Last month, speaking in Nawabshah, former president Asif Ali Zardari pledged that, if the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) won the upcoming elections, every household in Pakistan that doesn't already have a member in government services, would get the chance to have at least one member in a government job.
Zardari may have been blunter than other politicians, but it is no secret that politicians across Pakistan woo voters with government posts.
These are jobs that are not performance based — they come with security of tenure, access to power, pensions and other perks and privileges. They are, therefore, the top demand that people make of their representatives.
It is no surprise then that it is considered necessary that the caretaker government reshuffle the bureaucracy prior to an election.
The widely held perception is that the bureaucracy is politicised — bureaucrats are loyal to particular parties and politicians, and that they will act to favour them at election time.
There is no doubt that Pakistan’s bureaucracy is politicised from the street-level bureaucrats (teachers, patwaris) all the way up to the elite, Pakistan Administrative Service (PAS) bureaucrats.
At the street-level and mid-tier level, it is common for bureaucrats to leave their offices in the evening and join a gathering at a politician’s dera.
Amongst the elite bureaucracy, both politicians and bureaucrats have their favourites. Just as in the 1990s, lists are still made by political party leaders to identify bureaucrats who they trust and want to work with when they are in government.
And many bureaucrats make obvious moves (going out of the country, taking leave to work in other organisations or to study, moving from one province to another or to the federation) to avoid working with those they do not get along with.
How can bureaucrats favour a politician or a party at election time?
There are two ways: the first is in the run-up to election day, and the second is on election day itself.
In the run-up to the election, senior and mid-tier bureaucrats can play a crucial role in favouring some politicians over others.
In the districts, the police can be deployed to harass and intimidate opposition candidates, and bureaucrats can use regulations to create roadblocks (literally and figuratively) for less favoured parties and politicians, for instance by refusing or delaying permission for rallies.
Islamabad’s CDA’s recent decision to ban rallies, gatherings of more than five people, and pamphleteering in the month leading up to the election seems to be an example of such a strategy.
Such a move disadvantages small parties like the Awami Workers Party, who rely on public gatherings to win votes, and lack the connections and resources to cut through bureaucratic red tape (as their candidate for NA-53, Ammar Rashid, pointed out).
Senior and mid-tier bureaucrats in departments and districts (secretaries, commissioners, deputy commissioners, assistant commissioners, and district police officers) are also the ones responsible for the appointment of street-level bureaucrats (teachers, patwaris, station house officers, etc).
This can be done according to the wishes of a prominent politician who wants his voters and supporters to be accommodated with a government job (the way Zardari has claimed) or in posts of their choice.
Though the practice has become much less blatant since National Accountability Bureau investigations into illegal recruitments by Riaz Fatyana while he was Punjab Education minister, Anwar Saifullah Khan when he was minister for Petroleum, and more recently into Faisal Saleh Hayat while he was managing director of the Pakistan Housing Authority, it is still not uncommon for ministers to hand bureaucrats a list of names with the demand that they be accommodated with a government job.
The jobs can range from Class IV appointments such as guards and peons, to street-level posts such as patwaris, teachers, and health workers.
Bureaucratic appointments can also be made with the express intent of influencing voters on election day by ensuring that bureaucrats, and particularly police officers, who will be appointed as polling agents and security staff in a specific area, are friendly to a particular party or politician.
It is impossible to keep track of and check these appointments — there are simply too many in each province — and the majority of them will technically be legal, and therefore difficult to challenge.
Meanwhile, incumbent governments can take measures to win the loyalty of bureaucrats as well, mainly through regularisation schemes.
These schemes involve regularising contract employees so that they can enjoy the same perks and privileges as permanent employees of the government. These schemes are approved by
chief ministers as elections draw nearer and are a clear sign of bolstering the ruling party’s popularity and winning bureaucrats’ loyalty for the upcoming election.
Chief Minister Shehbaz Sharif regularised thousands of employees in April 2018, and Chief Minister Pervez Khattak did the same in February 2018 — and the timing of these decisions is not accidental.
How much good can a reshuffle of the bureaucracy by the caretaker government do?
While the caretaker government might be well-intentioned, seeking to transfer bureaucrats within and between provinces to ensure that the state machinery be as neutral as possible come election day, there are problems with these reshuffles.
The first problem is one of imperfect information on bureaucrats’ political loyalties. The caretaker government may know of the political loyalties of major bureaucratic players, but it can not possibly make an educated decision for the thousands of bureaucrats it reshuffles at various tiers of the administrative hierarchy.
Therefore, moving a bureaucrat from A to B may not actually reduce their influence over the electoral process, such as it may be.
In effect, caretaker reshuffles and the reshuffles carried out by the departing government, and by the new government when it takes office following elections, mean that the state machinery is in a state of turmoil for six months, effectively slowing down any actual work of government departments.
Furthermore, the way reshuffles work is that the caretaker government, with the approval of the Election Commission of Pakistan, transfers the top tier of bureaucrats. These bureaucrats then transfer the mid-tier bureaucrats under their purview, who can then transfer street-level bureaucrats.
However, in the short time available to the district bureaucracy, it is unlikely that a major reshuffle of mid-tier and street-level bureaucrats will take place.
Effectively, the bureaucrats staffing posts in the run-up to the election and polling stations are likely to be those appointed by the outgoing government, allowing opposition parties to cry foul on election day.
Even if we assume that a neutral bureaucrat has been found, they have very little time to become familiar with what may be an entirely new district or department.
This means that they must rely on bureaucrats already present in the department for information, potentially compromising the neutrality of the office despite the transferred officer’s best intentions.
A similar problem arises when bureaucrats are moved between provinces. The Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz and the PPP are deeply entrenched in Punjab and Sindh respectively, and it is difficult to staff the province with officers who have never dealt with these parties and the bureaucrats favoured by them in some manner.
This leads to the charge that the caretaker government is itself biased. But bringing in bureaucrats from other provinces might leave the officers with very little time to adjust to political realities that they are unused to, again making them completely reliant on bureaucrats working under them.
Finally, it is worth asking if bureaucrats’ loyalties to parties and politicians take precedence over their loyalty to themselves, their careers and even their cadre.
Any number of lobbies, groupings, and factions exist within the bureaucracy — political loyalties are but a part of bureaucratic identities.
Opposition parties continue to flag these loyalties and demand reshuffles but this is no substitute for a professional bureaucracy that is loyal to the state first. Such a bureaucracy is only possible through civil service reform.
There is no lack of proposals for reform. What is required is the will to implement them, not just of the politicians, but of the bureaucrats themselves.
Illustration by Mushba Said
Are you a researcher or policy advocate working on government reforms? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com
Maryam Nawaz on Saturday told reporters that she and her father, Nawaz Sharif (Sharifs), would return to Pakistan this coming Friday to file an appeal against the accountability court's decision in the Avenfield properties case.
A day earlier, the Sharif family had been sentenced in the Avenfield properties' corruption reference, with Nawaz getting 10 years’ imprisonment and £8 million in fine and Maryam, seven years’ imprisonment and £2 million in fine.
The Sharifs do have the right to appeal under Section 32 of the National Accountability Bureau (NAB) Ordinance before two judges of the Islamabad High Court (IHC). The IHC has inherent powers to accept the appeal, suspend the sentence(s) pending appeal and/or overrule the authorities’ sentence.
Convicts who do not surrender after their conviction generally cannot file an appeal.1 This is based on the sound principle that a convict can only seek protection of the law if he/she surrenders before the court of law.2
The Lahore High Court (LHC) dealt with a similar matter in 2002, whereby the (late) Begum Nusrat Bhutto was tried and convicted under the NAB Ordinance (she was overseas throughout the trial due to old-age incapacities).
After Nusrat Bhutto’s conviction, her daughter filed an appeal on Nusrat Bhutto’s behalf, which was rejected by the LHC. Begum Nusrat was deemed a fugitive under the law and therefore was not entitled to invoke provisions of the appeal till she had surrendered.3
A 2012 Supreme Court (SC) judgment4 might, however, leave some room for interpretation. The Sharifs could file their petition for suspension of sentence (pending appeal) under Section 426 (1) of the Code of Criminal Procedure (CrPC).
Section 426 (1) of the CrPC relates to a situation when a convict has filed for the suspension of sentence, has not yet surrendered before the police, but appears before the court instead.
In the aforementioned SC judgment, the Court found that a convict appearing before the High Court amounted to surrender, notwithstanding the fact that he had remained an absconder for more than a month after conviction, without surrendering to the police.
Consequently, the Sharifs could “surrender” under Section 426 (1) CrPC by appearing before the court without surrendering before the police. However, sources have stated that NAB authorities will be waiting to take the Sharifs into custody as soon as they arrive in Lahore. Furthermore, Maryam has stated that her father will be offering his arrest upon arrival.
Moving on, as aforementioned, the IHC does have inherent powers (Section 561-CrPC) to suspend the sentence pending appeal and/or grant bail to convicts. The rhetoric for this law is that there is no compensation for a conviction that may later be set aside, and that a conviction can always stand resumed from where it parted.5
An Appellate Court examining suspension of sentence (pending appeal) is only required to tentatively assess the evidence, as the court is not deciding the innocence or guilt of the convict.
High Courts have granted bail and suspension of sentences after conviction in certain NAB cases (e.g. appeal had been pending indefinitely without fault of convict, the convicts had previously been allowed bail during trial and were imposed a shorter sentence).
However, there exists little precedent for suspension of sentence and/or release on bail for convictions of seven years and more. This is in part due to the Section 497 CrPC prohibitory clause, whereby convictions of more than seven years are more are generally not granted bail exemption.
Therefore, the only real remedy for grant of bail and suspension of sentence for the Sharifs can be if the IHC finds that there are glaring errors apparent on the surface of the judgment.
Grave errors on mere appraisal of the evidence of NAB trial cases have been found in certain fact-patterns: prosecution witnesses who were relied upon to show collusion amongst convicts did not depose a single word connecting as such6; prosecution failed to cite towards particular provision of law to show illegality of convict’s action7; Trial Court’s assessment was based on conjectures and not established facts.8
Consequently, the Sharifs will have to establish a high threshold to show illegality within the authorities’ judgment based on a bare perusal of it to obtain suspension of sentence.
The Trial Court found that the prosecution successfully proved its burden under Section 9 (a) (v) of the Ordinance, as the properties found in possession of accused/Sharifs (i.e., London flats) were disproportionate to their known source(s) of income, and that the Sharifs did not satisfactorily account for possession of such property.
Consequently, the Sharifs were found guilty within Section 14 (c) of the NAB Ordinance for corrupt practices.
Critics have relied heavily on a 2011 SC judgment9 to assert that in order to convict under Section 9 (a) (v) of the NAB Ordinance, the prosecution must bring on record the misuse of authority of a public servant to show that the assets built by him is disproportionate to the known source of income.
However, in the aforementioned 2011 judgment, the apex court was critical of the fact that the authorities had filed a reference and claimed a non-existent nexus between misuse of a public official’s authority and accumulation of assets beyond known sources of income.
No such nexus was claimed by the prosecutors in this case. The Trial Court’s judgment was based entirely on the presence of disproportionality without sufficient explanation, which is enough to convict.
In fact, the SC’s Panama verdict briefly cited towards the 2011 judgment, and did not mention any requirement of nexus between misuse of public authority and ownership of benami property for the purposes of conviction.
Consequently, the Sharifs’ best bet would be to tackle the Trial Court’s handling of the evidence.
In appeal, it will have to be determined by the High Court whether the prosecution fulfilled its burden of proof (prima facie) that the Avenfield apartments were not purchased from the sources of incomes shown by the accused.
The Trial Court found that the prosecution fulfilled its burden of proof based on circumstantial/secondary evidence such as:
Documents showing Maryam’s connections with the holding company of the company that owned the Avenfield apartments; digital media such as video clips purporting to show various members of the Sharif family uttering words of possession and/or association with the Avenfield apartments at various times; the Sharif family living in the apartments since the year 1993; the British Virgin Islands' attorney general verifying Maryam’s beneficial ownership of the offshore companies and Nawaz being chairman of a Dubai offshore company owned by his son.
The culmination of all the circumstantial/secondary evidence led the Trial Court to determine that “the entire family…are one and the same monolith” in terms of culpability.
The Trial Court deemed credible the prosecution’s use of Joint Investigation Team’s (JIT) chart of the Sharif family’s assets and liabilities as their “known sources of income,” which was contrasted with the Avenfield properties to show disproportionate source(s) of income.
The Trial Court found that the Sharif family’s explanation(s) did not reasonably account for possession of such properties.
The infamous trust deed document purporting to show Maryam as a trustee and Hussain Nawaz as the beneficiary owner was dismissed by the Trial Court for the same reasons as the JIT Report (Calibri font).
The narration of investment with the Qatari royal family was deemed insufficient due to lack of corroboration.
The lack of production of documents of incorporation and articles of association of the offshore companies was impugned against the Sharif family as lack of sufficient explanation.
The lack of production of witnesses and presentation of additional documents also contributed to the lack of satisfactory explanation in the eyes of the Trial Court.
Finally, the Trial Court came to a conclusion that it was Nawaz’s unaccounted for money that purchased the apartment in 1993, and not the children, as they were held too young to have tangible assets.
It is settled law that circumstantial evidence should be of a conclusive nature. It should exclude every possible hypothesis except the one to be proven, and there must be a chance of evidence complete to the extent that it does not leave reasonable ground for conclusion consistent with the innocence of the violators.
This principle will hold the key in the adjudication of the appeal and suspension of sentence (pending appeal).
Illustration by Mushba Said
12005 YLR 1283, Sindh High Court.
22010 PLD 353, Lahore High Court
32002 PLD 74, Lahore High Court.
42012 SCMR 997, Supreme Court
52018 Pcr. LJ 610, Sindh High Court
62002 YLR 3996, Lahore
7Ibid.
8Ibid.
9PLD 2011 Supreme Court 1144
Are you a lawyer or public policy expert working on issues related to justice reform? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com
The media is the lifeblood of an election. In Pakistan’s context, even at the best of times, both elections and the media is widely believed to be adversely manipulated and influenced not just by corporate interests but also by powerful lobbies with political objectives.
This year, this month, with elections barely a fortnight away, is an alarming case in point for the country.
The very quality of elections and the project of democratic consolidation is at stake considering that some political parties are screaming murder at being arm-twisted within the electoral process and some media groups are crying foul at being intimidated.
Some of the largest political parties are finding it hard to do politics and some of the finest media is also finding it hard to conduct journalism at a time when both the constitutionally guaranteed freedoms are needed the most.
This is especially alarming considering that the role of the media in an election time is central to the purpose of the elections to produce renewed political mandates to pursue national priorities for the medium term.
Considering that media perceptions are critical in influencing public opinion, an intimidated media cannot help the electorate navigate the minefield of competing narratives amidst rising political temperatures by snipping away misinformation and conspiracy theories and providing the necessary information and analysis that helps people form informed opinions to make meaningful electoral choices.
Consider: the Pakistan Federal Union of Journalists (PFUJ), the representative association of the country’s 20,000 working journalists, is on a countrywide strike protesting attacks on journalists and media houses.
The Council of Pakistan Newspaper Editors (CPNE), the professional guild of the country’s print media editors, and the Pakistan Broadcasters Association (PBA), which represents the country’s about 50 independent current affairs TV channels and more than 150 private FM radio stations, have in recent days issued statements voicing concern and anger against what they describe is unprecedented intimidation of the media houses and working journalists that is putting journalists at risk and hurting their capacities to compete professionally within the industry.
