Every 14th August, the people around me celebrate it with such enthusiasm that it leaves me wondering if I have lost the ability to feel joy. How can I celebrate independence when there is so much uncertainty? Is it too much luck for me to be born into a home where I can live my life as I choose?
Do not get me wrong. I learnt at a young age about the sacrifices our ancestors made to ensure our freedom. My own constitution now fails to protect the same freedom that our ancestors fought for. We may have achieved our independence from the British, but a bigger and perhaps a more brutal fight stands in front of us. And the fight is against our own rulers, who mimic our colonisers even after 78 years of apparent freedom.
It feels we have entered an age where crisis is no longer an event but rather a permanent state of existence. Our institutions, our sanity, and our hopes are left stranded in the scorching sun of the desert as one political storm barely passes before another confronts us. There is no recovery phase, no pause, and absolutely no space for us to collect ourselves.
Rather, we’ve learnt early on that hope is perhaps the biggest injustice we do to ourselves. Thus, we become detached from the affairs of our country. Do you ever wonder why our nation never united against the unjust 27th Amendment? The answer is because we are far too divided — far too detached from our own country. But who can blame us? Those who stood against the system had an early demise, or worse, humiliation became their destiny. The rule is straightforward: involvement leads to depression, which in turn erodes your hopes, gradually leading to your downfall.
History, if taught without bias, will make you realise that Pakistan’s history has been a longstanding witness to our repeated chaos. Since the death of Quaid-e-Azam in 1948, the power dynamics have been reduced to a game of musical chairs, where our apparent leaders fought for the seat relentlessly, only to unleash their barbarism. Whether it be Sikandar Mirza, who imposed martial law so that elections could be delayed and people’s right to vote could be compromised, or the “apparent” stable period during Ayub Khan’s “golden years”, where development was at an all-time high, even then, the wealth only circulated among the 22 families.
The pattern continued with every government and martial law ever imposed. Our constitution is left worth nothing. The chaos was never new. The only difference is that now everything is broadcast live — both the propaganda and the truth. We see it all. Nevertheless, choose to scroll past it. We are conditioned that the bureaucracy and military function as the true spine of the state; democracy has remained merely performative. Perhaps I sound too pessimistic — but how am I expected to stay optimistic when I have witnessed these events and patterns unfold in real time?
From what happened to our East Wing (now Bangladesh) and to our people in Balochistan, to what is still happening to the Balochi people, it is absolutely barbaric. Yet, what’s worse is our capacity to digest this injustice flawlessly is almost surreal, and perhaps our resistance to it needs to be applauded! Somehow, we find nothing shocking.
As a Karachiite, I’ll let you in on a secret: we don’t care. The roads are torn open. The air is as sandy and suffocating as ever. And yet we always choose to adjust. We can wait hours in traffic as the city is dug up in every other corner with no end in sight. But perhaps we can reassure ourselves that there is no gang war anymore. If it can’t get better, then we shall rejoice that it hasn’t gotten worse.
I remember the exact moment my illusion broke that things would get better — when Imran Khan was removed from power. Not because I idolised him, but because it became painfully clear to me for the very first time that no one is ever truly given a chance. Leaders don’t change; they’re replaced. Progress isn’t planned; it’s carefully prevented.
So here I am, standing at a crossroads. In an age where crisis is constant, stability is mythical, and hopelessness is widespread — what role do I wish to play? Do I become part of the silence, or do I learn to speak, even if they die out unheard? Or worse, it hunts me down.
We may be living in the age of a permanent crisis. Or perhaps we have only now realised and acknowledged it.
But perhaps this acknowledgement is the beginning of a new era, where we do not revolt in the streets and rather bring up meaningful conversations in classrooms and family gatherings to challenge our comfort with this numbness and be more aware that we, the ordinary people, are not helpless. Perhaps, this is what real resistance looks like now. If hopelessness can spread silently, so can dissent.