If Islamabad aspires to become a global diplomatic and mediation hub, it must learn to welcome world leaders without freezing the daily life of its own people.
Dawn had only just begun to lift itself over Islamabad when Foxy and I rolled out of F-10.
My mustard-coloured [Volkswagen]—Foxy, as I call her—has carried me through many worlds. Manhattan’s disciplined lanes, Paris’s restless intersections, Dubai’s glass highways, and the winding roads of Islamabad where memory and routine often travel together. She does not complain. She only moves, as citizens do, until movement is suddenly taken away.
That morning, however, Foxy stopped before she could properly begin.
Ahead of us stood barriers.
Not temporary inconvenience, not ordinary traffic control—but a full interruption of movement. Roads narrowed into questions. Questions narrowed into silence. Uniformed officers redirected vehicles away from routes that, until a day earlier, belonged to everyone.
A state visit was underway. A dignitary was arriving. The capital was preparing itself.
And in preparation, it had paused itself.
Foxy waited among dozens of cars. Engines idled. Motorbikes balanced. Bus passengers leaned out of windows trying to understand what time would return.
There was no argument about security. There was no disagreement about protocol. Nations must receive guests. Diplomacy must travel in dignity. Peace itself sometimes arrives behind a convoy.
Yet standing there, I found myself asking a simple question that did not belong to politics but to life itself:
Whom is a capital city built for?
For the guest alone?
Or for the guest and the host together?
Foxy has seen cities that never fully stop.
She has moved through streets where presidents live behind doors, yet citizens still walk, talk, work, and visit. Where security is present but invisible in its discipline rather than loud in its interruption.
But in Islamabad that morning, the silence felt different.
It was not peace.
It was pause.
And in that pause stood the unseen citizens of the city: a mother trying to reach a hospital, a student heading to an examination, a worker calculating whether today’s wage would still arrive, an elderly father whose breath was already shorter than the road ahead.
The barriers did not speak, yet they decided everything.
Foxy did not move.
And in that stillness, memory began to travel.
Not long ago, I had stood across from Number 10 Downing Street in London.
The residence of the British Prime Minister is among the most sensitive political locations in the world. Yet there I was—standing on the pavement in my navy-blue robe, brass bells stitched onto it, old jeans torn at the ankles, threads moving in the wind.
“BaBa Tal” [the Bell-man] was with me—or at least, his presence always appears where questions grow too large for ordinary explanation. His staff carried its brass bell, faintly ringing as people passed by.
Tourists took photographs. Office workers hurried along. Security was visible but restrained. The street did not belong only to power; it still belonged to life.
No cordon swallowed the entire district. No city stopped breathing because one building contained authority.
“BaBa Tal” looked at me and said softly:
“Bacha! If you wish friendship with men who arrive on elephants, keep your doors high in height—but never shut the streets of your own people.”
Another memory returned—Washington, D.C.
The White House and Capitol Hill stand at the heart of a superpower. Decisions there shape continents. Yet around them, citizens continue to walk, visit, observe, and live.
Security exists, yes. But it does not erase the city.
Even power, in its highest form, coexists with public movement.
Standing with Foxy halted before the barrier, the question became sharper:
Why must protection of one life require the disruption of thousands?
Why must diplomacy demand the paralysis of daily survival?
Why should a city that calls itself a capital become temporarily unlivable for its own citizens?
The Qur’an speaks with quiet clarity:
“Allah intends for you ease and does not intend for you hardship.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:185)
The Holy Prophet Muhammad[Peace and blessings be upon him] said:
“The best of people are those who are most beneficial to people.”
And Cicero of Rome reminded political authority:
“Salus populi suprema lex esto.” (The welfare of the people shall be the supreme law.) — Roman Republic (present-day Italy)
Islamabad is no longer only a domestic capital. It is increasingly discussed as a potential site for regional dialogue, mediation, and international engagement.
That is an opportunity.
But opportunity brings responsibility.
If Islamabad wishes to become a global diplomatic hub, then its infrastructure must evolve beyond temporary closures and reactive barriers. It must develop permanent systems that allow both security and continuity.
Dedicated corridors. Emergency medical lanes. Smart traffic control systems. Pre-announced structured movement plans. Alternative routes that remain functional at all times.
A capital city must be able to host giants without forcing its own citizens into stillness.
As Shakespeare once suggested:
“What is the city but the people?”
A city is not its walls, its ministries, its convoys, or its sirens. It is the daily movement of those who live within it.
When that movement stops entirely, the city does not appear more secure.
It appears less alive.
Foxy eventually moved that morning—slowly, reluctantly, as barriers shifted and instructions changed.
But something remained with me long after the road reopened.
A sense that movement had been permitted, but not respected.
That life had resumed, but not been considered.
Later, BaBa Tal’s voice returned in memory like a bell carried by wind:
“Bacha! A great capital is not measured by how many roads it closes. It is measured by how many roads it keeps open.”
Then he added:
“If you welcome giants, build a city that does not make its own people kneel before them.”
A nation does not lose dignity by hosting world leaders.
But it may lose trust if its citizens feel invisible during their arrival.
Security and citizen life do not have to compete.
They must be designed together.
Because the strength of a capital is not in how silently it can stop its people—
But in how intelligently it can keep them moving.
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