This concern and alarm has also been shared vociferously by international media watchdogs such as Reporters Sans Frontieres, Committee to Protect Journalists and the International Federation of Journalists through special statements in recent days.
Also, global news media brands such as BBC, New York Times and The Guardian have in recent days run stories detailing the wanton and persistent intimidation of the media in Pakistan as well as hounding of and violence against freelance journalists and online information practitioners that is impacting the quality of election coverage.
In a hostile environment like this, how should the media in Pakistan perform its professional remit of being the guardian of public interest in the thick of an election?
In the information and social media age, everyone is a journalist as sharing, processing and dissemination of information is an act of journalism.
Professional journalism, however, is an organised act — as opposed to being personal and random — and governed by the same set of principles it always has been: focused on public interest and advantageous for the citizens in terms of being informative and educative to the point where its current affairs version becomes ‘news you can use’.
This is why we need free and fearless media — in other words, professional media — especially in times of elections.
The news media industry needs to strike a balance between the media’s imperative of seeking profits (because it is primarily a corporate entity) and optimising the media consumer interest.
It is not the easiest trick in the world but focusing on professionalism can offer a solution that respects both the opposing strands. And yet, in the absence of strong self-regulation within the industry, most of the media in Pakistan finds it easy to skirt professionalism.
Ironically what this engenders is a growing vulnerability to pressure from powerful sources, including errant state actors. While it compromises public interest, it also makes it difficult for the few media houses that want to stay professional, hence becoming vulnerable to be targeted.
The general disregard for professionalism — including downright wanton bias — by most of the media houses is troubling.
Most of the talk shows on TV being offered nowadays, in lieu of election coverage, for instance, are a poisonous menu of bias, hate speech and general intolerance for pluralist perspectives. Personal views are presented as facts and opinions masqueraded as analysis.
With very few exceptions, most media houses, including TV and newspapers, have resigned, for profit or under pressure, to compromising the interests of their audiences and prefer to provide maximum, but unfair, coverage to some parties than others.
Imran Khan gets the lion’s share of coverage — everything he does in public is beamed live. Whereas even the heads of other major parties — such as Bilawal Bhutto, Shahbaz Sharif, Asfandyar Wali, Hasil Bizenjo and Mahmood Achakzai — struggle to get similar time live on air.
It is remarkable that Bilawal’s multi-day election rallies and mammoth turnouts in Sindh in recent days have been all but blacked out by some of the media.
And yet others, like the often bile-spewing Sheikh Rasheed, get more air time than most party chiefs combined.
Other promising alternative platforms such as the Awami Workers Party, Barabari Party Pakistan and strong independent voices like Jibran Nasir stand no chance.
People have a right to hear these alternative voices; the media has no right to black them out.
The supposed benchmark for election coverage by the media, the Media Code of Conduct issued by the Election Commission of Pakistan, is a non-starter.
It directs the media to implement an idealist framework that is impossible to enforce, least of all by the media regulator Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority, which simply does not have the capacity, clout or credibility to nudge the TV channels into a broadly professional direction.
State regulation is never preferable anyway because it engenders censorship. But self-regulation is not working either.
News bulletins, for example, on most channels are out to deliberately caricature news items with a discernibly infotainment bent complete with film songs and cartoon jingles.
While talk shows in prime time — there are 147 daily talk shows on 49 channels — are mostly stuffed with the usual suspects comprising either third-tier political party representatives with the habit of only criticising their political opponents, or an army of retired military officials who unfailingly focus on caricaturing politics and politicians — none of them has a nice thing to say about Nawaz Sharif, for instance — while the hosts are, with a few exceptions, often remarkably shallow with their thematic contexts.
The Press and the Nation rise and fall together, they say. This adage rings strongly true because the inability of the media to self-regulate professionalism is matched only by the inability of the average journalist to resist self- or imposed partisanship, sensation and hysteria — resulting in the media becoming part of election-related confusion rather than the purveyor of clarity.
That the media influences public behaviour is amply clear — what happens on the talk shows in the evenings daily is an ample reflection of how the election is being conducted across the pulpits and the streets and at homes.
In general, reporting responsibly has never been the forte of Pakistani media, especially private TV channels.
But without self-regulatory bodies like PBA, CPNE, APNS and PFUJ agreeing on a joint mechanism to implement the various codes of ethics and conduct they already have, and a self-accountability on this implementation — like those in the US and most western European states — the media in Pakistan will persist in compromising public interest and continue being manipulated by the vested interests into vulnerability, even blackmail.
In the meanwhile, the quality of Pakistan’s elections will be directly proportional to the professionalism of the media.
Are you involved in media reform? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com
Since my last article about the role of members of the national assembly (MNAs) and members of the provincial assemblies (MPAs), the number one retort that I read was, 'why do these elected officials have development funds?'
Irrespective of the details that I laid out in that piece, the question seemed to be about development funds. The critical part that pushed me to write this piece was the sweeping assumption by many that, somehow, every single MNA or MPA gets development funds which they use for corruption.
Here I am again to tell you that is not the case. This also is a myth generated by the electronic media mostly to oversimplify the notion of what legislators are supposed to really do.
So, what is the development fund and how does it get allocated?
To start with, development funds are not issued to all MNAs or MPAs. There is a process for the allocation of these funds.
The first point is to understand where the development fund comes from. The answer to that is the Public Sector Development Program (PSDP), a very small portion of the federal budget.
Out of the PSDP comes the development fund. Now you may ask well, if it is coming through the PSDP, how can it go to the individual MNA or MPA?
Here is the next kicker: development funds do not get issued to the individual MNA or MPA; they get assigned to a project.
—Mushba Said
Most MNAs start their term by coming up with projects aimed at uplifting their constituency. Such projects may include the establishment of a college, university or skill training institute, or infrastructure-related initiatives.
They take this project to the Planning Commission to fill out a PC-1 form. This form is essentially a proposal for a project with details of how and why a project needs to be done and the resources needed.
Half the battle is to get the PC-1 form approved by the Planning Commission. The process can take anywhere between a year to three years: once it gets the Commission’s approval, it is then sent to the Ministry of Finance that must sign off on it since they must approve if the money is there for it or not.
Upon approval, it is sent to the Cabinet Division that sends it to the Cabinet meeting, who then must approve it to send it to the Prime Minister.
When the Prime Minister finally signs off on it, only then the money comes out of the PSDP to finance a project for the said constituency.
A similar process happens at the provincial level too.
The key thing to remember here is that, while people tend to look at MNAs and assume they must be minting money, they forget that, after the 18th Amendment, the federal government basically only has 48 percent of the total money while provinces get 52 percent of it.
Out of the 48 percent at the federal level, most of the money is channeled towards debt servicing and the military. Whatever money is left at the end, after all these expenditures, is for the PSDP.
So, in reality, a large number of MNAs never even get their projects approved to get some development funds. MPAs have a better shot at getting some money for their constituencies.
That is why, if you notice, the provincial governments have recently shelled out huge amounts of money on districts before the elections in an attempt to increase their chances of retaining or winning power because they have a lot more finances than the federal government for this.
At this point, many of you must be demanding to know how the elected officials earn money from all of this.
The short answer is — they do not.
That legislators make money from all of this is a myth. What normally happens is that elected officials use the perception of bringing projects to their constituencies to gain favours from local businesses.
They try to create a system of patronage for themselves where they can benefit through the perception of being influential enough to land projects in their districts.
The perception of power helps the legislators to make phone calls that can help out with smaller things like transfers or even recruitment at lower levels of government, but nothing huge.
That being said, senior leaders have more sway in landing projects.
For instance, the chances for Gujranwala or Narowal to get a piece of a mega-project is much higher than, say, Muzaffargarh.
The key to remember is that such instances are limited to senior leaders and not your average MNA or MPA.
In a province like Punjab, with over 300 ruling party MPAs, the chances that an average MPA will be able to get anything done, i.e. get a project for their constituency, is very low.
In essence, as a myth, the development funds are a powerful tool for MPAs and MNAs to yield power locally but, in reality, that is not the case.
Most MNAs and MPAs spend their tenure trying to get the PC-1 filled out and sent to the Ministry of Finance rather than raking in money through illicit means.
Former prime minister Nawaz Sharif and his daughter Maryam Nawaz returned to Pakistan Friday evening, following their conviction last week by an accountability court in the Avenfield reference case, in which the judge ruled that Nawaz, Maryam and her husband Captain Safdar owned assets beyond known income.
They were respectively handed jail sentences of 10, seven and one year each.
What does the Sharifs' decision to come back mean for their and Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz's political futures? How has the state handled the duo's return? Our analysts weigh in.
'The PML–N today is no longer the docile PML–N of 1999' — Adnan Rasool
Did the government go overboard in its reaction to the Sharifs' return?
The caretaker government went all out with its preparations to arrest two people who willingly came back to get arrested unlike a commando who is still refusing to come back to face treason charges.
And this is what will stick with the people going into the last 10 days of the election season: the state chose to go after the Sharifs rather than focus on other things.
The over-reaction by the caretaker Punjab government, highlighted by analysts like Nusrat Javed in the last few days, was not necessary. All this has done is to give the victimhood story line the PML–N has been pushing, more credence.
In short, a smarter caretaker government would have simply cordoned off the airport instead of shutting the city down, arrested both Maryam and Nawaz in the lounge and shuttled them to Rawalpindi.
It could have been a simple and clean arrest but instead, the state always somehow manage to muck up their best plans and turn the same people they want to vilify into heroes.
What do you make of the Sharifs' decision to come back?
For Nawaz and Maryam, the decision to return was important. Ever since 1999, Nawaz has been scarred by the taunts that he fled the first chance he got. So, this time around, he needed to do this to wash away that black mark.
For Maryam, this is the tipping point where she can legitimately play herself to be like the person she has modeled her career on i.e. Benazir Bhutto.
Whether they spend the whole jail time they have been given is up for debate, but what this whole thing has shown is that this PML–N is no longer the docile PML–N of 1999/2000.
Another factor being ignored right now is that the party is now crafting a social identity for itself beyond just a political party.
The party may have been founded by the patronage of a dictator, but it has essentially built the perception now as the only one to stand up to the iron-fisted interventions of the powers-that-be.
'Coming back was a political necessity' — Arifa Noor
How has the government handled Nawaz and Maryam's return? Was such a reaction necessary?
The administration's reaction was an overkill; they could have done without it.
Unfortunately, this is how the state in Pakistan is structured and this how it functions each time there is any kind of a protest.
Whoever is in power — or whoever controls the state — will do something like this. So, for example, if Nawaz Sharif is leading the long march to Islamabad and the PPP is in power, they would do something similar — as they did back in 2009.
When the PTI wanted to hold the second dharna in Islamabad, this is how the PML-N reacted.
Now when the PML-N wanted to collect a crowd, the caretaker setup reacted this way.
It is partly because of our colonial legacy that you have these laws in place, like Section 144, and the how the police functions — it is basically to control the public rather than to provide a service.
The moment they feel a political threat, they put that entire infrastructure in motion. So, the only thing that changes is who the victim is and who is the enforcer.
What do you think of the Sharifs' decision to even come back?
Well, I think it was a political necessity. They have been in power for the past five years. They have stakes in Pakistan.
This is no longer a military dictatorship, so if they had stayed away, they would have created too many legal and political problems.
Nawaz wants to pass his political legacy to his daughter, so if they hadn’t returned, they would have lost all of this.
In 1999, Nawaz went in exile. Can you compare and contrast that moment with today?
1999 was very different because they were imprisoned under the military dictatorship. It was life imprisonment.
Obviously they were kept in Attock jail, so they thought it was safer to leave. Perhaps that experience has shaped their decision because they realised that, once they left, their party was weakened completely.
'Nawaz did not have any choice' — Zahid Hussain
What do you make of the government's handling of the situation today?
I think the government seems to have reacted in panic initially, and I don’t think there was any need for that, even if the crowd was surging.
This is typical and has not happened for the first time. Each time this kind of thing happens, they take what they call ‘preventive measures’: bringing in containers, blocking roads.
So I think, probably, the caretaker government also resorted to the same thing, and later on, when they realised, they removed the containers and allowed people passage, and it was all peaceful and nothing happened.
So, I think it was unnecessary to take this kind of immediate action.
What's your take on Nawaz's decision to come back?
I think he did not have any choice. He had only 10 days left for the appeal and so he had to come. I think probably he is hoping that, when he goes to appeal, the sentence may be suspended.
That’s his best option.
Compare this to 1999?
I think it was a very different situation then. There was a military government and they were convicted under that, so they basically decided to make a deal and leave the country.
But this time, it was different — an accountability court convicted them and they were already out of the country when it happened. It’s not like they were arrested here and then convicted. So that was a completely different situation.
Elsewhere...
Meanwhile, Shahzaib Khanzada emphasised the political significance of optics and the visualisation of Maryam and Nawaz Sharif's return.
"It is vital to notice Maryam and Nawaz’s body language which is important in politics. It seems they are aware that they need to appear confident, because this optic is necessary."
"Every expression on their faces will make headlines and be analysed."
Geo News' Mazhar Abbas made an important point that "despite road blocks, protesters arrived in some way to show their presence. Nawaz has corrected a historic mistake of leaving for Saudi Arabia in 1999."
"Today they have returned and sent a message to the people that they have come back to face the sentences against them."
After almost a decade, the Muttahida Majlis-i-Amal (MMA), which emerged as the third-biggest political force in the 2002 general elections, is back as a five-member religio-political alliance to contest the polls in 2018, comprising the Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam-Fazl (JUI-F), Jamaat-i- Islami (JI), Jamiat Ahle Hadith and the Islami Tehreek (IT).
It was back in early 2000, after the toppling of Nawaz Sharif in October 1999, that the General Pervez Musharraf-led military government, which had vowed to never allow the return of the exiled leadership of the Pakistan People’s Party and the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N), was desperate to find an alternative political force.
The JI was on good terms with the military government. Then-JI chief, the late Qazi Hussain Ahmed, even went on a tour of the United States, where he spoke to think-tanks in a bid to portray his image as a moderate religio-political leader.
In the 2001 local bodies elections, the JI also managed to get hold of Karachi’s city government. The MQM had boycotted the polls.
However, in the aftermath of 9/11 and in the lead-up to the US invasion of Afghanistan, Pakistan was being pressured by the US to take action against hostile religious elements within its borders.
General Musharraf had no choice but to crack down on militant organisations and cooperate with the American-led coalition.
Tracing the origins of the MMA
This created a furor within domestic religious circles, resulting in several religious parties (including some non-Muslim ones) uniting for the formation of the Difa-i-Afghanistan Pakistan Council (DAPC).
The alliance agitated against the toppling of the Taliban government in Afghanistan; with Pakistan allying itself with the US in the War on Terror, the country’s participation was turned into an electoral issue.
Yet, at the same time, the DAPC members had conflicting views on the Afghan Taliban. The JUI-F and the Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam-Sami (JUI-S) supported the Taliban, but the JI was opposed because they were backing the Gulbadin Hikmatyar faction that was ousted from their strongholds by the Taliban.
The Tehreek-i-Jaferia Pakistan (TJP), an organisation of Shia clergy led by Allama Sajid Naqvi, became part of the DAPC as well. Even though Shias were strongly against the Taliban given their involvement in the killing of Shias in Bamyan and other parts of Afghanistan, the single-point agenda of opposing the US in the region and General Musharraf’s compliance brought everyone together.
