Pharaohism in the Pakistani Public

By: Asi Islamabad
​As children, we all grew up hearing tales of Pharaoh. We were told of a man, a king, a tyrant so consumed by his own power that he claimed divinity. To him, people weren’t humans; they were tools. No one dared speak the truth in his presence. His court was a den of sycophants and terrified slaves who trembled at his slightest gesture.
​We used to believe that Pharaoh died. We thought his era ended when the Red Sea swallowed him, closing the chapter on his tyranny forever. But perhaps we were wrong. Pharaoh didn’t die; he simply multiplied. He left the body of one man and entered the souls of millions. Today in Pakistan, Pharaoh doesn’t reside in a single palace; he sits in every office, behind every desk, on every chair. He lives within every stamp, every signature, every uniform, and every title—large or small.
​Our tragedy isn’t that we are ruled by a single Pharaoh. Our tragedy is that we are surrounded by thousands of “mini-Pharaohs.” From the office peon to the high-ranking official, from the school nanny to the university vice-chancellor, from the hospital ward boy to the head of the institution—everyone has become a Pharaoh within their own tiny circle of influence.
​The Poison in Our Veins
​This “Pharaohism” has seeped into our blood. It is a poison in our tone and a disease in our institutions, our homes, our upbringing, and even our worship.
​Walk into any government office. The security guard at the gate will look at you as if you’ve trespassed into his private estate. “Where are you going? Why are you here? Who do you want to see?” he’ll bark. If you mistakenly mention you’re there to see a high official, he’ll glare at you as if your presence is a direct challenge to his kingdom.
​Once inside, you meet the peon. Holding a simple ledger, he acts as the gatekeeper of your dignity and time. He’ll tell you to sit, and then he will systematically forget you exist. One hour passes, then two. When you finally find the courage to ask again, he looks at you with contempt, as if your request for a status update is a criminal offense.
​In Pakistan, real power often doesn’t lie with the person in the big chair; it lies with the person blocking the path to that chair. This is why Pharaohism is most visible in lower-ranking staff. For many, it is the first time in their lives they’ve held authority over another. In a society where people are rarely given respect, the moment they get a chance to humiliate someone else, they perform it with the fervor of a religious ritual.
​The Trial of the Common Man
​Visit a public hospital. If you don’t have a “source,” a “recommendation,” or a phone call from a minister or a high-ranking officer, you aren’t just a patient—you are a target for humiliation.
​The ward boy will scowl. The nurse will speak to you as if you are a beggar. The doctor might not even look up. Your child might have a burning fever, your mother might be gasping for air, but before you get medical help, you must first pass the test of the Pharaohs standing in the hallways.
​You’ll be told to “get a call from above” or dropped a hint to “provide some service” (a bribe). You are made to feel that in this country, it isn’t just the disease that needs treatment, but your dignity as well—and the poor can afford neither.
​I have seen mothers clutching sick infants, standing in lines for six hours while the staff ignores them. Then, a luxury car pulls up. A “somebody” steps out. A phone rings. A door swings open. A doctor runs; a nurse scurries. A room is cleared. And that mother? She is still standing in the same spot in the line. On that day, it becomes clear: in Pakistan, Pharaohism is more lethal than any virus.
​Cultivating Tyrants in Classrooms
​We believe education builds character, but many of our schools are producing mini-Pharaohs instead of human beings.
​A child goes to school and is greeted by a nanny or a guard who speaks to them like a convict. In the classroom, if a child is poor, if their uniform is worn, or if their fees are a few days late, they are shamed in front of their peers. Parents wait for hours outside a Principal’s office, only to be told “Madam is busy,” while the wealthy “donor” parent is ushered in immediately.
​What are we teaching our children? We are teaching them that authority is for humiliation. That a chair is meant for making people wait. That a stamp is a tool for making people cry. These children grow up to be the doctors, officers, and politicians who carry that dormant Pharaoh into the world.
​A Society of Double Standards
​This isn’t just an institutional problem; it’s a domestic one.
The father acts as a Pharaoh at home, issuing commands instead of having conversations. The husband tests his might on his wife. The boss belittles the subordinate. Even in the mosque, the committee member exerts unnecessary dominance over the worshippers.
​We pray, we fast, we perform Hajj and Umrah, but our tongues are laced with venom when we speak to those “beneath” us. We bow before God in the mosque, but demand that men bow before us in the office. We forget the Quran’s simplest lesson: God does not love the arrogant.
​The Two Pakistans
​It feels as though two countries exist within one border.
One Pakistan is for the elite. There, the roads are clean, the doors are open, the schools are world-class, and respect is free. The other Pakistan is for the commoner. There, you find queues, pushes, insults, bribes, and misery.
​The common man doesn’t just live from morning to night; he dies a little every day. He dies in the tone of a clerk, the shove of a guard, and the arrogance of an officer. And then we wonder why our society is losing its patience? How can patience survive when every interaction is a battle for basic respect?
​The Only Real Revolution
​A real revolution in Pakistan won’t happen on the streets or through a ballot box alone. It will happen when an officer offers a chair to a poor man. When a doctor sees a patient as a soul, not a file number. When a clerk processes a paper because it’s his job, not because he was bribed.
​We don’t need new roads as much as we need new attitudes. We don’t need new buildings as much as we need new characters. We are teaching our children English and Coding, but we aren’t teaching them how to speak to a person in need.
​True success isn’t power—it’s using that power to become a source of mercy. Today, Pakistan doesn’t need a “Moses” to fight one Pharaoh; it needs millions of people to recognize and kill the Pharaoh living inside themselves.
​Nations aren’t just destroyed by wars or debt. They are destroyed when people stop being human to one another. There is still time. If you are a teacher, be kind. If you are a policeman, be respectful. If you are a father, be loving.
​The day we stifle the ego within us is the day Pakistan truly becomes a nation. Perhaps then, our children will hear the stories of Pharaoh and say: “People like that don’t exist anymore.”
​And we will be able to say with pride: “Yes, because we finally let them die within us.”