Qamar Bashir
There is a near-universal consensus in Pakistan on one key principle: the country must progress. No matter which province or ethnicity one belongs to—Punjabi, Sindhi, Baloch, or Pashtun—every citizen yearns for a future where poverty is defeated, dignity is restored, and opportunities abound. This shared national aspiration should have been the most powerful unifying force in Pakistan’s journey toward nationhood. Yet, the question persists: why, despite this common desire, has Pakistan struggled to achieve sustained progress?
The answer lies in the fractured relationship between the state, the Constitution, and the people. The Constitution of Pakistan is not merely a legal document—it is a solemn covenant. It lays down the rights of individuals, the responsibilities of the state, and the mechanisms that bind both in a democratic order. At its heart, the Constitution grants citizens the freedom to dream, to pursue meaningful opportunities, and to live with dignity. But when this foundational contract is ignored or manipulated—whether by state institutions, non-state actors, or even by segments of the political class—societal unrest becomes inevitable.
Justice must form the cornerstone of any thriving nation. Without it, the moral and institutional fabric begins to unravel. When citizens feel deprived of their rightful place in national decision-making or believe that their resources are being unjustly distributed, resentment takes root. These grievances are not abstract—they manifest in broken trust, in mass disenfranchisement, and, ultimately, in resistance against the very institutions meant to serve the people.
This has been particularly evident in regions like Balochistan. It is an uncontested truth that the Baloch people deserve equal access to education, employment, and economic opportunities. They must be seen not as passive recipients of state policy, but as active partners in the development of their land and its vast resources. If some among them have chosen the path of armed resistance, it is not necessarily rebellion—it is, more accurately, a cry of anguish stemming from decades of neglect and perceived injustice. The only sustainable resolution lies in dialogue, inclusion, and the empowerment of local populations. Force has never resolved discontent rooted in genuine grievances.
A similar principle applies to other regions. In Sindh, for example, disputes over water distribution—such as proposed diversions to irrigate the Cholistan desert—must be addressed through transparent dialogue and scientific analysis. These issues should never be approached as top-down decrees from Islamabad but rather as subjects for national consensus. Development must not proceed at the cost of alienation. It must be for the people, by the people—with the people.
At the heart of this debate is the question: who is development for? Infrastructure projects, resource extraction, and even military installations mean little if they do not result in tangible improvements in the lives of citizens—better schools, functional hospitals, dignified housing, and reliable jobs. Development cannot be an instrument of control. It must be a vehicle for upliftment.
Here, we can learn from global examples. China, once grappling with vast poverty and regional inequality, made human development its primary goal. By investing aggressively in education, healthcare, poverty reduction, and skill-building, it laid the groundwork for rapid economic transformation and social cohesion. Pakistan must do the same. We must realize that our greatest national asset is not our minerals, mountains, or motorways—it is our people.
Indeed, when we assess our strengths, it becomes clear that Pakistan’s most valuable resource is its human capital. The second is its institutions. Among these, the Pakistan Armed Forces stand as a powerful guardian of national sovereignty. Their strategic acumen has been demonstrated on multiple occasions—whether in 2019, when they responded decisively to Indian aggression by downing a hostile aircraft, or more recently, when they responded proportionately to Iranian incursions targeting terrorists within Pakistani territory. The message has been clear: Pakistan will defend its sovereignty, but it will do so with discipline and precision.
The enduring strength of our armed forces has served as a deterrent to external threats for decades. Similarly, Pakistan’s civil bureaucracy, though often maligned, is among the most talented in the developing world. However, despite these institutional strengths, the overall system appears paralyzed. Why?
Because we have consistently failed to invest in our people. We have allowed internal divisions to fester instead of resolving them. We have launched projects without community consent. We have designed policies in isolation rather than in partnership with those most affected. This disconnection is eroding not just the legitimacy of governance, but the very cohesion of the state.
For progress to be meaningful, every citizen—regardless of ethnicity or location—must feel that they have a fair stake in the system. When people are heard, respected, and empowered, they become guardians of the state, not agitators against it. It is only through the inclusion of marginalized voices that we can move toward a more democratic, peaceful, and prosperous Pakistan.
To do this, we must reimagine how we govern and whom we serve. We must move beyond centralization and embrace participatory governance. We must institutionalize consultation, particularly for major development projects, so that controversies are addressed before they erupt into crises. We must dismantle the notion that the state knows best, and instead acknowledge that it is the people—especially those closest to the problems—who often hold the best solutions.
We must also end the toxic cycle of exclusion and marginalization. When citizens believe that their voices don’t matter, they retreat from civic life—or worse, they resist the system itself. But when they are brought into the fold, when they see the dividends of peace and participation, they become its most ardent defenders.
Let us think of Pakistan as a tree. For it to grow strong and weather storms, its roots—our people—must be nurtured. Its trunk—our Constitution—must be solid and unyielding. Its branches—our institutions—must be firm yet flexible. And its leaves—our provinces—must flourish in harmony. Only then will future generations inherit a country that is not merely a territory, but a shared, thriving dream.
This is not idealism—it is necessity. We can no longer afford to treat justice as optional, or inclusion as cosmetic. The survival, strength, and success of Pakistan depend on a renewed covenant between the state and its people. A covenant based on dignity, on participation, and above all, on trust.
Qamar Bashir
Press Secretary to the President (Rtd)
Former Press Minister at Embassy of Pakistan to France
Former MD, SRBC
Macomb, Detroit, Michigan