But the DAPC had a precedent. In 1995, the major religio-political parties and smaller groups from other sects had joined hands to form the Milli Yakjehti Council (MYC).
This non-political organisation was headed by the Jamiat Ulema-i-Pakistan-Noorani (JUP-N) chief, Shah Ahmed Noorani, and had the JUI-F, JUI-S, JI, TJP, Sipah-i-Sahaba Pakistan (SSP), Sawad Azam Ahl-i-Sunnat and Sipah-i-Muhammad Pakistan (SMP) as its members.
Its aim was to bring religious parties together to end sectarian violence. The MYC was initially successful in easing tensions, but radical elements in both Sunni and Shia organisations resorted to violence soon after, rendering the MYC ineffective.
Later, in August 2001, militant sectarian groups such as the Lashkar-i-Jhangvi and SMP were banned; in January 2002, their mother organisations, the SSP and TJP, were also proscribed.
Other members of the MYC, including the TJP which was rechristened as the IT after being banned, joined the DAPC.
They held country-wide protests, organising rallies, and issuing strike calls. A couple of months before the 2002 general elections, the DAPC turned into an electoral alliance: the MMA.
The rise of the MMA
From right to left: Maulana Gul Naseeb Khan, current MMA Khyber Pakhtunkhwa president; Fazlur Rehman, MMA chief; Akram Khan Durrani, former chief minister Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
The move was unprecedented. Religious parties, who normally couldn’t even pray together with their religious rivals, displayed exemplary unity.
This brought them votes in urban centres, while in rural parts, they relied on their traditional support base. This explains how they managed to win constituencies in all the provincial capitals and a constituency in the federal capital.
In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP), they clean sweeped the major cities, winning all the national assembly (NA) constituencies in Peshawar, Mardan and Swat, along with the JUI-F’s traditional strongholds in southern district of Bannu, Dera Ismail Khan, Kohat, Lakki Marwat and Hangu, and the JI strongholds of Upper and Lower Dir.
Along with those, they bagged Quetta’s only NA constituency, three in Lahore and five in Karachi.
Not disregarding other factors, what favoured the MMA was the absence of leadership among the mainstream political parties (many stalwarts were not contesting), the charged environment against General Musharraf, as well as the change in graduation degree demands from candidates (madrassah degrees were made equivalent to university degrees).
The MMA formed government in KP, had a coalition government with the Pakistan Muslim League-Quaid (PML-Q) in Balochistan, and had representation in Punjab and Sindh assemblies. In the NA, Fazal ur Rehman got the opposition leader slot.
Fazal and the alliance worked with the PML-Q-led government to approve the 17th Amendment, allowing General Musharraf to get elected as president of Pakistan while in military uniform, as well as taming the agitating partner, Qazi Hussain Ahmed and his party, the JI.
The coalition disintegrates
Lawyers protesting in Karachi for the restoration of judiciary. —Tanveer Shahzad, White Star
The alliance fell apart in the assemblies’ last year in 2007 due to the JUI-F’s lack of enthusiasm for the movement for the restoration of the judiciary.
The JI boycotted the 2008 general elections, doubting the integrity of the polling process, but the JUI-F and other parties decided to keep intact whatever remained of the alliance and went into the elections under the MMA name, flag and election symbol.
The alliance faced a major defeat except for in those constituencies in KP and Balochistan where the JUI-F was strong. The MMA was no more and the JUI-F joined the PPP-led coalition government at the centre and in Balochistan under its own name.
It was during these years that the JI leadership changed. Munawwar Hasan became party chief; he had expressed his disapproval of the JUI-F chief and his political antics on several occasions, which ended any chance of reviving the MMA. In 2013, religious parties contested polls independently.
The MMA redux
Jamiat Ulema-i-Pakistan chief Shah Ovais Noorani addressing a press conference at Bait-ul-Rizwan in Clifton after the decision to revive the Muttahida Majlis-i-Amal. Other leaders of the five-party alliance are also seen.—Online
The 2013 elections marked the entry of another political force: Imran Khan’s Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf (PTI), which became the third-largest party at the centre and won all the constituencies previously dominated by the MMA and the Awami National Party in KP (except for the southern districts of Bannu, Tank, Lakki Marwat, and Dera Ismail Khan).
For the JUI-F, the fear of losing its traditional support base in the southern districts of KP and the tribal belt integrated recently with the province, coupled with the desire for a few constituencies in the Peshawar valley and the adjacent districts where there is anti-incumbency sentiment, made the party express willingness to rejoin hands with the JI, reviving the MMA for the upcoming elections.
In the absence of the stalwarts like the late Allama Shah Ahmed Noorani, late Qazi Hussain Ahmed — both former presidents of the MMA — and his adversary Sami ul Haq of the JUI-S, Fazal ur Rehman is at the helm of the affairs at the MMA now.
He has shown his maneuvering skills in bagging most of the seats allotted to his party by the reborn alliance.
For Siraj ul Haq, the JI chief, the MMA’s revival comes with the hope of keeping hold of his home district of Lower Dir and the party stronghold of both Upper and Lower Dir. He needs additional backup from the JUI-F, as the PTI has made inroads in these constituencies.
The JI also hopes that the MMA could help the party win a few constituencies in other districts where the sum of the total vote for the JUI-F and the JI was more than the PTI’s in 2013.
A possible seat adjustment with the PML-N in Swat, Shangla, Buner, Swabi and numerous other areas would also help the JI in their electoral contest against Imran Khan’s party.
In Karachi, the JI eyes an opening after the weakening of the Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM) and the expected split in the Mohajir vote bank due to the Pak Sarzameen Party (PSP) and the Muttahida Qaumi Movement-Pakistan (MQM-P) factions.
But an anti-MQM narrative is not a reliable option to win votes, especially since the PSP and PTI are also vying to win the Mohajir vote along the same lines.
That is why, during the last two years, the JI has focused on issues such as K-Electric and the problem of overbilling. The party has been at the forefront in pursuing the electricity company in public hearings, court proceedings and public agitation against it.
The provision of computerised national identity cards (CNIC) to those inhabitants of Karachi who face unnecessary delays and suspicions from the National Database Regulatory Authority (NADRA) in getting their CNICs is another issue the JI has prioritised.
The JI ran a city-wide campaign demanding NADRA to facilitate people and stop creating unnecessary hurdles. The party’s Karachi chief, Hafiz Naeem ur Rehman, has managed to bring civic issues forward on its agenda and is hopeful that the JI would benefit as a result in the upcoming elections. He is contesting from NA-250, a constituency with a Pakhtun majority.
Stumbling blocks
Participants of TLP's rally march down the Islamabad Expressway on Thursday. —Photo by Tanveer Shahzad
Today, a major hurdle for the MMA in Karachi comes in the shape of resurgent sectarian outfits like the Pakistan Sunni Tehrik (PST) and the ASWJ-affiliated Pakistan Rah-i-Haq Party; the entry of radical Barelvi group, Tehreek-i-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP); and the Allah-O-Akbar Tehreek, an offshoot of the Jamaat ud Dawa.
In 2013, ASWJ, contesting elections as part of the Muttahida Deeni Mahaz — a coalition that included the JUI-S and Rah-i-Haq — posed a challenge to the JUI-F as it secured more votes than the latter in PS-128 (but lost to the MQM by a small margin).
For the JUI-F and the JI, their MMA allies would win them little support from the Barelvi and Shia voters. The Barelvi vote has too many contenders this time as both the PST and the TLP have also fielded their candidates in Karachi.
In Balochistan, the JI has no presence, which is why all the MMA candidates have come from the JUI-F which strong in the province's Pashtun belt and has managed to build support in some Baloch districts.
The JUI-F has been part of the coalition governments in 2002 and 2008, and the party’s pragmatic politics has earned them the name ‘da thekeydaro dalaa’ (the party of contractors), based off its lawmakers’ reputations for striking partnerships with the contractors of development projects.
The party has to compete against strong electables and tribal chieftains, Baloch and Pashtun nationalist parties and a breakaway faction, the JUI-Nazriati. But still, it’s quite possible that the future Balochistan government can’t be formed without the JUI-F (the MMA).
Shifting sands
What is different today from 2002 is that the MMA no longer has on its side the international and local narrative and political realities.
The war in Afghanistan cannot mobilise Pakistani voters, while the emergence of forces like the PTI, TLP and others has added to the competition, which might hamper its chances in Karachi, for example.
Nor is the MMA in a position to promise sectarian harmony as its earlier incarnations had tried.
Last but not the least, the MMA's performance when in government was not praiseworthy either, making it difficult for voters to take the party seriously this time.
At best, the alliance can only hope for marginal gains in the 2018 elections.
The weeks leading up to the 2018 general elections have involved violent terrorist attacks on political meetings, arrests of party workers, curtailments on press freedom and reasonable skepticism among political parties and observers about the existence of a fair playing field.
Taken together, it is more than enough to fuel a general sense of cynicism about the democratic process and a loss of faith in the legitimacy of the upcoming election.
As a political scientist working on a project on women’s voter participation, the news from Peshawar, Bannu and Mastung made me wonder whether designing interventions to encourage women to turn out to vote was a disingenuous exercise under the circumstances.
Political scientists have a name for this phenomenon: deliberate disengagement. On the one hand, evidence from advanced democracies suggests that more educated citizens are more likely to participate in politics.
However, a study from the electoral authoritarian context of Zimbabwe shows that educated voters tend to participate at lower rates.
The authors of the study argue that this may be because “education increases critical capacities, political awareness, and support for democracy” and in a situation where freedoms are curbed, “educated citizens may believe that participation is futile or legitimizes autocrats.”
Indeed, it is challenging to study the very behaviour in which you are participating. Good science demands some level of objectivity and distance; civic engagement requires commitment and personal investment. Studying Pakistani politics means staying up-to-date on political developments.
But being informed about the repressive environment and acutely aware of its dangers makes it especially difficult to remain optimistic about the prospects of political participation. I could sense a similar tension plaguing many others I interacted with in Pakistan.
How do we begin to reconcile this tension with the impetus to go out and cast our votes on 25 July? The notion that voting is a civic duty is well and good, but it does little to help adjudicate whether voting can really have any positive consequences.
Luckily, we live in a research-rich world when it comes to Pakistani politics to help adjudicate exactly this question.
More and more scholars in Pakistan and around the world are testing theories of democratic politics using evidence from Pakistan, developing new theoretical models, and helping us understand the nuances of the political landscape like never before (for a review of recent research on the political economy of Pakistan see here).
What some of this research provides us is evidence-based reasons to be cautiously optimistic that the continued democratic process in Pakistan — hurdles, hiccups, and fatal threats aside — is yielding some positive outcomes.
Electoral competition matters for legislators’ financial behaviour
Analysis of recently released tax payment data of 2018 electoral candidates indicates that average tax payments are on the rise.
Importantly, among incumbent legislators who are running for re-election, this growth in tax payments is concentrated in competitive electoral constituencies.
This is in line with previous findings from a study of legislators’ tax payments for the 2012-13 and 2013-14 fiscal years, which finds that tax payments of competitively-elected legislators increased at a significantly higher rate than those of other legislators.
Electoral competition matters for service delivery and spending
Research on municipal service provision in the Lahore district shows that urban citizens’ access to services improves when there is greater competition at the provincial and national constituency level and politicians have a greater incentive to respond to local demands.
This mirrors findings from other countries; for instance, research from Mexico shows that greater electoral competition was associated with higher spending on primary education between 1999-2004.
This is especially salient given that one of the key issue raised by civil society around the upcoming election has been that of education reform in Pakistan.
Who gets elected matters for security
One reason for disillusionment from the electoral process is the perception that all parties are essentially the same and it does not really matter who ends up in power.
A new study using data on elections and violence from 1988-2011 suggests that levels of violence depend on which party gets elected, and the electoral pressures they face from their support bases.
The evidence points a common direction: competition matters. Competition can incentivise elected legislators to behave better and deliver more; and it can push opposing candidates and parties to try just a little harder.
So how do we increase electoral competition? One side of this are political parties and candidates. Competition is greater when more parties and candidates are vying for office.
The emergence of strong new parties at the national and provincial levels is a rare event due to high barriers to entry: successfully entering national level politics requires significant resources.
However, it is somewhat easier at the local level where barriers to entry are lower — recent research from village-level elections in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa shows that a simple conversation can be effective in convincing citizens, who wouldn’t otherwise consider it, to stand in elections.
The very real and present threat to the health of Pakistan’s democracy is the purposive dampening of electoral competition through practices that essentially constitute pre-poll rigging.
A week from elections, the mood in Pakistan seems sombre. Call it what you want, the elections are not whipping up the kind of excitement they did in 2013 or 2008.
This time around there are accusations, resentment and disdain for the whole process.
In such circumstances, one is faced with questions like, is this whole thing worth it? Why are we even doing this again if the same set of people will get elected again on different party platforms? What is the point of this? Why should I even vote?
To the last question, Sarah Khan makes a compelling argument about voting. For the rest of the questions and general disillusionment with democracy, I am putting forward a case for proportional representation.
In a federation like Pakistan, we are stuck with a parliamentary system even though majority of the governance is now with the provincial governments.
As I have explained in my earlier articles, the role of our elected officials and our expectations from them are at complete odds.
This creates a disillusionment with the system that most people cannot articulate and simply call the system broken or corrupt.
I am here to tell you that it is not that our system is broken or corrupt; we just have the wrong system in place.
What Pakistan needs is a proportional representation system, at least at the National Assembly level.
What would this entail?
In simplest terms, people will not vote for a candidate, they will only vote for a party. A party will produce a list of candidates that it wishes to send to the NA and based on the national vote share of each party, it will get that percentage of seats in the NA.
For instance, if the NA was just 200 seats, a party securing 25 percent of the national vote would get 50 seats in the parliament.
The party makes a list of 200 candidates based on priority and the top 50 get sent to the parliament based on the vote share.
The advantage of this is that the voices of even the smaller parties get heard.
There are limitations to this system. For instance, a party needs to secure at least five percent of the national vote to have representation in parliament. But even with that, it gives a wider representation to different ideas and beliefs in the country.
Netherlands, Belgium, Finland, Norway and Denmark are just some of the countries that rely on the proportional representation system for elections.
In all these cases, parties come up with a candidate list specifically designed for the job of legislation.
However, in Pakistan we have more potential advantages than those enjoyed by the Europeans.
No more electables
The most significant advantage we can reap from the system of proportional representation would be getting rid of electables.
Because there is no longer constituency politics for the national level and there are not even the limited development funds at play anymore, political parties can talk policy and long-term planning to the electorate and put forth genuine experts and newer faces without the fear of being beaten out by electables.
This also helps get rid of the party-hoppers who simply keep moving parties and coming back into government.
For a country like Pakistan, where electables are by default assumed to be corrupt, this change could give an aura of change to the system that a small, yet loud segment of our society believes is the end all evil in Pakistan.
All in all, this could end up providing significantly better legislators for us all.
More diverse voices
Consider an issue every party deals with — losing a seat by 1,000 or 2,000 votes. Thousands of your supporters voted and yet you lost a seat. Does that mean that the voices of those thousands should be silenced?
Maybe not. If we do have the proportional representation system, then those votes do not go to waste.
Instead, they help give a political party a chance to send one more person from their list to the national assembly.
This would be extremely effective to get voices like the Awami Workers Party into parliament or other smaller, specialised regional parties.
