Pakistan’s Crisis of Freedom: A Nation Adrift from the Promise of Independence

More than seven decades after the lowering of the Union Jack and the rise of the crescent flag, Pakistan continues to grapple not only with political and economic instability but with something far deeper—a fundamental crisis of freedom. It is a freedom not stolen by foreign forces, but surrendered by the very people for whom it was won.

In 1947, Pakistan was not just carved out as a safe haven for South Asia’s Muslims. It was envisioned as a state where rights, dignity, and justice would define the citizen-state relationship. Muhammad Ali Jinnah did not struggle for a flag or a border—he fought for a society built on constitutionalism, equality, and civic empowerment. Yet, the state that emerged is one where the elite rules and the citizen submits; where institutions serve themselves, not the public; and where freedom is reduced to symbolism, not substance.

Today, Pakistan is a nation where judges selectively dispense justice, where generals operate above the law, and where bureaucrats and politicians use the state as a vehicle for personal gain. Hospitals heal only those who can pay. Police enforce obedience, not protection. Banks exploit rather than empower. Media platforms echo the voices of their financiers, not the cries of the common citizen. What began as a promise of people’s power has become a theatre of elite entitlement.

But this rot did not fester in isolation. The real enablers of this crisis are the 240 million Pakistanis who have, through silence and surrender, allowed it to metastasize. State institutions do not rule by divine right—they rule because the people refuse to resist. The absence of civic pressure has created a vacuum in which state functionaries now operate unchecked, outside their constitutional mandates.

In any functioning democracy, society itself is the regulator. It is the public—not the generals, not the judges—that defines the boundaries of acceptable governance. Courts, police, parliaments, and even militaries must operate within a framework of accountability and transparency, serving the constitution and, through it, the people. Pakistan’s tragedy is that this compact has collapsed. And worse still, it has collapsed without meaningful resistance.

Many Pakistanis continue to believe that rights are granted by the state—as if freedom is a gift from rulers rather than a claim made by the ruled. This misunderstanding is both dangerous and disabling. In truth, rights are neither inherited nor donated; they are seized, protected, and—when necessary—fought for. Across history, from Selma to Soweto, freedom has been earned through confrontation, not compliance.

Pakistan’s deeper crisis, therefore, is not legal or political—it is moral and intellectual. It is a crisis of civic imagination. The colonial rulers may have departed, but the colonial mindset persists. In the aftermath of partition, Pakistanis did not reimagine what it meant to be free; instead, they simply replaced white masters with brown ones. We changed the faces of authority, not the foundations of power.

The result? A country where public officials act like owners of the state, not servants of the people. Where tax-funded institutions operate with impunity, treating citizens as subjects rather than stakeholders. And yet, despite this abuse, the public rarely mobilizes. Outrage simmers in private but rarely boils over in collective action.

No messiah will fix this. No outside force will redeem us. If Pakistan is to chart a new course, it must begin with self-examination. Why have we accepted authoritarianism in civilian clothing? Why do we cheer for personalities but not policies? Why have we tolerated humiliation in exchange for stability that never arrives?

To change course, Pakistan needs a second freedom struggle—this time, not for a homeland, but for the soul of the republic. It must be a struggle for constitutionalism, civic education, economic justice, and institutional accountability. It must be driven by ordinary citizens who refuse to accept indignity as normal and who are willing to challenge power in all its forms.

This journey will not be easy. It will require the same blood, sweat, and sacrifice that marked the original fight for independence. But if it is not undertaken, the dream of 1947 will remain unfulfilled, and Pakistan will continue to drift—free in name, but captive in reality.

True independence is not marked by borders or flags, but by the lived dignity of its people. Until that dignity is restored, Pakistan will remain a nation waiting to be born.

The problem runs deep. It’s not just institutional—it’s cultural, psychological, and historical. In Pakistan, power is not seen as a public responsibility; it's worshipped as a divine entitlement. From police officers and judges to bureaucrats, military officials, and politicians, those in authority are not treated as public servants. We treat them as untouchable overlords—figures to obey, not question.

This dangerous reverence steadily erodes any sense of accountability. Over time, those in power grow intoxicated by impunity. They begin to abuse their positions, forgetting that the offices they hold exist to serve, not to rule. It’s the colonial legacy—the lingering master-subject equation—that we’ve internalized. And so, the powerful ascend unchecked, while the public, ironically, exalts those who oppress them.

As someone who has had the privilege to live and travel across the world, I have never witnessed government officials or public figures abuse their positions so brazenly—and still be treated as superior beings. The scale of perks, privileges, and entitlements enjoyed by Pakistan’s civil and military elite is staggering. It’s all funded by a taxpayer base that remains one of the most underserved and impoverished in the world. What society tolerates this level of contradiction?

And yet, we do. As if it were a mental illness. As if we are trapped in a collective Stockholm syndrome. We justify, excuse, and even glorify our abusers. We don't just accept our exploitation—we participate in it.

The media, once a pillar of democratic accountability, has largely become complicit. Instead of challenging the powerful, it now amplifies their narratives, spins their failures into triumphs, and protects their interests. For many media professionals, integrity has become negotiable—a small price to pay for access, favor, and financial gain.

The tragedy is that we, the people, have normalized this inversion of values. Our heroes are not those who fight for justice, but those who serve the system. Those who dare to speak out are branded as traitors, while those who entrench inequality are adorned with medals.

It is not just systemic—it is endemic. We’ve become a nation in love with its abusers. And until we confront this truth, until we free ourselves mentally, we will remain shackled—hostages to our colonial past, prisoners of our own perceptions. Freedom begins in the mind. Only when we feel free in our heads can we truly live free.