاموشی سب سے بڑی وارننگ ہوتی ہے۔

سیاست دان ناکام تھے، یا اختیار ہی نہیں تھا؟ — الزام، حقیقت اور پاکستان کا اصل مسئلہ

سیاست دان ناکام تھے، یا اختیار ہی نہیں تھا؟ — الزام، حقیقت اور پاکستان کا اصل مسئلہ

پاکستانی سیاست میں ایک جملہ بہت آسانی سے استعمال ہو جاتا ہے:
“سب کچھ فوج نے خراب کیا۔”

اور اس کے جواب میں فوراً دوسرا جملہ آتا ہے:
“سیاست دان خود کرپٹ اور نااہل تھے، فوج کو الزام دینا بہانہ ہے۔”

دونوں جملے زور سے بولے جاتے ہیں۔ دونوں میں غصہ ہے۔ اور… دونوں آدھے سچ پر کھڑے ہیں۔

یہ بات ماننے میں کوئی عار نہیں کہ پاکستان کے کئی سویلین حکمران کرپٹ تھے، نااہل تھے، اور اقتدار میں آ کر عوامی اصلاحات کے بجائے ذاتی مفادات میں الجھے رہے۔ ٹیکس نظام نہ بدلا، پولیس اصلاحات نہ ہوئیں، مقامی حکومتیں کمزور رہیں، اور ادارے اندر سے کھوکھلے ہوتے چلے گئے۔

جب حکومتیں ختم ہوئیں یا ناکام ہوئیں تو اکثر نے سارا ملبہ فوج پر ڈال دیا۔ عوام کا سوال بجا ہے: جب آپ کے پاس اقتدار تھا تو آپ نے کیا کیا؟

یہ تنقید درست ہے۔ لیکن یہی پوری کہانی نہیں۔

اصل مسئلہ یہاں سے شروع ہوتا ہے: کیا پاکستان میں کبھی کسی سویلین حکومت کو مکمل اختیار حاصل رہا؟

پاکستان کا نظام بظاہر جمہوری ہے، مگر عملی طور پر طاقت کی سرحدیں پہلے سے کھینچی ہوئی ہیں۔ خارجہ پالیسی، سلامتی، علاقائی معاملات، اور بعض اوقات احتساب بھی ان سرحدوں میں شامل ہیں۔

منتخب حکومتیں آتی جاتی رہتی ہیں، مگر ان حدود کو چھیڑنا ہمیشہ خطرے سے خالی نہیں رہا۔ کبھی فائلیں رک جاتی ہیں، کبھی “اشارے” ملتے ہیں، کبھی ماحول اچانک بدل جاتا ہے۔ ٹینک ہمیشہ سڑک پر نہیں آتے، مگر دباؤ محسوس ہوتا ہے۔

یہی وہ مقام ہے جہاں سسٹم خود سیاست دانوں کو بگاڑ دیتا ہے۔ جب مکمل اختیار نہ ہو تو حکمران اصلاحات

When History Repeats: From Zia-ul-Haq to Today’s “New Hero”

 

History has a strange way of elevating unlikely figures. In the late 1970s, General Zia-ul-Haq was a relatively obscure military ruler. Then came the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Overnight, Zia was transformed into Washington’s indispensable ally, a “hero” in the Cold War narrative. Today, echoes of that transformation are being heard again.

The Naked Truth of History

Events can turn men into giants—or villains—depending on where the tide flows. What seems improbable one year becomes inevitable the next. We’ve seen this cycle before: Zia rose on the back of global upheaval, and another figure may be on the same trajectory today.

The parallels are striking. From the journey of an Army Chief elevated by circumstance to the shifting regional order that empowers him, the pattern is hard to ignore.

Weak Leaders, Corrupt Politicians, and Jailed Rivals

Look at the cast around him. America is led by a Trump who resembles Carter in weakness yet surpasses him in impulsiveness. Pakistan’s political scene remains dominated by figures like Shehbaz Sharif and the Zardari family, whose reputations are tied to corruption. And then there is Imran Khan, fiery but erratic, sitting in jail like Bhutto once did—an opposition leader out of play at the critical moment.

These aren’t coincidences. They are reminders of how power, weakness, and opportunism weave together when history decides to repeat itself.

The Blunders That Shifted Everything

Neither Saudi Arabia nor the United States once gave Hafiz much attention. Yet circumstances shifted. Prime Minister Modi’s misstep—just as Brezhnev blundered by dragging the Soviet Union into Afghanistan—altered the flow of events. One error by a leader can reconfigure entire regions.

And then there were the local blunders: Afghan Taliban clerics, and even Baloch nationalists, overplaying their hands. Attacks like the one on the Jaffer Express changed narratives and redefined strategies. What was once marginal suddenly became central.