This helps with the diversity of the legislative process for a federation like ours.
Serious policy making & party professionalisation
Because parties no longer need to deal with electables or having uneven development across the country, they can nominate candidates that can do real work they are supposed to do: legislate laws and work on policies for the long run.
Because parties would be more likely to nominate people with professional credentials as opposed to those who can wrangle up votes in a very specific geographic area, the parties would then have the chance to professionalise and build structures that could attract genuine technocrats and field experts into the fold.
What we can potentially have in Pakistan is an overall improvement in the kind of politics we are undertaking at the national level, rather than cribbing about electables being necessary to win and questioning each other’s faith in the process.
Dampening polarisation
Polarisation online and in mass media has been on the rise recently.
In an election cycle, we can see voters getting angry and practically hating those who do not fall in line with their views.
We have a minimised space for dissent and disagreement. But if our system did not pit us against one another on a constituency by constituency basis, and our arguments remained at the policy level, the chances for this kind of rabid polarisation to prevail will diminish.
If voting on the national level is based on proportion, everyone’s voice gets heard. We can have substantial discussions and, in most cases, will be forced to create coalition governments.
The overall state of our democracy could be stronger because we are not obsessed with constituency level politics any more.
I want to lay out this idea as we walk into another election on the first-past-the-post system.
This system has not delivered at the federal level and expecting it to deliver is dishonest about democracy and its potential in a place like Pakistan.
A proportional representation system with certain conditions, like a minimum required voting percentage to get entry into parliament could do better for us.
We need our voters to believe again in democracy and one way to do that is to operate on a system where everyone gets heard and everyone has a say.
Our system is not broken, it is just simply the wrong system.
Are you a researcher working on political reform? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com
It is midnight in Balochistan. A WhatsApp group called the Baloch Journalist Circle remains abuzz. There are around a hundred notifications.
These are messages from reporters from across the province. Some are filled with bragging claims from print and television reporters how they have inside information about which candidates will be winning the national and provincial assembly seats on July 25.
Others reveal how much money candidates were allegedly willing to offer influential tribal leaders in return for votes. They speculate which clan would vote for a particular candidate and often pilloried the ‘futile efforts’ of individual candidates to win over a community that had already committed to voting for a contender of their choice.
The group has more silent members than active participants. They only read messages but do not comment. The hushed members are curious about the discussions, but seem too scared to jump into these sensitive political conversations. They suspect that “big brother” is monitoring their WhatsApp group.
So, they prefer to stay quiet in order to remain safe.
As the discussion gets intense and opposing views pop up, one journalist immediately shares a screenshot from an Urdu newspaper to support his argument. Others share photos of candidates attending corner meetings, supposedly discussing seat-to-seat adjustment.
The discussion is not always so sober. Members crack up with laughter as someone forwards a video clip showing a cow (a political party’s election symbol) literally eating up a rival candidate’s poster. The group never sleeps as election season gains momentum in Balochistan.
The next day, the Balochistan News Chanel (sic), a Facebook page also known as BNC, continues its indefatigable posting of live videos, photos and schedules of political gatherings from all over Balochistan.
The latest BNC Facebook Live is from Sarawan House, the residence of Nawabzada Siraj Raisani, a leader of the Balochistan Awami Party (BAP), who was killed in a suicide attack along with 149 other people on July 13, 2018 in Mastung.
Prominent national and local leaders, from Shahbaz Sharif to Imran Khan, are seen meeting with Nawab Aslam Raisani, Balochistan’s former chief minister and the slain leader’s elder brother, who is receiving condolences from the visitors.
Tweeting from the trail
On a sizzling summer day in Dera Bugti, once considered one of Pakistan’s most volatile districts, former home minister and BAP leader Sarfaraz Bugti unlocks his phone, captures a 26-second video from his election trail and posts it on Twitter.
The footage shows Bugti moving in an impressive convoy of expensive white vehicles. Most of his voters probably can’t imagine ever being able to afford these cars in their lifetime.
“InshAllah,” Bugti tweets, “we will win #PB10,” referring to the provincial assembly constituency from where he will be contesting elections.
He wants to win to “continue our ongoing efforts for the betterment and uplifting of #DeraBugti & #Balochistan.”
Day by day, Bugti is consolidating his grip over the gas-rich territory as his archrivals, Brahamdagh Bugti and family members of the late Nawab Akbar Bugti, live in exile, finding it nearly impossible to return home as a deadlock between the government and the Baloch nationalists and separatists persists.
Bugti, an intrepid Twitter user, takes his nationalism to the next level: he takes an Indian flag and stands on it to demonstrate his profound hatred for India.
Once the photo is ready, he posts it on Twitter. Within a few hours, he is flattered to see around 10,000 “likes” and more than 1,000 comments on his provocative photo.
In Quetta, Hasil Bizenjo, former federal minister and senior leader of the NP, tweeted his outrage at the Election Commission of Pakistan’s selection of Alauddin Marri as interim chief minister.
“After the choice of caretaker CM of Balochitan [sic], the people of Balochistan cannot trust this election commission,” he tweets, and tweets again sarcastically, “Thank you election commission for this joke.”
A new rapport with voters
Never before in Balochistan’s history has an election had such a robust social media component.
Instant messaging services and live streaming platforms such as Facebook Live and Youtube have completely changed the dynamics and the landscape of the election campaign.
When the last general elections took place in May 2013, most politicians and activists in Balochistan did not even have a Twitter account. Today, they spend a reasonable amount of time on Twitter and prioritise communicating with their followers and also monitor the activities and strategies of their opponents.
Political parties and politicians have migrated to cyberspace and the world of social media with unprecedented preparation and sophistication.
Most parties have dedicated social media teams comprised of educated professionals with excellent command of English and graphic design skills who engage party supporters with an unending cycle of colourful illustrations and fresh promotional content.
Parties have invested enormously to ensure that all their campaign meetings, rallies and press conferences are aired live on social media.
Reliance on traditional media has significantly decreased as followers remain glued to their parties’ social media feeds instead of scanning the papers for fresh stories.
These days, a party’s press secretary holds the key to all the social media accounts. They maintain a busy calendar to make sure activities are aired live, tweets are sent out and all social media pages are updated on time.
The press secretary’s role has evolved. They were once only responsible for writing press releases and dispatching them to newspaper offices. Now, they are expected to be all-rounders.
Never before have politicians and their voters in Balochistan have had such an intimate and uninterrupted connection.
* * *
When Abdul Quddus Bizenjo was elected as a member of the Balochistan Assembly in 2013 by winning only 544 votes out of the total registered votes of 57,666 in PB-41(Awaran), his victory was described as a “miracle.”
Political parties alleged that the election of the Pakistan Muslim League-Quaid (PML-Q) legislator had become a textbook example of guaranteed victory if a candidate enjoyed the support of certain elements of the state.
Bizenjo had made history by obtaining the lowest number of votes ever in Pakistan’s history to be elected to a legislative chamber.
Bizenjo’s father, Majeed Bizenjo, had also served as a member of the Balochistan Assembly in the past, while the junior Bizenjo had himself obtained more graceful numbers of the vote in the 2002 and 2008 elections. The elections five years ago were indeed his most disgraceful electoral performance.
Widely viewed as an underdog, Bizenjo was surprisingly appointed as the deputy speaker of the provincial assembly in June 2013. He eventually resigned from the position in December 2015 after the speaker of the house, Jan Mohammad Jamali, resigned in the wake of a no-confidence motion.
Abdul Quddus Bizenjo (R) submits no-confidence motion against Zehri. —Online/File
As time passed, Bizenjo stunned everyone, emerging as a kingmaker and master strategist, playing a decisive role in the rebellion that led to the ouster of the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz’s (PML-N) Chief Minister Sardar Sanaullah Zehri in January 2018.
Analysts believed Zehri was punished for his loyalty to the ousted prime minister Nawaz Sharif.
Bizenjo, whose party had only six seats in the Balochistan Assembly against the PML-N’s 21, dumbfounded everyone when he, with the support of dissidents from the PML-N, replaced Zehri as Balochistan’s new chief minister.
Meanwhile, another development that marked the increasing influence of the ‘establishment’ on Balochistan’s politics was the election of an entirely unknown figure, Mir Sadiq Sanjrani, as the new Senate chairman .
Bizenjo, while capitalising on Balochistan’s backwardness and underrepresentation card, played a pivotal role in garnering support from the Pakistan People's Party (PPP) and the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf (PTI) for Sanjrani's election as the Senate chairman. This was the harbinger of a major political storm in the province.
Enter Balochistan Awami Party
Two weeks later, Bizenjo went on to take several defectors from the PML-N and some from the PML-Q to form a new pro-state political party called the BAP.
The awkward acronym BAP in Urdu translates as ‘father’, drawing tremendous ridicule from opposition parties and on social media saying that the state had not only created a new king’s party ahead of the next general elections, but had also given it a suggestive name that highlights the consequences a disobedient child might face from a strict father.
Founded in March 2018, the BAP looks less like a political party and more a conglomerate of pro-Islamabad tribal notables and self-identified electable leaders who have historically remained affiliated with every party that has ruled at the centre.
While overtly supportive of the military’s policies in Balochistan and critical of the Baloch nationalists, the BAP has generated déjà vu in the province — it is reminiscent of PML-Q’s formation under General Musharraf ahead of the 2002 general elections.
With the BAP in the running, others see limited chances of a victory.
The BAP leaders deny the involvement of any covert hand behind its creation. In plain words, they say they have united to create a new front because they are fed up with the manipulation of the province and its mandate by the country’s two biggest political parties, the PPP and the PML-N.
The BAP’s most apparent weakness is this: it is not the result of a mass public movement.
Former Balochistan chief minister Mir Abdul Quddus Bizenjo hoists a party flag during a ceremony on Sunday.—PPI
It is only a movement of electables who would still have a strong chance of winning their respective seats regardless of the party that awards them a ticket. These powerful tribal chiefs have won elections from their strongholds for generations.
Thus, the BAP, in an effort not to irk the state, does not touch upon topics that could annoy Islamabad.
For example, the party does not raise the issue of enforced disappearances, torture and killings of political activists and it does not promise to hold talks with the Baloch insurgents after coming into power, which is extremely critical for any government in Balochistan to restore peace in the province.
In the wake of the BAP’s formation, political analyst Jalal Noorzai described it as an “unnatural party” that pretends to be speaking for the rights of the people of Balochistan.
“There is a long history of these people [leaders in the BAP] changing their political direction based on the dictations they get from the powerful quarters,” he wrote. “There is no dearth of such figures in Balochistan whose eyes are fixated on power and personal interests.”
Noorzai traced the history of Jam Kamal Khan, the president of the BAP, whose grandfather Jam Ghulam Qadir served twice as Balochistan’s chief minister while Kamal’s father, the late Jam Mohammad Yousaf, served as a staunch pro-Musharraf chief minister of Balochistan.
Notwithstanding the criticism of its origins and connections, the BAP is positioned to win the bulk of seats in the upcoming elections, paving the way for a pro-federation narrative and further isolating the Baloch nationalists.
The emergence BAP has worried all established political parties, particularly the Baloch nationalists because it is poised to grab more seats from Baloch areas as compared to Pashtun districts.
Consequently, the established political parties, such as the Balochistan National Party (BNP), are seen making desperate alliances with completely strange bedfellows, such as the Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam.
With less than a week to go until polling day, last Friday’s terrorist attack that killed BAP leader Nawabzada Siraj Raisani will further turn the electoral tide in the party’s favour.
After the Mastung tragedy, the BAP’s legitimacy will get a boost as it will rise as the party that sacrificed a key leader and more activists and supporters than any other during the election campaign.
While the BAP is destined to get more sympathy votes, the Mastung carnage has made campaigning extremely difficult for the rest of the political parties because of the fear of another similar attack on a political rally.
A victim of the bomb blast being shifted to a stretcher after being brought to a hospital in Quetta. —AFP
The Mastung attack has dimmed political activity, but it has provided a glimpse of the challenges a future government in Quetta will have to grapple with, mostly concerning fighting and eliminating violent extremist groups.
Barring the unprecedented Mastung tragedy and a few other small violent incidents, the election campaign this year has, by and large, been filled with enthusiasm and higher public participation.
Unlike 2013, when political parties campaigned in the Baloch-majority districts, with the absolute fear of threats from Baloch armed nationalist groups, conditions for peaceful elections have relatively improved this time.
For the previous polls, the Baloch insurgents had urged the public to boycott the ballots. They warned public employees, such as school teachers and police officers, not to staff election booths and threatened voters to stay indoors.
Insurgents even went on to carry out attacks on several election campaigns. In one such attack on April 17, 2013, the son, brother, and nephew of the future chief minister and the provincial head of the PML-N Sardar Sanaullah Zehri, were killed.
The Baloch Liberation Army (BLA), a banned underground organisation, accepted responsibility for the attack.
On May 6, 2013, the president of the NP and the future chief minister Dr Abdul Malik Baloch also escaped unhurt in a hand grenade attack in his native Turbat district. The abysmal law and order situation led to a poor voter turnout in most Baloch areas.
* * *
When Abdul Malik Baloch was elected as Balochistan’s first-ever chief minister from the province’s middle class following the 2013 elections, his rise to power generated unrealistic expectations in the troubled region.
Emerging as the head of the provincial government from a coalition between the PML-N, the Pakhtunkhwa Milli Awami Party (PkMAP) and the NP, Abdul Malik promised to end the prolonged insurgency in Balochistan and initiate dialogue with disillusioned Baloch leaders, including those currently living in exile.
Despite some meetings with the Baloch leaders living abroad, Abdul Malik failed to achieve a breakthrough in his peace efforts because of a lackluster response both from the exiled Baloch leadership as well as the powerful elements of the state.
Instead, Abdul Malik’s credibility at the local level was tarnished so severely for the following three reasons that he is not running for reelection this year.
In this file photo Dr Abdul Malik Baloch (left) and former chief minister of Balochistan Sanaullah Zehri shake hands after the former resigned as head of the province.
First, to protect his position as the chief minister, he went overboard in rewarding his coalition partners in the PkMAP, particularly from Mahmood Khan Achakzai’s family, by giving them a free hand.
Hence, Achakzai appointed several family members on top government positions, including nominating his elder brother, Mohammad Khan Achakzai, as provincial governor.
Abdul Malik’s allies in the PML-N accused him of being too generous and soft on the PkMAP only in an effort to guard his own interests. He was also accused of nepotism and mismanagement during his term as the chief minister.
Second, Abdul Malik’s rivals accused his party members of “spying” for security services and allegedly sponsoring death squads that targeted activists of the Baloch nationalist movement.
Despite repeated rebuttals, Abdul Malik could not entirely dispel the public perception that his party was allegedly helping security forces commit extrajudicial killings of Baloch activists.
Once widely respected as a Baloch nationalist, Abdul Malik gained the reputation of a puppet and a collaborator.
Third, Abdul Malik came under fire for not adequately speaking up for Balochistan’s rights when the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) was unveiled.
Although he insisted he had not been consulted on the multi-billion dollar project, opponents criticised him for not doing enough to ensure transparency on CPEC.
Another area where Abdul Malik’s government failed miserably was the recovery of missing persons.
While the aftermath of the 2013 elections initially saw the rise of a stable democratic alliance between self-proclaimed progressive Baloch and Pashtun nationalists, the end of the government after five years marked the beginning of severe differences between the two ethnic groups on issues of representation, allocation of development funds and control over the province's resources.
