(IMAGE CREDIT: WIKIPEDIA)Hope in a flawed system is still possible and still necessary
We Pakistanis often describe our country with familiar words: corrupt, unfair, and dominated by nepotism. I am no exception; as a teacher, I have long been vocal about the structural weaknesses that shape our institutions. Young people repeatedly ask the same question: Does hard work even matter here? Their frustration is understandable. When merit is routinely undermined, hope becomes an expensive luxury.
Yet every so often, a story surfaces that complicates our cynicism, not by denying Pakistan’s problems, but by reminding us that this country, despite its imperfections, still has the capacity to surprise us. The rise of General Sahir Shamshad Mirza is one such example.
Born in Mulhal Mughlan, a small village in Chakwal, orphaned at a young age, and raised far from the circles of privilege that often shape Pakistan’s power elite, Mirza followed a path that was anything but guaranteed. No political lineage, no influential relatives, no inherited networks. What he carried instead were the quieter tools of mobility: discipline, education, and consistency. Over nearly four decades of service, he rose through the ranks of the Pakistan Army, ultimately becoming Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee.
His story does not erase the structural inequalities that confront millions of Pakistanis. Nor does it suggest that the system is fair, transparent, or free of patronage. But it does illuminate a truth that often gets overshadowed in our national discourse: even in flawed systems, merit can still break through.
For many young Pakistanis, the narrative of total hopelessness has become an easy refuge. It is simpler to believe that everything is rigged than to engage in the slow, often frustrating work that success requires. Education loses meaning when outcomes are assumed to be predetermined. Effort becomes irrelevant when cynicism offers a ready-made explanation for failure.
But the claim that nothing is possible in Pakistan is not only defeatist; it is inaccurate.
Yes, the system is uneven. Yes, patronage often distorts fairness. But there remain institutions, pockets of professionalism, and individuals whose journeys reflect the possibility of upward mobility. They may be exceptions rather than the rule, but exceptions matter. They prove that agency has not been extinguished, that effort still finds openings, and that the country is not completely closed to talent.
General Mirza’s career is not merely a military story; it is a reminder that ordinary beginnings can still lead to extraordinary outcomes. It is also a quiet rebuke to those of us, teachers, parents, mentors, who at times inadvertently pass our cynicism down to the young.
Critiquing the system is necessary. Pretending it cannot be changed is not.
We must teach our young people to hold two truths at once:
Pakistan has serious structural problems.
And Pakistan is not devoid of opportunity.
The first truth keeps them grounded in reality.
The second keeps them moving.
For a student in Chakwal, Khairpur, Dera Bugti, or Turbat, the path may be longer and less predictable than it should be. The burden of inequality is real, and they shoulder more obstacles than they deserve. But if someone from a small village, an orphan at a young age, can rise to the highest military office in the country, then the argument that “nothing is possible here” simply does not hold.
What Pakistan’s youth need today is not false hope or state-crafted optimism. They need realistic optimism, one that acknowledges the weight of the system but refuses to let that weight crush ambition.
When I look at my students, I see potential that exceeds the limits of the structures around them. They are sharper, more informed, and more globally aware than any generation before them. What they require is not a guarantee of success, but the assurance that their effort still matters.
General Mirza’s journey offers that assurance, not as a template for everyone, but as proof that excellence is not entirely shut out by the system. It can still carve its own path.
Pakistan may not be perfect, and it may not be fair. But it is not immobile. There is movement. There are openings. There is space for those who work with consistency, discipline, and integrity.
In a landscape where cynicism has become fashionable, hope itself becomes a quiet form of resistance. And perhaps that is the lesson young Pakistanis need most today: do not give up your right to hope. Work hard. Remain honest. Keep learning. Let your journey become the next reminder that Pakistan, even in its flawed state, still leaves room to rise.
Even in its imperfections, this country still leaves room to rise for those who refuse to stop trying. Cynicism may be the easier path, but it is disciplined effort that quietly reshapes destinies. Pakistan’s flaws are real, yet so are the stories that continue to defy them, reminding us that hope is never wasted.