The Lesson That Keeps Coming Back

The lesson is uncomfortable, but inescapable. History repeats not out of habit, but because leaders keep making the same mistakes. Foreign interventions, impulsive decisions, unchecked corruption, and political shortsightedness create the same storms again and again.

Zia’s rise was never inevitable—it was the product of Soviet hubris and American fear. Today’s moment, too, is shaped not by design but by miscalculations and blunders.

That is the naked truth of history: it doesn’t just move forward, it circles back, reshaping old stories with new faces.

Pakistan’s Hybrid System: A Softer Word for Dictatorship

 

I keep thinking about something Justice Athar Minallah said in Karachi the other day. He didn’t dress it up in legal jargon, didn’t hedge his words with “on the one hand, on the other hand.” He just called it what it is: Pakistan’s so-called “hybrid system” — that awkward dance between civilians and the “real powers” — is nothing more than dictatorship in disguise.

That stings, doesn’t it? And it should.

Because when a senior judge admits, openly, that the judiciary’s 77-year record is not a source of pride but of shame, it forces us to confront the ghosts we keep sweeping under the carpet. He mentioned the old Maulvi Tamizuddin case, when judges bent to executive will. He reminded us of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s controversial trial, and how Musharraf’s coup and emergency were wrapped in judicial blessings. Every time the country reached a fork in the road, the bench tilted toward power, not principle.

But here’s the thing: Justice Minallah also pointed out that not all judges bowed. Some resisted. And those few, often forgotten in our political storytelling, are proof that courage was possible. That matters because it reminds us the collapse of institutions wasn’t inevitable — it was a choice.

The pattern hasn’t changed much. Hybrid experiments have only weakened the very institutions they pretend to “balance.” Civilian leaders end up shouldering the blame when policies fail. The “actual powers” step back, pretending their hands are clean. And the judiciary, time and again, provides the legal stamp. Compare this with democracies where elected leaders are accountable before voters. That’s the missing piece here: accountability.

It’s not that we lack a road map. The Constitution spells it out, in black and white. Parliament makes the laws. The judiciary interprets them. The military defends the borders. Simple enough. Yet every few years, those boundaries blur. And the blurring costs us dearly.

Think of the present moment: militant insurgencies in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan, a hostile India to the east, an unreliable regime in Kabul. These are serious, existential challenges. Can we really afford a military distracted by political management? When guns are turned inward, when courtrooms echo with the “doctrine of necessity,” who exactly is watching the frontiers?

The scars are everywhere. From direct military rule to hybrid tinkering, Pakistan has paid a price in broken institutions, weakened parliaments, and public distrust. Justice Minallah’s warning was clear: democracy cannot breathe in half-light. Either institutions respect their limits, or we stay stuck in the same cycle — forever balancing on someone else’s terms.

And maybe that’s the bluntest truth: the hybrid system isn’t a compromise. It’s a slow suffocation of democracy, dressed up to look respectable. We can call it partnership, power-sharing, “stability.” But as Justice Minallah said, at the end of the day, it’s just dictatorship with better marketing.

Pakistan’s Floods and the Business of Selling Riverbeds

Assalam-o-Alaikum. My name is Umar Bhatt.

Have you ever thought of buying a plot inside a river? It sounds like a joke. Yet in Pakistan, it is real. Advertisements have appeared in newspapers offering land on riverbeds. This is not clever marketing. It is fraud against nature itself, and when nature is betrayed, it has its own way of taking revenge. This year’s floods have brought the issue back to life.

A Housing Society on the Ravi

When the Ravi River swelled, videos surfaced of Park View Society in Lahore. Its outer wall stands against the riverbank. No country in the world allows such reckless construction. The society belongs to politician Abdul Aleem Khan, who also owns SAMAA News. The project is formally called Ravi River Edge Society, Phase Two.

Aleem Khan’s political career has spanned the Q League, PTI, and now Istehkam-e-Pakistan. Former Prime Minister Imran Khan was accused of treating him and Jahangir Tareen as “ATM machines.” In Pakistan’s politics, sponsors fund leaders and are rewarded with freedom for both legal and illegal ventures. The Khokhar brothers in Lahore are accused of doing the same for the Sharif family.

The question is direct: was Ravi land given illegally to Aleem Khan? PTI says Imran Khan refused, which is why Aleem Khan broke away. Imran Khan himself admitted in a podcast that Aleem Khan wanted 300 acres inside the Ravi riverbed legalized. How can riverbed land belong to anyone? The only answer is corruption.

Reports in Bol News revealed Park View Society had occupied 8,000 kanals of government land and sold it. Aleem Khan even claims ownership of 3,000 acres, supposedly bought from a third party. How could a third party own river land? The pattern is familiar: seizure, collusion, and silence.