These differences escalated to an alarming and ugly level. Verbal fights between the Baloch and Pashtun leaders broke out inside the Balochistan Assembly and disputes over naming critical projects after Baloch or Pashtun figures led to a frequent exchange of abusive words.
The Pashtuns threatened to create their own province; the Balochs accused them of blackmailing the government. Hence, the Baloch and Pashtuns parties are no longer actively reaching out to each other for seat-to-seat adjustment and electoral alliances.
* * *
On June 1, 2018, Dr Allah Nazar Baloch, leader of the Baloch Liberation Front (BLF), an underground separatist group, asked Baloch voters to boycott the general elections.
Citing the low turnout in the 2013 elections as a “victory” of his stance, Allah Nazar said the Baloch people had voted against the polls in what he described as a “referendum”.
But the influence of the BLF and other Baloch armed groups has gradually dwindled in the past five years.
The “hard” things left unsaid
The public participation in election rallies and corner meetings across the province is indicative of the fact that people are less afraid this time and not inclined toward another boycott. However, that does not mean that the political parties are also free to say whatever they want.
The space created for these parties seems to have come in return for an unwritten understanding between the Baloch nationalists and certain elements of the state that the former shall not cross specific policy red lines in their election speeches.
While an election year is an excellent opportunity to reflect on past performance and work for a better future, Balochistan is entering an election season where politicians are free to assemble, use social media and speak on “soft issues”, such as health and education, but are not allowed to discuss “hard issues” that pertain to the ongoing insurgency, counterinsurgency operations, human rights abuses, the recent political engineering of the Senate elections and reservations over CPEC.
Discussing the hard issues in election campaigns has become taboo because it may offend people in influential quarters. This fear of being punished and ostracised has compelled even the Baloch nationalists to soften their stance on critical issues.
For instance, the BNP, which once based its electoral agenda on the subject of military operations and enforced disappearances, has kept the demand for the release of missing persons as a very low priority in its election manifesto.
There is evident anxiety among the voters and their leaders on a host of issues, including on Balochistan’s share in CPEC, but not everyone feels safe to assert their reservations.
“The people of Gwadar must be the top beneficiaries of the CPEC project,” says Aslam Bhootani, once the Speaker of the Balochistan Assembly who is now running for the National Assembly seat in NA 272 Lasbela-cum-Gwadar.
Bhootani has said he is not a nationalist but would raise his voice for the legitimate rights of the people at all forums and would not mind if his views and struggle annoyed some people.
Only someone as politically powerful and loyal to Islamabad as Bhootani, formerly a staunch supporter of General Musharraf, could make such bold remarks.
Everyone running for office does not seem to enjoy the same level of freedom to openly speak up on Balochistan’s past, present and the future.
* * *
An election campaign without sufficient space to debate on the actual political, economic and security issues, and a promise of justice does not seem to guarantee a happier and a more stable future to the country’s persistently unstable province.
However, it appears despite the unfulfilled promises of the past, Balochistan is still willing to give a new democratic government the chance to take the province to the promised age of development and prosperity that has been promised to its people for the past seven decades.
I could never think of my younger brother as an adult. He was always the baby of the family. Today, I am told that he has children the same age as me when I was first put in jail 20 years ago.
I should have had children of my own by now. I should have had a life, a job, a family, a home. A small one, in Mandi Bahauddin. If my family did not have to sell off our land to keep me alive, perhaps there could have been more.
It is difficult to recount the things you could have had when you know there is a dim possibility of you ever getting them in the future.
I have been in jail since 1999, and on death row since I was 17.
I was not good at school. I could never follow instructions properly, and my teachers did not have the resources to dedicate the kind of attention I needed. Frustration gave way to idleness, idleness gave way to mischief.
My inability in school made me the butt of jokes but to save myself from being bullied, I found some people willing to accept me.
My friends and I would then skip off, and waste our time doing things that would make us feel like we were in control. That is what you do when you feel useless.
I was arrested a month later and taken to a secret location.
When we arrived, they tied my hands behind my back with a rope that was hung from a hook on the roof. They hoisted me up from my wrists. It felt like my shoulders were being ripped out from their sockets. That pain is blinding, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
When they undid the ropes, I thought they were done. But soon after they had put me on the ground, they forced me on my back and placed a long, thick bamboo rod on top of me.
Before I could even take my next breath, two police officers sat either side of the rod, weighing it down, as two other officers rolled it down my body.
I screamed through the excruciating pain. It did not matter. It’s like they’re trying to crush you into the ground and won’t stop until they do.
I lost track of how long this went on for.
My elder brother, Abbas, tells me he looked for me for two whole weeks. For half a month, I was detained without charge and tortured relentlessly. I would have said anything to make it stop.
If they told me to say I had killed someone, I would say it. If they told me to say I had not killed someone, I would say it.
They finally took me to a jail, and kept me there. Eventually, I was hauled into the police station for an identification parade. But this was not the first time that the victim’s family had seen me. I was trotted out before them several times before the parade. I knew they recognised me.
The investigation officer had approached Abbas, telling him that if he did not pay him a bribe, he would ensure that I would be tried in the Anti-Terrorism Court that all but guaranteed me a harsher sentence with fewer safeguards.
We had no idea what we were up against. We could not pay, and so I landed in the ATC.
The ATC sentenced me to die. They recognised I was 17. But this did not, to them, excuse me from the death penalty because they were no laws that would bar the sentencing of a juvenile.
The police wrote in the First Information Report and their testimonies that I was the one who fired the shots (a lie), and that’s why I should be given a higher sentence.
The five others who were co-accused with me for the same crime were given prison sentences (which they have now served and have returned to their families since).
I was the only one who was sentenced to death.
My lawyer argued in court that I was a juvenile and should not be sentenced to death. The court ordered a medical board, which in turn, carried out an ossification test that determined my age to be 17. But this evidence did not matter.
From the ATC, all the way to the Supreme Court, my age at the time of the crime was acknowledged — but then ignored.
In March 2016, they issued my execution warrant. In a panic, my brother reached out to the victim’s son. His desperation overcame any hubris he had.
Abbas went again. And again.The complainant’s anger slowly chipped away.
And one day, in his infinite generosity, he told my brother — that God has punished me. He said, “Allah teaches us to forgive our enemies,” and that is what he has done.
We took news of this compromise to the SC to stop my imminent execution. But even after listening to the heir’s statement, the court did not release me. It upheld the decision. Why?
Because my case had been tried under the ATA, which means my alleged offence was non-compoundable. My fate had been sealed by the bribe we could not pay years and years ago.
In July last year, they forwarded the request to issue my execution warrants again. By a miracle, through the intervention of Justice Project Pakistan and the National Commission on Human Rights, that request was withdrawn.
Being told you will die does not get easier the second time.
The journey through the country’s courts has been long, expensive and back-breaking for my family. Legal fees, commuting back and forth between court, home and the police station, caused us to lose everything we had. Our home was destroyed and we have nothing left.
My father died of grief after years of struggling with my case. I was not able to go to his funeral.
Whole lives have been lived and lost during my time in jail.
When the Juvenile Justice System Ordinance was passed in 2000, the president announced amnesty for all juvenile offenders on death row one year later.
Here I was, a proven juvenile but somehow unable to access the relief that I was entitled to and have been entitled to for 17 years.
Since then, they keep bouncing me from the sessions courts to the Presidency to the Home Department. They know they cannot execute me but they treat me like a file, not a human being.
A life sentence in Pakistan is 25 years. Most prisoners are out in 15. I have served 20 years in jail, and all the while, I was entitled to a remission. I could have been out, putting my life back together. But all I do is wait.
They concluded the age determination inquiry only this year. But I’m still waiting, lost for 20 years in the black hole of Pakistan’s bureaucracy.
Muhammad Iqbal told this story from his prison cell in District Jail, Gujrat to Muhammad Shoaib, who wrote it in the form of an article.
In March 2018, the Lahore High Court directed the provincial Home Department to conduct and conclude the investigation into Iqbal’s case within two weeks.
While this took place within the deadline, and the inquiry found him to be a juvenile at the time of the crime, the government of Pakistan is yet to provide him the relief that he has been entitled to for 17 years.
Maryam Nawaz’s face is unreadable. Her expression betrays nothing. Whether she plots her arrival in the Prime Minister House or plans which one of her Chanel bags to wear with her Fendi scarves, she looks exactly the same.
Perhaps, then, it was not the comfort of her business class airplane seat that brought such peace to her face. Maybe years of living in the lap of luxury teaches you how to look unflappable.
Her father, former Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif on the other hand, has aged. It’s been an interesting journey for him through the corridors of power in Pakistan.
To some, it did not serve him well. To others, it served him too well. When he was demonstrating against his ouster, he grimaced, he raised his voice, his emotions creating as many ripples in the crowd as they did for his frown lines.
Nevertheless, all roads that he has taken — whether on business class flights, private planes, helicopters — have taken him to Adiala jail. And he is not happy.
Since he has been there, there has been much outrage by his followers. Within hours of being incarcerated, tweets began circulating. How dare a three-time prime minister be subjected to such squalor? How could the first class Sharifs be kept in B-class cells? Where was the dignity? The respect?
Then we heard that the unflappable Maryam was complaining. There were too many mosquitoes in prison, and she was loathe to touch the prison slop that they served her.
The other prisoners do not have that luxury. They either starve or get used to the taste. But her privilege might now accord her a move to Sihala Rest House, where fresh flowers might be laid out, next to clean bedding and her own bathroom. She could even tweet from there. So really, the only prison she would be in is the one in her mind.
Nawaz is now facing complications from his damaged kidneys. Doctors have been called in, medical reports and recommendations are being prepared in haste. Before long, this might be cited as a reason for his shift to loftier accommodation as well.
Some prisoners, it appears, are more equal than others.
Last week, reports emerged that Nawaz's movements had to be restricted in jail. He was out for a stroll in the courtyard of his barrack early in the morning, possibly looking to clear his mind, or even walk off the jetlag from being in London.
But he had company. Company that was angry at him.
In their wildest dreams, the prisoners at Adiala Jail had probably never deemed possible the opportunity to confront Nawaz face-to-face. They were not going to pass up on it now.
You see, prisoners in Pakistan have reason to be very, very angry with the government(s) of Nawaz.
They lifted the moratorium on the death penalty in Pakistan, killing 494 prisoners to date. Many of them have been innocent, many have been mentally ill, others have been juvenile offenders. Some of them have died while waiting to be executed.
The Nawaz government knowingly sat atop a system that hangs the living and exonerates the dead, and the prisoners know this better than anybody.
Adiala has over 5,000 prisoners. It is designed to hold 1,900. This overcrowding, while criminal, is not unique to Nawaz's new home.
Lahore's Central Jail holds 2,332 more prisoners than it is made for. Central Jail, Faisalabad holds 1,828 more prisoners than capacity. In Sialkot’s District Jail, that number is at 1,384 and in Gujranwala, it is 1,840.
Naturally, this causes some shortages.
For example, a lack of privacy when using the bathroom. There are at least five prisoners to each cell, where they have to defecate and urinate in front of each other. Sometimes they’ll have a fellow inmate hold up a piece of cloth. There’s not much dignity that a thin sheet of cloth can provide.
It also dilutes the scant facilities that are available to prisoners, like healthcare, under-resourced rehabilitation facilities, counselling services or access to legal aid.
Disease is readily contagious; water quality is compromised. There are no fans in some jails. Dated prison architecture relies on cross-ventilation in 40 degree-plus weather.
Pakistan’s prison population currently stands at 78,160. That is not an insignificant number, and has been ignored by not one, not two but three Nawaz governments. Many inmates have been in jail for all three of his terms.
Kanizan Bibi, who has been in jail since 1989, has watched him go from prime minister to former prime minister, back again to prime minister then political exile and again prime minister to now inmate.
Her mental illness has not precluded her from being on death row. Being tortured into signing a self-incriminating confession has had consequences only for her. And if she could talk (her illness, resulting from torture has rendered her mute), she could show Nawaz the ropes on how to survive prison.
Muhammad Anwar was arrested as a juvenile offender in 1993, right around the time that Nawaz resigned for the first time. He was sentenced to death six years later, and despite the 2001 Presidential Notification (that would have entitled him to remission) continues to languish on death row to this day.
Nawaz would do well to trace his history, and remember that during that entire time, Anwar was struggling to obtain justice from the same government he led.
Pakistan’s 2018 general election campaign is over. And now, on this tampered playing field — assuming that voters are allowed to cast their ballots without interference on Wednesday — everything rests in the hands of the 106 million Pakistanis who have registered to vote.
As civic duties go, nothing tops the act of casting one’s vote. And in terms of self-interest, this is the one chance for ordinary citizens to elect not only their representative, but, in doing so, to help decide the policies that will affect them.
By casting a vote on the ballot, an ordinary citizen sets up the incentives that govern the behaviour of politicians: does one reelect the politician who brought in funding for a girls’ school, or the one who got a new road built?
Does one vote for the same politician every term even if they switch parties? Does one vote for the same party regardless of the politician running in the constituency? Does one vote for patronage, or for actions in parliament?
To take all these considerations into account is a lot to ask from a single vote. Voting, by its very nature, is a blunt tool. But it’s the only one every single citizen has — and this, of course, is precisely what defines a democracy.
A field of study in political science focuses on theory and uses empirical tools to understand how it is that voters actually vote in various contexts.
The theoretical literature gives us a range of assumptions and factors that could affect voting behaviour. It’s keeping that literature in mind that I’ve attempted to list some of the main factors that Pakistani voters need to juggle in their decision tomorrow.
First, in a parliamentary system, you, as a voter, do not vote for the prime minister directly.
You vote for the candidate in your constituency, who may belong to a party or be independent.
But you are aware, because you are a voter with some sophistication, that by voting for this candidate, you are affecting the probability that you get the government and the prime minister you want.
You may also take into account the votes of those around you, because that too affects the probability of your candidate and party winning. So, by definition, your vote is a mixture of candidate and party preference.
In general, if the ideologies of the political parties running are more or less convergent, candidate preference may trump party preference for voters.
But in a deeply polarised election — such as the current one — party preferences may become paramount.
The decision also depends on the individual voter’s preferences on national versus constituency politics — does one care more strongly about national politics and policy, which is influenced by the party in power, or about local politics?
If one’s constituency representative affects national policy, even a local preference may translate into national policy.
Second, beyond campaign promises and party manifestoes is a great deal of information about the actual behaviour of parties while in office, which tells you far more about how they will perform than their promises do.
At its core, voting is a principal-agent problem — you are the principal and the politician is your agent — and you can deduce the politician’s type (whether good or bad) and their effort (whether they work hard or shirk), albeit imperfectly, from their past behaviour.
You have this retrospective information only for candidates and parties who have been in power. Use it.
Third, voting is a blunt instrument on policy, because politicians and parties have policy platforms that are multidimensional. You are going to agree with some of their policies, and not with others.
Ultimately, the voting decision is based on your personal ranking of what policy issues matter most to you and the payoff you derive from each party’s policy on that issue.
You can’t choose each dimension of policy — for instance, the economy, delivery of social services, corruption, conservatism or liberalism, civilian supremacy and so on — according to your preferences, so choose what matters to you most, and choose the party and candidate whose policy platform maximises your utility.
Remember the bargain you strike — it will be with you for the next five years, should your candidate win.
Fourth, remember that voting, and democracy, is a process. If you consider yourself to have a set of bad choices, make the choice that is least bad.
