Nations live by stories—but perish by silences.
Pakistan was founded in the name of representation, only to be ruled by remote control. The script has changed actors, not authors. 'Aliens' govern in invisible clothes; civilians rule with coerced consent. Elections occur, but expectations are managed. The ballot is sacred, yet powerless.
We asked for democracy. We received doctrine.
We sought justice. We got jurisprudence without memory.
We demanded leaders. We were handed legacies.
And when we asked who decides, we were told to move on.
Our history isn’t written—it’s revised. Prime ministers are elevated and erased like annotations in the margins. Martyrs are remembered selectively. Verdicts arrive forty years late. Power is passed, not earned. The people are invited to vote, never to govern.
Even the Constitution, solemn in tone, declares that sovereignty belongs to Allah, exercised by the people. Yet the people remain voiceless beneath a hybrid order too afraid to trust them. Devolution is promised, then postponed. Grassroots democracy is praised, but never planted.
Still, the questions remain. Not because they bring revolution—but because they refuse amnesia.
Who rules? Who benefits? Who forgets?
And finally—who will dare to change the script?
Until questions become rights, and not risks, we remain what we have long been:
A republic of riddles.