When Floods Become Political

Like every crisis in Pakistan, floods turn into political fights. After the Ravi floods, PML-N accused Imran Khan’s failed project of causing the damage. PTI countered that if Ravi City under RUDA had been completed, floods would have been prevented. The plan promised a 46 km lake, three barrages, an urban forest, and six treatment plants. Tweets even claimed it could handle 600,000 cusecs of water. Yet in August, just 91,000 cusecs at Shahdara was labelled “high flood.”

Meanwhile, dozens of housing societies spread along the Ravi’s banks. Al Rehman Garden, New Metro City, Kingdom Valley, Iqbal Garden, Al-Karam Garden, and Greenland Residency are among them. Many built illegally on government land. Officials took their share and life carried on until the river rose.

From Rawalpindi to Karachi: The Same Story

Rawalpindi’s floods showed the same truth. Bahria Town Phase 8 and Faisal Hills were accused of encroaching on the Sawan River, reclaiming its bed, and selling plots without NOCs. Cases were filed, but no one believes this happened without the help of the Rawalpindi Development Authority. When rivers are stolen, floods will follow. Blaming climate change is a convenient excuse.

In Karachi, Bahria Town took over land from the Malir, Langerji, and Tharai rivers, diverting natural flows. Villagers now live with routine flooding. Even Bahria Town itself suffered damage during heavy rains in 2022.

And it is not only rivers. Even Karachi’s main sewage drains have been occupied. Gujjar Nala, Orangi Nala, and Mehmoodabad Nala were filled with illegal buildings. These were approved with the help of local authorities. A Supreme Court-ordered clean-up in 2020–21 destroyed thousands of illegal structures. But after the government changed, the mafias returned with political protection. In the recent rains, Karachi’s streets turned to rivers. Cars drowned. Families were stranded for hours.

Playing Games with Nature

Around the world, airports are built far from cities. In Pakistan, housing schemes advertise being “two minutes from the airport” as a selling point. Mountains are cut, rivers are filled, and lakes are squeezed to make hotels. In Swat’s Bahrain and Kalam, hotels rise in the middle of rivers and lakes. Some have already collapsed.

No country allows riverbeds or lakes to be private property. Here, such construction is illegal but thrives with official collusion. When disaster comes, the same corrupt officers arrive to demolish what they earlier approved. Politicians, land mafias, and bureaucrats share the profits. Floods keep coming. The poor keep losing their homes.

A Question Without an Answer

People often ask me for solutions. But what can I suggest? Should I call on government bodies, when they themselves enable the encroachment? Should I hold politicians responsible, when land mafias finance their rallies, elections, even weddings? Even if a new authority is created, it will likely be filled with the same corrupt men.

The truth is bitter. The hearts of those in power are full of greed, not mercy. That is why I can only pray for God’s compassion. Because these men have none.

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📹 Source: Umer Butt, YouTube – Watch the original video here

The City That Refused to Heal: Karachi's Haunted Neighborhoods

 

The tea stall is quieter than it used to be. No laughter. Just the scrape of spoons on glass. It's not just the economy, or the heat. It's something heavier — like a silence waiting to explode

You walk through Orangi Town, and something feels off.
Not the roads. Not the trash. That's normal.
It's the way people avoid eye contact.
The way no one mentions 1986. Or 2011. Or even 2022.

You begin to realize: Karachi is a city that has grown, but never grieved.

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Blood on the Map

Every street in Karachi has a story. Some have ghosts.

• Qasba–Aligarh Massacre (1986) : Over 200 killed, mostly Muhajirs, in an ethnic revenge attack that most Pakistanis have never heard of.

• May 12, 2007 : 48 dead in one day. The Chief Justice couldn't leave the airport. Karachi was shut down — by design.

• Lyari Operations (2012–2013) : A Baloch neighborhood turned into a warzone. RPGs fired from rooftops. Kids ducking under sofas.

These weren't random outbreaks. They were engineered silences — planned, then buried.
No commissions. No documentaries. No memorial plaques.

It's as if the city decided to amputate parts of its memory just to keep breathing.

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What Happens When a City Forgets?

Here's what I noticed:

When a city forgets, it doesn't heal.
It hardens .

Go to Korangi or Gulistan-e-Johar. Ask an 18-year-old about the MQM, or the ANP, or the Rangers' operations. Blank stares. Some memes. No memories.

Because Karachi's violence was never archived. It was deleted.
Or worse — uploaded as propaganda, then throttled by boredom.

Meanwhile, the victims — the families, the witnesses, the falsely accused — live in a kind of suspended grief. They can't mourn. They can't speak. They can't even get a news channel to return their call.

So the trauma stays local. Whispered. Piece. Infectious.

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Haunted Neighborhoods That Smile for the Camera

A weird thing happened when I walked through Lines Area last month.