If you would like better choices, vote in a manner that will encourage the introduction of a better choice in the next election: if you want more liberal choices on the ballot, vote for the most liberal choice in the set you have now; if you want all politicians to engage in less patronage and more legislating, vote for the candidate who focuses the most on the latter and the least on the former, and so on.
Voting is messy and imperfect. In Pakistan, there are further complications. One is horse-trading, which means the candidate-party match is (wildly) unstable.
Voters also find it difficult to discern the exact responsibility of their federal legislators — who tend to be rewarded not for their votes in parliament but for the patronage they provide their constituents, reflecting that voter confusion — versus their provincial legislators or local elected officials.
This is because the division of responsibilities for elected officials at various levels is not well understood, nor is how these responsibilities differ relative to the duty of bureaucrats.
Adding to the confusion is the fact that the 18th Amendment devolved a good deal of federal policymaking to the provincial level, and that provincial elections occur at the same time as the general election.
Ultimately, voting is visceral. In the United States, there is a sense that voters vote for the presidential candidate they most identify with (which, needless to say, may not make for the best of decisions).
But consider it the most sacred of civic duties — and the burden of information gathering, parsing and decision-making on all these dimensions rests on the shoulders of the voter.
Here’s wishing everyone luck and wisdom in making that decision.
Are you researching democracy in Pakistan? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com
It’s popularly believed that the strong grip of feudalism and the Bhutto factor are the main reasons why Sindh votes for the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP).
This assessment isn’t entirely accurate.
There are two major political reasons behind voting for the PPP.
The PPP wins the nationalistic aspirations of people as it has historically tried to raise issues such as finance and water that otherwise would be taken up by nationalist parties.
A concomitant factor is fear and the ethnic divide — Sindhis fear that if they don’t vote for the PPP, the Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM) will end up dominating them and divide their province.
Asif Ali Zardari is hell-bent on ensuring that the party is still the leading force in Sindh after Benazir Bhutto’s demise.
This means that, apart from these two political reasons, there are three managerial reasons that give the PPP the edge.
First of all, elections are not a matter of three months. It is a continuous process of five years or so, and the PPP is the only one in Sindh involved in it consistently.
Analyst Naz Sahto explained it to me like this: after polling on July 25, the PPP will immediately start its campaign for the next elections. Unlike other parties, the PPP remains in election mode all the time and keeps on working accordingly.
The rest of the parties, including the ones that have a following in some districts, have not expanded into new areas to increase their voter base.
They do not even bother to formally review the polling results and evaluate mistakes made during the campaign.
Secondly, the local PPP leadership is a beneficiary of party’s corruption as it gets shares in jobs, contracts and commissions.
This is the development model that the PPP follows. It has the networking ability and it can satisfy some quarters by providing a few jobs, building some roads, and installing water pumps and electricity lines.
The third factor can be attributed to the party’s focus on biradaris and tribes. These arrangements help the party get votes. The so-to-speak non-political factor was introduced by Zia ul Haq and was matured by Pervez Musharraf, particularly in local bodies elections.
In addition, the absence of strong alternatives can also be considered a major reason behind the PPP’s continued success in elections in Sindh.
The only option
For alternatives to exist, the responsibility primarily rests on the shoulders of mainstream political parties such as the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) and the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf.
The PML-N has remained uninterested in Sindh’s affairs since the Musharraf era. It has no organisational presence even at the divisional level in the province.
When the party needed a few members of assemblies to show that it was a national party, it could have chosen some influential anti-PPP elements who were readily available. Yet, the PML-N never opted to bring these electables into its fold en masse.
The PML-N can win power at the centre through sweeping Punjab, hence support from Sindh has never been a priority. At the most it might require the MQM, which is a different ballgame.
As far as indigenous alternatives are concerned, there are two possible options: some elites who are opposed to the PPP and, second, the rising middle class, which includes Sindhi nationalists, as it has happened in Punjab, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and up to some extent in Balochistan.
The Pakistan Muslim League-Functional (PML-F) could be a potential challenger. The MQM could complement this formula, which it has been doing, albeit only in Karachi.
The PML-F had the potential to challenge the PPP and emerge as a strong party, but it remained a spiritual organisation, confined to a few districts. It did not even expand its organisational network as a political party and hence failed to become a popular front.
The party is the ‘B-team’ of the powers-that-be. It does not believe that people matter in politics, but rather that power can only be captured with the help of the manipulative elements of the state. The PML-F prefers waiting for that opportunity, for the establishment’s call.
As for Sindhi nationalists, they are divided into two major groups: those who believe in parliamentary struggle and others who prefer non-parliamentary politics. The former lack unity within their ranks.
Qadir Magsi’s Sindh Taraqi Pasand Party, Palijo’s Qaumi Awami Tahreek (QAT) and Jalal Mehmood Shah’s Sindh United Party are not on the same page and contest elections on their separate platforms.
The 18th Amendment, which provided autonomy and ensured more rights to the provinces, defused nationalist upsurge and left them with no narrative.
Since then, nationalists have stopped taking up issues like water and the National Finance Commission Award. This shift has aided the PPP.
The art of electioneering
Earlier, the anti-PPP rural elite were asked to make alliance with urban forces, which came out in the shape of an alliance between the PML-F and MQM. This was the state’s strategy to dismantle the PPP government via makeshift arrangements.
Similarly, in 2013, it was a mixture of rural nationalists and elites of Sindh, but once again it failed to yield results against the PPP.
Now, the Grand Democratic Alliance is in action with two parties — the PML-F and the QAT — plus some influential personalities.
But the PPP has the network and access that others do not. Take the polling day, for example:
There are more than 100 polling stations for provincial assembly constituencies. A candidate needs at least 10 people on the day at a polling station who can work as polling agents, persuade people to cast their votes, arrange for transport, etc.
Setting up election offices and holding public or corner meetings are added expenses. This requires organisational capacity and money.
This is a full-time job for the PPP’s wadera class, who earns from politics and reinvest in it. Those who only do politics as a part-time job find themselves on the losing side.
Out of the waderas’ frying pan, into the middle class fire.
Sindh has another drawback: the parties and groups that pose as alternatives are sometimes worse than the PPP. Those offering alternatives have no alternate programmes and strategies.
The fact is, the middle and upper-middle classes have benefited from state corruption, through government jobs, contracts and commission. A good number of people are beneficiaries of this directly or indirectly.
The middle class talks about the failure of the public sector in areas such as education and health, and highlights them through social media, but it doesn't try to become a direct stakeholder in the process to improving governance.
Sindh’s middle class is weak and its intellectuals are weak, and it is their inability that has resulted in the lack of alternatives to the PPP.
This why the PPP continues to be the winner.
Illustration by Mushba Said
Are you researching social or political transformation in Sindh? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com
Even with more women entering political leadership roles, life for women in Balochistan remains harsh, with more than half of the women over 18 years not registered to vote.
In the 2018 parliamentary elections, more women are running for office than ever before for both elected and reserved seats from Pakistan's largest province in terms of size.
With a relatively smaller population, 25 women campaigning for elected seats in the provincial and national assemblies, plus 58 for reserved seats, are decent numbers, but male candidates still outnumber women six to one as per the Election Commission Pakistan (ECP) data in Balochistan.
It has been proven that having more women in assemblies has changed how the legislative body works and how things can change on the ground for women.
But in Balochistan, even with more and more women taking such roles, rising to key positions to improve women’s lives continues to be a challenge.
Poor living standards for women
Unlike other issues affecting women — like workplace harassment, which is specific to working women — social underdevelopment and poor living standards impact women across the board.
Nearly 75 percent of women have never been to school. Proportion-wise, this is the largest population of illiterate women in the country.
Limited opportunity for education in most areas of the province is one of the drivers of illiteracy, along with social practices such as child marriage.
Nearly six out of every 10 young girls are married before the age of 20, meaning Balochistan has the highest percentage of child brides out of all the provinces.
These statistics, combined with the lack of healthcare facilities for women, ensure that Balochistan’s maternal mortality rate is the highest in the country at 785 deaths per 100,000.
Child marriage has already been criminalised in Sindh and Punjab. In an attempt to outlaw the practice in Balochistan as well, lawmaker Dr Shama Ishaq presented a bill this year — but it went unentertained by most (male) members.
Ineffective political representation
In the last few years, several reports regarding women’s issues have attracted public attention.
Balochistan passed a Domestic Violence Bill in 2014 and a Protection Against Harassment in 2016.
Perhaps if there had been more women in the provincial assembly, legislators could have accomplished more.
But many believe that even with the current number of women, things could have improved if women legislators had been more active.
Currently, only 20 percent of seats in the Balochistan Assembly are reserved for women – meaning each woman legislator effectively represents 358,292 women.
The number of women legislators in the provincial assembly has stayed constant over the last couple of decades. In the last assembly, there was only one elected woman while 11 were from the reserved seats for women and one from the reserved seats of minorities.
How well have these 13 women legislators represented Balochistan’s women and their issues in the assembly?
The argument presented by most intellectuals and activists, backed up by statistics from Free and Fair Election Network (FAFEN), shows that women in the assembly did not stand for the rights of women or other important issues as much as they perhaps should have.
For instance, during the last five years, women legislators only participated in one out of every 10 of the assembly businesses (presenting resolutions, adjournment motions and questions).
Although the speaker in the last assembly, for the first time ever, was a woman, it made no difference – women legislators headed only two out of every 10 committees and presented only few legislations throughout their five years.
Since women, according to one expert I spoke to, are selected to be in the assembly because of political reasons and not on merit, legislation is not their strong point.
Sumaira Mehbood, an activist from Balochistan, told me that most parties encourage women to join as members merely to fill the gender quota. They depend on their male counterparts for support in order to pass legislation.
This can also be seen in women lawmakers’ performance over the last five years. They only sponsored one out of every 10 resolutions independently; for the rest, they had to rely on the support of male lawmakers.
Fewer women legislators, little legislation
Over the years, the number of women parliamentarians has stayed stagnant. In the last provincial assembly, there were 13 women members and 12 in 2008-13 and 2002-07.
Even though some women have managed to make it into the provincial assembly, barely any are considered for the caretaker government. The current caretaker government has only one woman minister out of 11.
Apart from their limited representation in every setup, a major concern is their capacity. To this, activist and researcher Dr Fouzia Saeed says, “there are no forums for women or even men to develop capacity capabilities and learn what law-making or oversight of the executive is. They do not have the capacity to assess the consequences of a bill or law.”
One such example is the Domestic Violence Bill of 2014.
Dr Fouzia Saeed explained that “the women legislators were handed an old draft. They quickly took it to the assembly without any corrections and passed a bill that does not even criminalise domestic violence.”
Hard work for votes
According to statistics obtained from Gender Election Monitoring Mission report, there were about 20 polling stations in Balochistan where not a single woman voted in the 2008 general elections.
In 2013 general elections, only four out of every 10 women eligible to vote were registered. This does not appear to have changed in 2018.
To make voting easier, caretaker Minister for Information Malik Khurram Shahzad has called to provide women with all the facilities in selection of their nominated candidates in the 2018 general elections.
However, civil society members in Balochistan working for women’s rights, while concerned about the lack of facilities and vague statements by government officials about providing them, are more disturbed by women’s inability to register themselves.
There is clearly a long way to go before women can make a deeper mark on the electoral process and legislation in Balochistan.
At the time of writing these lines, the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf (PTI) is leading in the poll count and is expected to make government at the centre. The PTI may also form government in the largest provincial assembly of Punjab.
Though, all this may only happen with the support from independents and other groups/parties.
But the PTI’s moment of joy may prove to be short lived if the allegations of rigging raised by the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) and Pakistan Peoples’ Party (PPP) turn out to be true.
The PML-N has gone to the extent of rejecting election results.
An important allegation raised by the PML-N is that their polling agents at (an unidentified number of) polling stations were not provided copies of Form-45.
This is a serious allegation as the information contained in this form is central to ensuring transparency of polls.
Form-45, as prescribed in the Election Rules 2017 (as amended to date), contains essential data of each polling station in any given constituency for both the national and provincial assemblies.
For instance, it provides, for the first time in the history of Pakistan, gender-wise disaggregated data of votes cast at every polling station.
Apart from this, the form is also supposed to list the following:
Names of contesting candidates
Number of valid votes polled in favour of each candidate
Number of valid tendered votes polled in favour of each candidate
Number of valid challenged votes polled in favour of each candidate
Total number of valid votes polled in favour of each candidate
Number of votes excluded from the count
But before Form-45 can be filled out, all the information has to be gathered.
For instance, under Rule 80 of the Election Rules, the presiding officer has to count separately, in respect of each contesting candidate, the ballot papers which are unambiguously marked in favour of that candidate and put each lot in a separate packet. These packets have to be signed by polling agents.
The same way, other requisite information (listed serial wise above) has to be gathered (by counting) and verified by signature on a packet containing relevant ballots by each polling agent present in the polling station.
The reference made to Form-45 signifies that there may be discrepancy between the actual count of the ballots (as described above) and the information fed on Form-45.
This puts a question mark against the whole exercise.
The Election Commission of Pakistan (ECP) cannot simply shrug saying that the polling agents left the polling station after they foresaw their respective candidates losing the contest.
Did the presiding officers get signatures of the polling agents on all the stipulated packets of ballots as prescribed?
If they did, then the contention of the ECP may carry some weight, not otherwise.
The ECP and its staff, especially the presiding officers, are under statutory and constitutional obligation to ensure transparency of the electoral process. Therefore, the ECP’s secretary’s public statement betrays lack of sense of responsibility.
Further, the law also prescribes that the presiding officers are also supposed to have independent election observers sign consolidated results.
Did the ECP specifically request independent election observers belonging to independent civil society organisations, domestic and international, to be present at the polling stations at the time of consolidation and distribution of Form-45?
The ECP’s explanation is far from adequate.
If past is anything to go by, it seems that the ECP may fail to resolve the controversy in a credible and acceptable manner.
Fairness and transparency are the most essential elements of a polling exercise. It stands questioned even before the declaration of results.
Just the mention of Multan conjures up an array of dreamy images in my mind. When I first came to Pakistan in 2006, it was Multan, not Lahore or even Gilgit-Baltistan, that I was most excited about visiting.
It had something to do with what had initially brought me to Pakistan; at the time, I was travelling around the Middle East and was particularly fascinated by the spread of traditions, faiths and philosophies in the region.
I was in Iran when I was reading about the spiritual preachers who headed eastwards in medieval times.
While the Western world was at one of its lowest points, a period that would later come to be known as the Dark Ages, the Muslim world was flourishing with theory and thought.
So much of that emanated from Persia, and Multan seemed to be the destination for so many influential thinkers of the time.
Haram Gate, Multan. —All photos by author
Musaferkhana under renovation
Interior of the musaferkhana
I knew that modern Multan wouldn’t be a gilded city of grand institutions — recent history has not been so kind to much of the Muslim world — but the history buff in me hoped that I could recapture some of the magic that once drew such notables as Bahauddin Zakariya, Shah Rukn-i-Alam, Syed Jalaluddin Bukhari, Lal Shahbaz Qalander and Baba Fariduddin Ganjshakar.
Alas, it wasn’t until earlier this year that I got to explore Multan properly — illness and security concerns precluded me on my first two trips, and later trips were simply for work.
This year, however, I knew that I would have the city to myself — just me, the saints and their shrines, and a couple of good friends to pound the pavement with.
