From Cold War Suspicion to National Confidence — The Meaning of Vigilance in a Fragile Era
Shikarpur was the city, and we were on our routine evening walk — from Sheikhanjo Parro toward the railway station. Those were unhurried days. Between the fading sunlight and the dust of old Sindh stood a modest place near the station: Khan Jo Hotel. That small hotel was our parliament of youth. I mean I and my fast friend Moodi would spend one or sometimes two hours there, drinking tea or coffee, listening to Indian, Pakistani and even Western country music. It was the cherished hobby of that generation.
The voices still echo in the valleys of memory — Lata ji, Muhammad Rafi, Mukesh, Kishore Kumar, Madam Noor Jehan, Mehdi Hasan, Alamgir. And from the West, the heartfelt sounds of Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn. Even today the line vibrates in my ears: “Well, you wonder why I always dress in black…” What sensations those days carried. What innocent storms of feeling.
Forgive me — I became sentimental.
That evening, as Moodi and I walked toward the railway station, someone suddenly reached from behind. I felt a heavy, firm grip on my left shoulder. A deep voice asked, “Tum Tazeem ho?” Before I could respond, Moodi stepped between the stranger and me. “Talk to me,” he said.
That was friendship — pure and instinctive.
The stranger, calm yet authoritative, advised us never — ever—to attempt contacting the embassy of any communist country again. Moodi turned to me, surprised. “Did you try?”
“Yes,” I replied.
The man, clearly from an “agency,” softened his tone. “It is my humble advice,” he said. “Do not repeat it. Otherwise, you may fall into big tensions. Save your future.”
There was no shouting. No humiliation. No theatrics. It was a different era — direct contact, direct message.
The truth was simple. From class five onward, I had been a regular reader of Panorama and Sarebeen, magazines of the U.S. Embassy in Pakistan. Curiosity drove me. If I could read about America, why not also learn about the Soviet Union? Why not understand the world beyond the headlines?
But that evening, under the fading sky of Shikarpur, curiosity quietly folded its wings.
To understand that moment, one must understand the era.
Pakistan, since 1947, was not born into calm waters. It emerged through fire — migration, bloodshed, unsettled borders, economic fragility. In such a climate, national survival was not poetry; it was policy.
The Cold War was not distant diplomacy. It was an ideological battlefield stretching across continents. Alliances defined suspicion. Curiosity could be misread as alignment.
Pakistan chose its strategic side early. And within that framework, vigilance became doctrine.
The Inter-Services Intelligence, established in 1948, evolved as a coordinating shield — to analyze threats, protect sovereignty, and prevent infiltration. Over decades — through wars, regional conflicts, and complex geopolitical theatres — it matured into one of the most discussed intelligence institutions in the world. Praise or criticism aside, no serious geopolitical analyst ignores its relevance.
It must be stated with clarity: writing about intelligence agencies anywhere in the world is delicate. These institutions operate in shadows so that nations may live in light. Their triumphs remain classified. Their failures become headlines. Their sacrifices remain unnamed.
Reflection, therefore, must be balanced with responsibility.
The Qur’an commands:
“O you who believe, if a wicked person brings you news, verify it, lest you harm people in ignorance and afterward become regretful.”
(Surah Al-Hujurat 49:6)
Verification is not paranoia. It is prudence.
The Holy Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) taught strategic wisdom when he said:
“Tie your camel, and then trust in Allah.”
Faith is not negligence. Reliance upon God does not cancel precaution. Trust walks with preparedness.
That evening in Shikarpur, I did not fully understand this balance. The youth in me felt disappointment. The adult in me later understood context.
Small states in volatile regions cannot afford ideological innocence. During the Cold War, embassies were not merely diplomatic buildings; they were nodes of influence. Student movements worldwide were ideological battlegrounds. Literature carried political fragrance.
In such an environment, caution was not hostility — it was national defense.
Over time, history evolved. Pakistan’s diplomatic horizons expanded. The rigid ideological lines of the Cold War softened into pragmatic multipolarity.
But one principle did not change:
A nation survives because someone remains alert.
Intelligence work is preventive. When nothing happens, people assume nothing was done. Yet often, nothing happens precisely because something was done.
As the philosopher-poet once expressed: raise your selfhood so high that destiny itself consults you before unfolding.
National selfhood, too, must rise — guarded, conscious, confident.
Looking back now, I do not see oppression in that heavy hand. I see an era. I see a state determined not to be manipulated. I see guardian eyes behind the curtain — vigilant, disciplined, enduring.
Security without knowledge becomes rigidity.
Knowledge without security becomes vulnerability.
Wisdom lies in harmonizing both.
The melodies of youth still echo in memory. The railway road of Shikarpur still stretches in imagination. Two young friends still walk beneath a fading Sindhi sky.
And somewhere behind them, unseen yet unwavering, stands the state — watchful.
A nation endures not merely because its youth dream — but because, in the shadows, vigilant guardians ensure those dreams are not stolen.
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