New buildings. Fancy signage. A juice bar that takes debit cards.

And yet, the moment I asked a resident about “those years” — the 90s, the crackdowns, the kidnappings — she froze.

“No one talks about that now,” she said quietly.

There's a wound beneath the concrete.
Paint over it. Build over it.
But it pulses.

Because you cannot force healing on people who were never allowed to admit they were broken.

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The Injustice of Silence

Truth commissions in Rwanda. Apologies in South Africa.
But in Karachi?

• No national day for riot victims.

• No museum for urban conflict.

• No state acknowledgment of operations that went rogue.

The Baloch of Lyari, the Muhajirs of Orangi, the Pashtuns of Sohrab Goth — they all carry a version of Karachi's wound.

But each one thinks they're the only one bleeding .

And that's the deepest cruelty. Not the violence.
But the loneliness after it.

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The City Still Breathes. But It Doesn't Sleep.

Karachi keeps going. Because it must.
People still open shops, pour chai, marry, pray, survive.

But behind the rhythm of this city is a heartbeat that's… off.
Like it skipped a few beats in the 90s.
And never quite caught up.

Maybe one day, Karachi will remember.
Out loud. Together.

But for now?
The neighborhoods remember alone.

And the city — the city pretends it's fine.

The City That Feeds the Nation — And Gets Left to Rot

Karachi makes the money.

But Lahore gets the praise.

Islamabad makes the rules.

And the people of Lyari, Korangi, and Baldia bear the consequences.

You ever seen a factory worker sleep on a bus at 6 a.m.? That’s Karachi.

You ever waited 10 days for clean water while your city exports billions? That’s Karachi too.

This isn’t just an economic imbalance. It’s a moral one.

And it’s been festering for decades.

 Karachi: The Breadwinner with Empty Pockets

Let’s start with the facts:

Karachi contributes up to 54% of Pakistan’s total exports and nearly 40% of national GDP.

📌 Source: State Bank of Pakistan - Economic Data

Over 70% of the country’s tax revenue comes from Karachi, according to former FBR officials.

📌 Source: Business Recorder

It hosts Pakistan’s largest ports — Karachi Port and Port Qasim — handling more than 90% of foreign trade.

📌 Source: Port Qasim Authority | Karachi Port Trust

And yet:

Karachi ranks 5th most unlivable city in the world.

📌 Source: Economist Intelligence Unit, 2023 Global Liveability Index

Garbage collection is so dysfunctional that a Chinese company was hired — and even they gave up in 2022.

📌 Source: Dawn News on Chinese firm quitting

Karachi suffers chronic water shortages — despite having the highest per capita tax contribution in Pakistan.

📌 Source: Urban Resource Centre Karachi

This isn’t neglect. This is structural abandonment.

💣 The Ethnic and Political Curse

Karachi is not just a megacity — it’s a battlefield of competing interests.

MQM vs PPP

Pashtuns vs Muhajirs

State vs local government

Rangers vs Police

Mayor vs Chief Minister

And in the middle of this chessboard? 20 million people just trying to survive.

Karachi never got true local government autonomy, despite being promised it by Article 140-A of Pakistan’s Constitution.

📌 Source: Constitution of Pakistan

Instead, Sindh’s provincial government runs the show — while Karachi bleeds and burns.

Everyone Eats. But No One Stays to Clean Up.

You know what hurts the most? The silence.

When Karachi floods, media blames the rain — not the system.

When Karachi riots, they call it “ethnic tensions” — not failed urban planning.

When Karachi dies, Pakistan shrugs.

But when the profits roll in? Suddenly everyone’s a stakeholder.

Ask any trader from Punjab, any transporter from Balochistan, any investor from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa: Karachi is where the money is.

Yet when MQM was crushed, or Lyari was carpet-searched, or Baldia Town factory workers were burnt alive —

Nobody marched for Karachi.

📌 Baldia factory fire report - 260 killed

So Who Owns Karachi?

Karachi palta hai.

Sab ko.

Without complaint.

But who owns its soul?

The federal government? The Sindh Assembly? The military? Or the gang with the most guns in Korangi?

Everyone wants a piece of the city —

But no one wants to clean the blood off the sidewalk.

What Could Justice Look Like?

Here’s what Karachi needs — not charity, just what it's owed:

A directly elected, empowered mayor

Transparent, merit-based policing

Full implementation of Article 140-A

Urban services disconnected from party patronage

Media narratives that reflect its contribution, not just its chaos

 Maybe That’s The Problem

Karachi palta hai sab ko —

Lekin is ke liye koi nahi bachta.

And maybe that’s what makes it Pakistan’s most honest city.

The lies wear off fast here.

What stays is smoke, hunger, and one bitter truth:

Karachi doesn’t need your pity. It needs your accountability