The day we chose to explore Multan was hot — like all days in Multan — and we began at Haram Gate, a stout brick structure which apparently dates back to the 16th century.
Its name is said to be a reference to the women’s quarters which were once in this part of the city.
Like much of the city’s architecture, it has been rebuilt over the years — Multan has been laid siege to more than once in history, and Haram Gate was most recently restored with the help of a team of Italian experts.
It was from this gate that we dove into the Walled City of Multan.
It was at once familiar and foreign — as a part-time resident of Lahore, Multan’s inner city reminded me of the frenetic streets of the provincial capital’s androon sheher; but in the same instance, it was different: less boisterous, unassuming, rural even.
We passed a small shrine on our right; pigeons were feeding from a scattering of seed thrown by a gatekeeper.
There’s something about spiritual sites everywhere in the world that seems to attract pigeons, and Multan is full of them. The mint green dome of the shrine was stained with the evidence of the local bird population.
Shrine of Shah Rukn-i-Alam
Shrine of Shah Rukn-i-Alam
Looking down the fabled streets of Multan's old city
Multan was already living up to its name as the City of Saints — men and women ambled in and out of the shrine before my eyes, some of them leaving an offering of flower petals, a lit candle or some money.
It was just the beginning of an afternoon of immersing myself in the culture of shrines and saints that characterises Multan. Just around the corner was the shrine of Sakhi Yahya Nawab, the son of Musa Pak Shaheed, a prominent 16th century Sufi saint.
The colourful brick structure seemed to appear out of nowhere — one minute I had my vision blocked by city walls plastered with posters, the next it was bathed by the green glow of twisted, gnarled trees and their boughs, beckoning me to enter the shrine’s doors.
Three men stood at the threshold of the shrine, and until I asked them permission for a picture, they seemed lost in their own worlds.
Tomb of Sakhi Yahya Nawab
Tomb of Musa Pak Shaheed
Inside, a man sat on the floor nodding gently, intensely focussed on his reading of the Holy Qur’an.
Further along, close to the shrine of Musa Pak Shaheed, we stumbled across an old musafirkhana which was being restored.
We got speaking with some of the workers who told us about the ongoing project to revive parts of Multan’s old city to their former glory.
The three-storey brick building features upper windows that face out over Sarafa Bazaar. The windows, all carved wood and stained glass, perfectly frame the view across the covered jewellery market outside.
The romance of the building and the bazaar was starting to cast its spell on me, but I was quickly snapped out of it once I stepped out onto the main street; the frenzied push and shove of traders and sundry jolted me back to the present.
Chowk Bazaar
Inside the Jain Mandir
Looking out over Sarafa Bazaar from the musaferkhana
We made our way towards the main Chowk Bazaar, and through the jigsaw puzzle of canopies covering the market, I spied the tapered tower of a Jain mandir; it appeared almost proud, as much of the foot traffic below continued on, seemingly oblivious to its presence.
Investigating, I came across the entrance to the temple up a flight of stairs. The eerily abandoned hall of the venue was dusty but in decent condition; it was covered in tiles marking out the central congregation area, and painted frescoes playing out fantastical, mythical stories of good and evil.
Peeling painted signs in English and Hindi script advised visitors of a list of items, including umbrellas, shoes and eatables, which were not allowed in the temple.
Back out into the bazaar, we approached the Hussain Agahi precinct which skirts the base of the hill hosting Multan’s two most famous shrines; those of Shah Rukn-i-Alam and Bahauddin Zakariya.
Sunset over central Multan
Street scene near Haram Gate
Tomb of Bahauddin Zakariya
A short rickshaw ride later, we were approaching the hill from the west, near Multan’s famous clock tower, from where the bulbous dome of Shah Rukn-i-Alam’s shrine first comes into view.
The ubiquitous pigeons fluttered around, occasionally scattering from the rooftop when startled.
After circumnavigating the building, it was time to enter; the inside was cool and dark, and filled with an air of reverence, as scores of men and women came forth to kiss the tomb and make dua.
A couple of pigeons cooed distantly from overhead. What struck me the most was the contrast from the chaos of the city outside to the solitude inside; it was as if the madness had melted away, and all that was left was surrender to the spiritual realm.
The still-hot and breathless air belied the shadows which were growing longer, and the fading light of the late afternoon sun; it was late in the afternoon by the time we continued through Fort Qasim to our final destination.
Bahauddin Zakariya’s shrine is, in contrast to Shah Rukn-i-Alam’s, conventional and even understated, but its gravitas is no less.
Here lies Shah Rukn-i-Alam’s grandfather, one of the earlier Sufi preachers in Multan.
An older structure, I won’t deny that I was initially slightly disappointed with its visage; I had somehow built it up in my mind to be much bigger and more elaborate than it actually is, but what it lacks in dazzling beauty, it makes up for with significance.
Tomb of Sakhi Yahya Nawab
Tomb of Musa Pak Shaheed
As someone with an interest in historic architecture, its importance is huge. This was the prototype design for Multan’s future shrines; its square base with a hemispheric roof, heavily carved wooden doors and mud-brick construction, while individually modest, combine to create something that is more than the sum of its parts.
It was no doubt the most appropriate way to end a day which had seen me delving into the depths of Multan’s historic old city, peeling back layers of history, in search of evidence of Multan’s glory as a beacon for those who wonder about what lies beyond this world.
The sun was about to set, and so I took up my position in the corner of the courtyard as the celestial ball of fire descended behind the shrine’s white dome.
The moon started its ascent into the milky twilight, as the azaan rang out over the city, before the hearty sounds of qawwali began to emanate from a group men near the entrance to the tomb — and I knew I had found what I came for.
Have you explored Pakistan's old cities? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com
One day, this country was going to look up from their phones, TV screens, internal migrations, pockets of deprivation, anxieties about their children, health expenses, being spoken down to instead of being spoken with, and decide: enough is enough.
Out with the old, in with the new, whatever, however, wherever.
For a country as conservative as ours, the abruptness with which the tables seemed to have turned is truly shocking.
Enough that most of us can’t come to terms with what has just happened, whether out of happiness or serious disenchantment.
As a result, I don’t know how to feel when I see us — and taking a cue from us, the rest of the world — reaching back into the annals of history for our most trusted, established (pun intended) explanation for what’s just happened in Pakistan: the military’s playing tricks again.
Of course. How dare the average Pakistani get up and cast a vote to let somebody in the corridor of power know just what is going through their mind and life right now?
How dare the average Pakistani have a go at democratic behaviour before attaining perfect education, roaming the world for leisure and examining all the conspiracies on which the country is premised?
How dare we believe that the common citizen may finally have voted against ‘their’ grain in favour of their brain?
America picked Trump; Britain exited the EU; ours must be more of the same misguided populist vote explained by crumbling infrastructure in heartland America, and that embarrassing ageing population in the UK, but only rigging of every form in ignorant, illiterate, belligerent, bigoted, emotional, adolescent, and above all, some-kind-of-military-anti-Western Pakistan.
Somewhere in all the headlines, buzzwords and grand narratives, we have missed the detail. The sort that quietly moves around in my dad’s kitchen as he helps us prepare heart-friendly meals for my 70-year-old father who has recently run into cardiac trouble.
Our new cook and his entire extended family and in-laws are Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf (PTI) voters in Lahore because the tried-and-tested recipes just aren’t working for the children Basim bhai and his family members are endeavouring to raise as well-rounded human beings.
In the week leading up to the elections, Basim bhai spends all his free time fraternising with my father’s newly-hired driver, Atif bhai (an ardent Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) supporter married to a loyal Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) voter) along with the domestic help around our neighbourhood, the two plainly clothed chowkidaars who sit at the end of our middle-class street, the fruit, vegetable, meat and atta vendors around Faisal Town and even the shopkeepers in this area.
I know from my own everyday forays into the areas around my home that the Christian community next to FAST University has historically swung in favour of PPP, with PML-N dominating amongst GOR-V and other middle-class blocks of Faisal, Johar and Model Towns.
PTI is a popular choice amongst students of the many institutions in this part of Lahore, and some of the adult, working or homemaking residents who want to see ‘clean’ leadership.
But on July 23, 2018, as he checks the daal for consistency and texture, Basim bhai relays to me that everyone in this area wants PTI; actually, he corrects himself, they all believe in Imran Khan.
I listen calmly; I was never one for political hysteria and what little I had has probably been laid to rest by nearly a decade spent in the UK.
The next day, I see from the corner of my sleepy eye the huge face of Imran Khan walking into our kitchen, sketched across Basim bhai’s shirt, and am jolted from slumber.
Somewhere in the fog of being educated, uber-analytical, always cautious and incredibly reserved, I seem to be struggling with the ability to see ordinary Pakistanis for what they are — unapologetic believers that something better this way comes, right here, on this land, their land.
My neighbourhood is part of NA-130, a recently re-marked constituency in the eastern parts of Lahore, home to all kinds of socio-economic classes, education and aspiration levels, occupations, markets, religions, ethnicities and lifestyles.
When I send my CNIC number to the Election Commission’s 8300 verification service, I keep being told my polling station is Forman Christian College even though it has previously always been somewhere in Faisal Town.
The rest of my family heads over to Cathedral School on our main road, and I have to go over to FC College along the Canal on election morning.
The trip starts off frustratingly. Already, the past fortnight has been a blur of tigers and bats plastered across every unmoving (and even some moving) surface(s) in the city, prompting me to wonder just what kind of campaign ‘regulations’ we’ve got in place.
In a newspaper supplement regarding the finance of elections, I have read about unmonitored cash spending on canvassing paraphernalia.
I find myself silently praying whoever wins develops the aesthetic sense and gall to curate more sensible rules for campaigning.
On reaching FC College, I am turned away twice from the gates, the guards swatting at me like a fly, telling me there are no elections here. I am both laughing and shaking my head. This must be the only non-election inch of the country, then.
Atif bhai and I drive around the area looking for some kind of electoral activity. When we finally find party booths along one of Main Gulberg’s roads, I am issued an incomplete token by a perplexed looking young woman, who cautions that she hasn’t actually found my name on her list of voters. I am then instructed to walk towards KIMS, where I can try to cast my vote.
His name is Shakeel. Or he’s wearing Shakeel’s uniform. His eyes waver gently as he approaches me with an outstretched hand waiting to receive the humble white paper clenched tightly in my palm, this unimposing ticket to my democratic right.
I study him nervously as his young forehead begins to crease, his mouth beginning to form the words I am dreading: this probably isn’t the right polling station.
Shakeel, the Army jawaan ushers me towards a kindly young woman who advises me to return to the party booth outside — I cannot vote here, she tells me with apologetic eyes.
I stare speechlessly back at her. Is my vote even safe, screams a panicky voice in my mind. It is hard not to think this way when tales of corruption weave the fabric of Pakistan’s (mis)fortunes.
Behind the polling officer, I can see another uniformed officer meticulously adjusting a jute drape blocking off other parts of the school.
My eyes return to the polling officer, this time with a mixture of gratitude and pride.
These are the honest Pakistanis trying to do their job correctly on this important day in our history, and I must respect their integrity.
Back outside in the heat, I approach the PTI booth to explain what’s going on. A party member mutters out of frustration that people have been complaining since the morning that FC College has been turning voters away.
A young man next to her perks up with the suggestion that this is deliberate behaviour — I immediately reprimand him with the observation that the guards do not know from one’s face which party one is voting for.
I am resolved to find my polling station. I have waited a decade to vote again, having been a student abroad in 2013 who petitioned the government at many levels alongside thousands of other overseas Pakistanis — we were ultimately denied the right to vote.
Atif bhai and I return to FC College. This time I get out of the car and refuse to budge until the guard tells me just what is going on.
There’s been a mistake by the Election Commission. It’s actually FC College school that they’ve forgotten to append to their 8300 service texts, a building with its own distinct approach and entrance further up Zahoor Elahi Road.
There are no signs anywhere on the main roads indicating where a polling station might be, and I find this incredibly distressing.
How many people may have returned home without a purple-inked thumb, not as vote-starved as myself?
Why is such basic service design lacking in the Election Commission’s execution? The polling approach is blocked off so I jump out of the car and walk towards the school.
Inside, I have to intuitively guide myself towards the back of the school for the women’s polling due to further lack of signage.
I join a queue that is partially in shade, partially in sun and expect a long wait, when suddenly, all of us are shuffling into the building.
What a pleasant surprise, I am just starting to think, when a police officer appears and an altercation ensues.
I do not want a fight to prevent any of us from finally having found the right place to cast our votes so I leave my place in the queue to ask the police officer what happened.
He gives me a look, and I clarify that I’m just trying to help on this stiflingly hot day.
His eyes soften as he admits it is likely his own mistake that he walked to the other end of this long school corridor for water, not having been provided a drop since the morning.
His eyes flicker slightly, but I see what they’ve gone towards. Thick black boots on his feet in 36 degree Celsius heat since 5am.
The instructions the police and army officers have been given are very simple: only four people at a time can queue outside the immediate polling room; everyone else must be stood at a credible distance (in this case, the entrance to the corridor), and only two people from the queue can be allowed to approach the voter verification table at a time.
Also, the police and army cannot issue any different instructions to each other.
The trouble seems to be that his request to the women at the head of the queue to remain in their places was not honoured.
In addition, there are now three elderly women, one in a wheelchair and a sick lady who are being asked to join the regular queue, no arrangements for such voters having been mandatorily pre-empted by the polling station.
I reason that as a citizen of Pakistan, surely I can ask the army officer to help me do whatever needs to now be done.
Within 10 minutes, we’ve managed to clear the way for the elderly and ill, convinced the swarm of cranky voters to resume their original queuing positions, and even humoured the women in this part of the building enough to crack smiles.
The ballot itself is extremely uneventful in comparison — which is probably a good thing.
I thank the presiding officers running the show at my polling station. As I leave, the policeman and army officer thank me for being such a caring and responsible citizen.
I am quietly elated.
Before I know it, I am walking back towards the car with a Piano blue line of ink carefully painted across my right thumb, my heart heavy with the news from Quetta.
All the way home, and for the rest of election day, I return to the rich purple stain on my digit: it glistens in the light, this intricate topography of spirals, uniquely spaced to celebrate my existence, my life, my voice, my opinion, documented not by any token, card, chip, database or socially-constructed record of qualification or location, but right here in the palm of my hand.
I was born with it, and I have been undoubtedly fortunate to have used it to let the state know what matters to me.
The evening of the 25th quickly turns childish for Pakistan on global television and social media. One by one, members of my family retire to their beds until I sit alone at 4am, glued to the television screen.
In that moment, it doesn’t matter to me who says what on the basis of what evidence. I return to my thumb — and to all the people, processes, thoughts, deaths, lives, sweat, blood, tears and words that allowed me to stain it purple today.
My thumb, your thumb, this magnificent symbol in our country, better than any bat, tiger, arrow, tractor or book.
This symbol of a human’s greatest achievement: the ability to come together to honour a difference of opinion, respect another’s rights, and find the dignity to keep working together towards a better future.
We may not do it perfectly yet, but celebrate it, Pakistan, because we’re on our way. Well done.
I was hired as a researcher (I am not a party member) to be part of the team that drafted the final version of Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz’s (PML-N) manifesto before the 2018 general elections.
Many bright individuals assisted by brighter senior PML-N leaders gave the document the final shape.
Certainly, it was a tough race against time to produce a coherent and comprehensive manifesto that presented the party’s performance during its 2013-2018 tenure and promises for 2018-2023.
