Between memory and reality lies a question Pakistan has long avoided: can a nation honor its past without refusing its future?

There are moments in history that do not arrive with thunder—they settle quietly into the conscience of nations, waiting for a later generation to interpret their meaning. One such moment, half-remembered and half-retold, belongs to Karachi, when Jawaharlal Nehru walked toward the resting place of Muhammad Ali Jinnah. No cameras, no applause, no performance—only a pause, a gaze, and a lowering of the head before a man whose vision carved a separate homeland out of the subcontinent he led.
Whether every detail is documented or embroidered is not the question. History is not always powerful because of what is recorded; sometimes it is powerful because of what it reveals. A rival came, and he showed restraint. We inherited a nation—and somewhere between inheritance and responsibility, we misplaced something far more valuable than marble or memory.
It is easier to build monuments than to build character. Easier to quote a founder than to understand him. And so we wrap ourselves in fragments of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, as if borrowed sentences can substitute for borrowed courage. A nation that selectively remembers its founder eventually begins to selectively forget itself.
Years ago, in 2009, as part of the editorial board of Naya Akhbar, I wrote in favor of recognizing Israel. It was not popular then. It is not comfortable now. And yet, in May 2012, during a televised conversation, I spoke words that startled the studio into silence: there are two states of our era destined to endure—Pakistan and Israel. It was the weight of a truth long avoided.
We must ask, with honesty: is silence a strategy—or simply an escape from truth?
The Qur’an reminds us with unsettling clarity:
“Indeed, Allah does not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves.” (13:11)
The verse does not speak of enemies. It speaks of us.
And here, for those beyond the Muslim intellectual tradition, a word must be offered about Ijtihad. It is not rebellion against faith; it is its continuity. It is the disciplined effort to apply eternal principles to changing realities. It does not alter belief—it refines understanding. It is the bridge between what must remain constant and what must evolve with time.
If such a bridge exists, why do we fear crossing it?
The world has moved. Realities have hardened into facts that do not dissolve simply because we refuse to acknowledge them. Among these realities stands Israel—debated, contested, yet undeniably present. To recognize existence is not to surrender principle; it is to begin thinking.
The Qur’an itself records:
“O my people! Enter the Holy Land which Allah has destined for you…” (5:21)
And:
“Reside in the land…” (17:104)
These are not modern policy declarations. But they acknowledge a historical and scriptural connection between a people and a land—one that cannot simply be erased from discourse.
At the same time, the Qur’an commands:
“If they incline toward peace, then incline toward it…” (8:61)
And:
“Allah does not forbid you from being just and kind toward those who do not fight you…” (60:8)
These are not verses of weakness. They are verses of confidence.
The Prophet Muhammad peace and blessings be upon him] himself entered into covenants with Jewish tribes in Madinah, granting them autonomy, dignity, and shared responsibility. At Khaybar, agreements preserved land rights. At Hudaybiyyah, peace was chosen over pride.
And the warning remains:
“Whoever wrongs a person under covenant, I will argue against him on the Day of Judgment.”
These precedents do not dictate modern foreign policy—but they establish a framework: justice, treaties, coexistence.
At this point, the noise must give way to reflection.

Baba Tall’s Mystic Whisper

Baba Tall’s mystic whisper stirs the quiet air,
“Awake, O child of nations, lift the veil of care.
To bury one’s head in sand cannot make truth unseen,
The rising sun proves its existence, steadfast and serene.”

Graves neglected, echoes lost, yet silence still will speak,
A rival bowed with honor, while we turned weak and meek.
Ideals inked before the earth, destinies drawn in thought,
Yet we wander blind to lessons that our founders sought.

Two nations born in vision, one faith, one creed,
Israel and Pakistan—twins of purpose and seed.
Faith before the stone, law before the land,
Only courage gives the heart the strength to understand.

Reflection, not convenience, must guide the hand we raise,
Not slogans carved in haste, nor admiration’s hollow praise.
Truth endures beyond neglect, beyond our fleeting years,
It speaks to those who listen, and quiets all our fears.

So heed the mystic whisper, let conscience light the way,
For dawn will always follow night, and silence cannot stay.
A nation’s worth is measured not by power or command,
But by the courage to confront what we barely understand.

When the whisper fades, the question remains.
History teaches us that influence is not confined by walls. Nelson Mandela, Ahmad bin Bella, and Mujeeb ur Rehman shaped destinies even from confinement. A prisoner of conscience does not disappear—he transforms into a symbol.
In Pakistan today, influence flows through many channels. In Karachi, Hafiz Naeemur Rehman commands the pulse of the streets. Across the country, the resonance of Imran Khan and Nawaz Sharif persists. Moulana Fazlur Rehman’s reach stretches across networks of faith and politics. And in the realm of command stands Hafiz Asim Muneer.
Power, once earned, does not vanish—it lingers, shapes, pressures, and defines the space in which decisions are made.
And if truth is to stand, it must move beyond silence.
Because before nations sign treaties, they test the waters of thought.
Perhaps, then, the first step is not recognition, not agreement—but conversation. A space where questions are not buried, but examined. A beginning that feels uncomfortable today, yet inevitable tomorrow: a Pakistan–Israel Friendship Society—not as surrender, but as inquiry; not as policy, but as courage.
But such a matter cannot be left to whispers. It demands institutions.
A joint session of Parliament—deliberate, dignified, transparent—offers the only legitimate path. Let voices be heard. Let arguments clash. Let a resolution emerge—not from emotion, but from collective judgment.
A referendum, in contrast, risks reducing complexity to chaos. Nations do not navigate fragile questions through eruptions of sentiment, but through disciplined deliberation.
There is a saying:
“The strong man is not the one who overpowers others, but the one who controls himself in anger.”
Perhaps nations, too, are measured not by how loudly they react—but by how wisely they respond.
From T. S. Eliot comes an echo:
“Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?”
And we might ask: where is the courage we have lost in habit?
“Bachha…” BaBa Tall whispers once more,
“truth does not disappear because you refuse to name it.”
The rising sun does not argue for its existence—it simply rises.
And no nation, however powerful its silence, can bury reality forever.
The only question is: will we face it with courage… or continue to live in its shadow?