For my part, I worked diligently to quickly complete the chapters assigned to me and dedicated my spare time to discuss and understand what other team members and, most importantly, PML-N leaders, thought about the party’s narrative, campaign strategy and its electoral prospects.
It was widely thought that the pre-poll drive to subdue the PML-N could well work in the party's favour and that the disillusioned party voters would come out in large numbers on July 25.
It was felt that, somehow, the narrative of victimisation could supplement the narrative of delivering development and infrastructure projects in Punjab and that both the narratives would be presented simultaneously to woo voters.
It was also expected by some that there could be no manipulation possible on election day, that the PML-N would be able to secure Punjab and may also have a shot at the federal level in a possible coalition government.
This was my assessment around the end of June and the start of July.
It will be unfair to say that the PML-N leaders were unaware of the situation on the ground, where some candidates had started returning party tickets and the divergence between Nawaz Sharif and Shahbaz Sharif’s version of the party’s narrative was creating more problems.
Both approaches had their limitations and appeal among voters. Even eloquent party leaders were having a tough time reconciling the two narratives on primetime TV talk shows.
Commentators and observers were reading the situation in terms of a rift between the Sharif brothers.
Of two minds
On July 5, when the PML-N unveiled its manifesto, it was the time to highlight the party’s performance and promises. This was Shahbaz’s moment.
However, the verdict in the Avenfield reference came the very next day and jail time was announced for Nawaz, his daughter Maryam and son-in-law retired Captain Safdar.
The new circumstances now clearly dictated that the slogan Vote Ko Izzat Do had to be adopted and Khidmat Ko Vote Do could just well be a sideshow.
At this point, it was foreseen that the PML-N president Shahbaz Sharif would put his foot down, unify disparate party camps by bringing clarity in the PML-N’s narrative and fill in the shoes of star campaigner Nawaz Sharif.
However, the younger Sharif did not adapt to the new circumstances and was possibly still hopeful that he could rely on the khidmat narrative.
With the Avenfield verdict announced on July 6, Maryam and Nawaz declared their return to Pakistan on July 13 in order to surrender before the National Accountability Bureau and file an appeal within 10 days.
Now, the electronic media, which had been partially muzzled before, had their microscopes set on Nawaz’s return. This was thought to be the PML-N’s moment of resurrection.
Although, the PML-N supporters and workers did not want to create a large-scale agitation in Lahore, they were still arrested in large numbers by an overzealous caretaker Punjab government.
The party had already been battered by targeted political victimisation and Nawaz’s return provided an opportune turning point to the new PML-N president to make the elder brother a cult hero and capitalise on it.
Instead, Shahbaz further disillusioned his party’s charged workers on July 13 — the day the Sharifs returned — by making a dreary show of power in Lahore and remained fixated on July 25. Further, the massive suicide blast in Mastung diverted attention away from Nawaz’s return.
Just as Shahbaz’s moment to highlight his khidmat was overshadowed by the Avenfield verdict, Nawaz's return was overshadowed by his brother’s miscalculation and the Mastung blast.
Essentially, opportunities came and passed, but the PML-N failed to shine on either of its strong suits.
Writing on the wall
On the day of the election, I volunteered for the Anti-Rigging System under Senator Mushahid Hussain Syed, a dedicated team constantly in touch with party candidates for coordination and legal aid.
I spoke to candidates from Lodhran and Vehari. When polling time finished and counting of votes began, candidates reported that their polling agents were evicted from polling stations and results were being issued only on katchi parchi and not on the official Form-45.
July 2018 witnessed an unprecedented euphoria amongst the masses in Karachi. With utmost certainty and assurance, folks were found rallying around the green and red banners of the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf (PTI).
A casual conversation with many on the street would turn into a passionate debate with hope and optimism at the centre.
“Yes, the captain will win and shall be our new prime minister. He shall end all our miseries, especially poor governance, dilapidated urban services, lack of representation in the main echelons of power, lawlessness and insecurity, rampant corruption and all the ills that exist in Karachi,” a young lady in a university department beamingly remarked.
She was surrounded by many young girls who had affectionately painted the PTI flag on their faces a day before the elections.
The sentiments of the middle-aged and elderly were also not different:
“You will see. He will reform this city like no one else had done before….like the way he led his team to lift the Cricket World cup in 1992,” an elderly gentleman at a newspaper stall replied to my question as to whether he believed in Imran Khan’s leadership with special reference to Karachi.
Supporters of the PTI chant slogans during a sit-in demonstration at the Teen Talwar roundabout in Clifton in 2014.—Online
I tried to start an argument by laying down some of the stark realities related to the structure of our administrative system, allocation of powers and resources amongst the various tiers of government, and more serious and factual stuff.
No one was interested to go into details. When he will win, he will find a way!
And indeed, the sentiments translated into electoral reality. Out of a total of 21 national assembly seats, the PTI won 14.
It has also emerged as the second-largest party in the Sindh assembly with 23 seats.
But the present reality of our administration and governance is such that most matters related to everyday life of common citizens are managed by the provincial government.
Some residual services and tasks are also dealt by local government institutions.
For instance, water supply and sewerage in Karachi is under the control of Karachi Water and Sewerage Board (KWSB) — which is directly placed under the Local Government Minister of Sindh. The Sindh Solid Waste Management Board is also under the same provincial minister.
Construction activity, development of residences and other physical facilities are regulated by the Sindh Building Control Authority (SBCA).
Development works are done by Karachi, Lyari and Malir Development Authorities, all under government of Sindh.
Healthcare, management of environment, police, schools, colleges and public universities, fisheries, housing and women welfare, social development and population welfare, heritage and culture, labour and livelihood, land allocation and control, and many other sectors of performance are under the control of Sindh government.
Interestingly, the elected local governments bodies in Karachi function under the close tutelage of the provincial government. And the provincial government in Sindh is where no change has appeared.
With 77 seats from a total tally of 130 general seats, the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) is all set to continue its third consecutive term since 2008.
Two questions arise: how will the Karachi voters — who overwhelmingly voted the PTI into an effective position to form government at the centre — benefit from their choice?
And how the much needed development, governance and representation needs of the metropolis shall be addressed, given the fact the Sindh administration may continue with its water-tight control on decision making and financial allocation prerogatives?
Karachi’s many woes
Let us first look at some of the most pressing needs of the city. A comprehensive road repair and maintenance project is a foremost priority.
Daily experience of commuting shows that various categories of roads have been damaged to a serious extent.
Whether Nishtar Road, Shahrah-i-Pakistan, Shahrah-i-Noor Jehan or major roads in Orangi, Baldia and Qasba colony, the destruction is to the extent where even stronger vehicles get damaged to a non-functional level.
Lack of periodic maintenance, poor design and quality of construction, frequent road cutting and adjustments for other forms of buried infrastructure, overlapping of new development schemes such as ongoing Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) project and frequent spills of fresh and sewage water have been some causes that led to the present dilapidated conditions.
—Zofeen T. Ibrahim
Despite the Supreme Court-mandated judicial commission on water and sanitation issues in Sindh, the status of trash collection in the city is far from satisfactory.
Physicians and health care professionals inform that the scale and intensity of infectious diseases has increased manifolds during the past few years.
Karachi produces more than 12,000 tonnes of solid waste every day. The weight and volume is rising due to growing consumerism.
A tiny fraction of this waste is lifted and disposed away in an unscientific manner. The remaining portion of this vast volume is either left unattended or burnt from time to time — causing more health hazards.
Sindh Solid Waste Management Board, the provincial body for this task under Sindh government, has been severely criticised for its less than desirable performance.
Karachi requires many simple but firm strategic interventions. The increase in the number of CNG-fuelled green buses on city arterial roads can facilitate commuters to a great extent.
About 450 million gallons of untreated sewage per day is discharged into the sea. Development of small and medium-scale sewage treatment plants at the discharging ends of city nallahs can safeguard marine environment.
This enterprise shall also help produce recycled water for horticulture and irrigating public landscape.
The drains are unable to carry to water as they are choked and their size capacity reduced.—Amar Guriro
Water management must be improved to enhance efficiency and control theft and wastage. A water loss reduction project is desperately needed by city dwellers.
It is common knowledge that many of our water mains have completed their designed life and are impacted by water leakage and organised theft.
Proper fixing of the leaks shall help Karachiites benefit more from the already available water.
Rehabilitation of footpaths all along the major thoroughfares is a key intervention that must be done without delay.
Education and health care facilities, especially in the public sector, need complete overhaul.
The list can go on and on.
But almost all the tasks mentioned above fall under the control of the Sindh government, which shall act on its own accord, not at the behest of PTI legislators.
Healing the rift between Karachi and Sindh government
Will it mean that the entire frenzy and enthusiasm of PTI buffs shall go to waste?
A lot shall depend upon the political equation that evolves between the incoming federal government under Imran Khan, his affiliates and cronies and the Sindh government, aka the PPP leadership.
Many possibilities remain open to the PTI legislators from Karachi to make their presence felt in Sindh and Karachi affairs.
It may be worthwhile to study what their predecessors in the federal government — the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz administration — did in Karachi.
The spearheading of the Karachi operation in 2013 with political consensus of all the parties in the province was perhaps the most important initiative by the Nawaz administration.
Ably supported by the armed forces and the provincial government, the operation was able to efface extortionists, terror outfits and a hoard of criminal gangs — within and outside the ranks of many a political party.
While law and order was the top problem of Karachi in 2013, water supply and urban transportation are two significant woes faced by all and sundry in the metropolis.
A construction site for Green Line in Karachi.—White Star
The PTI will do well if it negotiates the timely operation and management of ongoing initiatives such as the BRT along with all its connecting and feeder services, the Circular Railway with extensions to designated neighbourhoods and construction of intercity bus terminals on the Super and National Highways.
But if the PTI legislators and their party are sincere to resolve Karachi’s issues, they must bear in mind that it cannot be done without a strong working relationship with the incoming Sindh government.
If these politicians are able to articulate their own bargaining points, it shall prove to be useful to establish this bond.
As the PTI is perceived to enjoy better links with the establishment and its leader is on a high horse through this cumulative advantage, it can serve as a useful bargaining asset when they sit down to crease their relations with the PPP-led Sindh government.
While a mutually beneficial, cooperative spirit could serve everyone well, including Karachi, any condescending attempt to preponderate the PPP leadership in Sindh may prove futile and ineffective.
Besides, the presently muted Muttahida Qaumi Movement-Pakistan mayor and his local government tier must also be kept on board in all such interventions.
Khan has been talking about directly-elected mayors for large cities during his political discourse.
Whereas some of the more drastic measures may prove difficult, the PTI can consider becoming a bridge between the Sindh and local government.
The metropolis and its hapless citizens cannot afford any further divisive politics for sure.
Are you researching Karachi's politics? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com
At first blush, it’s easy to dismiss any notion of a struggling US-Pakistan relationship improving under a government led by Imran Khan.
This is, after all, a figure who has resorted to relentless anti-American messaging. He has threatened to shoot down American drones, and he has lambasted Pakistan for using “American money” to fight “America’s war” against terrorism.
He has opposed the idea of targeting terrorists with force, and he has expressed sympathy for the Taliban insurgency that America is fighting in Afghanistan.
A populist politician in Pakistan, once in power, can’t be expected to eliminate this rhetoric, which plays well on the Pakistani street but not in the corridors of power in Washington.
And yet, amid these obstacles, there lies an opportunity for US-Pakistan relations. And Khan is well qualified — perhaps even uniquely qualified — to capitalise on it.
For the US, relations with Pakistan are always seen through the lens of Afghanistan. One reason the US government hasn’t walked away from Islamabad despite all the tensions and frustrations of recent years is that it desperately wants Pakistan to help it pursue its goals in Afghanistan.
From Washington’s perspective, Pakistan hasn’t been terribly helpful, mainly because it has not addressed America's concerns about Afghan insurgents allegedly based in Pakistan. And for years, American troops have tried but failed to tame the militants that Washington accuses Pakistan of harbouring.
But now, a dramatic shift in US policy is underway. After nearly 17 years, US officials are finally realising that the war cannot be won militarily, and that seeking a negotiated outcome is the only viable Plan B.
America’s new Plan B for Afghanistan has always been Pakistan’s Plan A — or at least Islamabad has stated as much publicly. Until now, the two countries’ plans had never been in alignment.
Washington has now agreed to pursue direct, bilateral talks with the Taliban. A round of exploratory negotiations reportedly took place in recent days, when a US government delegation led by America’s top South Asia diplomat, Alice Wells, met with Taliban representatives in Qatar.
America’s top ask of Pakistan is now something on which Islamabad — and Khan in particular — can not only deliver, but will presumably be keen to deliver on. And that ask is to convince the Taliban that now is the time to formally commit to peace talks to end the war.
Khan would not support any action that could be construed as doing America’s bidding. And yet cooperation with Washington on Taliban reconciliation talks should be an easy sell for him, and for two reasons.
First, such a move serves Pakistan’s interests. It would represent a step toward ending a war that has destabilising spillover effects in Pakistan (from cross-border terror to refugee flows and drug trafficking).
And it could get Pakistan closer to one of its desired endgames in Afghanistan: a post-war arrangement under which the Taliban enjoy a degree of political influence.
Second, helping push for Taliban reconciliation talks would be in line with Khan’s own personal preferences. One of his consistent positions in recent years is that militants — in both Pakistan and Afghanistan — should be targeted with negotiations, not force.
Additionally, Khan has infamously telegraphed his sympathies for the Afghan Taliban by praising their fight as a “holy war” justified by Islamic law.
All of this should give Khan good standing among the Taliban, increasing the possibility that the insurgents would listen to his government.
In effect, Khan’s perceived soft side for militants, rightly considered by many to be a liability, can also be an advantage. The qualities that inspire the moniker “Taliban Khan” could actually help serve US and Pakistani interests in Afghanistan — and, in the process, help boost US-Pakistan ties.
None of this is to say that a Khan-led government cooperating with Washington on Taliban reconciliation issues would magically make the bilateral relationship warm and fuzzy.
Washington’s “do-more” drumbeat, its fixation on the Haqqani network, its unhappiness about the alleged presence in Pakistan of India-focused terror groups — and above all its allegations against Pakistan of sponsoring various US-designated terrorists — these will all remain major irritants in the US-Pakistan relationship.
But for now at least, the Trump administration has set aside those tension points. The Taliban peace talks issue —something on which both the US and Pakistan now see eye to eye — has been placed on the policy front burner.
And herein lies the opportunity for Khan: he can capitalise on one of the few shared goals in the US-Pakistan relationship and help reinvigorate a sputtering partnership.
To be sure, this could all come crashing down. The Taliban could well shrug off Pakistan’s requests. Yes, there’s reason to believe Pakistan’s outreach to the insurgents has already worked to an extent; the Taliban’s recent decision to declare and honour a brief ceasefire can be attributed in part to Islamabad’s efforts.
Still, at the end of the day, the insurgents have little incentive to seriously commit to peace talks to end a war that they firmly believe they’re winning. That incentive structure remains in place no matter who may try to convince them to step off the battlefield.
But, at this moment at least, Pakistan’s incoming prime minister has a golden opportunity to cooperate with America to help bring a bloody and interminable war in Afghanistan to a merciful end.
Time will tell whether he chooses to seize it, and, if he does, if such a decision will pay off — and bring some badly needed relief to a region where peace and stability have long been elusive.
Are you researching Pakistan-US relations ? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com
