The Eyrie, F-10 Markaz, Islamabad.
Something was terribly wrong.
I had known BāBā-Tāl—the Bell-man—for long enough to recognise the difference between his customary silence and a silence burdened by anger. He was usually calm, his deep-set eyes carrying the quiet wisdom of a man who had watched generations rise, fall, and repeat the follies of those who came before them.
But today, he was visibly upset.
His navy-blue robe, stitched with brass bells of different sizes, hung over his torn blue jeans and joggers. Ordinarily, even his smallest movement brought a gentle chin-chin from those bells. Today, they seemed almost reluctant to speak.
I looked at him, puzzled.
“BāBā-Tāl, what has happened? I have rarely seen you in this state.”
He offered no answer. His eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond the rooftop, beyond the familiar skyline of Islamabad, as though he were watching another episode of an old tragedy being performed by new actors.
I decided not to press him.
“Wait here, BāBā. Let me bring us two mugs of hot coffee. Perhaps, by the time I return, you will have decided to tell me what is troubling you.”
I hurried towards the kitchenette, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
On my return, I placed one steaming mug before him and settled into my chair with the other. The aroma of coffee rose between us. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then BāBā-Tāl lifted his eyes.
“Bacha,” he began, his voice unusually grave, “do you know what hurts a person more than an open disagreement?”
I waited.
“When someone seeks your intervention in the name of dialogue, invites you to help bridge a political divide, and gives you reason to believe that an understanding has been reached—only for the entire exercise to end in a fresh confrontation.”
He paused, his fingers resting against the warm mug.
“And when the person drawn into this difficult task is a respected religious and political personality like Maulana Fazlur Rehman, the matter cannot be dismissed as another routine exchange of political blows. Maulana has publicly alleged that the government reneged on commitments during his mediation efforts. His account deserves to be heard, his allegations deserve serious examination, and the public deserves clarity about what was promised, what was understood, and why the process broke down.”
The little bells on his robe stirred as he shifted in his chair.
“Bacha! Political actors may call these things tactics, manoeuvres, negotiations, or even victories. But tell me—what happens to public trust when words lose their worth?”
He took a sip of coffee and looked directly at me.
“And what happens to the ordinary citizen, who has no seat at these negotiating tables, no influence over these power games, and no choice but to live with their consequences?”
Now I understood why he was so upset.
Maulana Fazlur Rehman’s reported experience of mediation had opened an old wound in BāBā-Tāl’s understanding of public life. But his anger reached far beyond one personality, one party, or one political confrontation.
He was looking at the larger picture: a country repeatedly subjected to political pressure, sudden reversals, public confrontations, and negotiations whose consequences ordinary citizens must endure.
“Bacha,” he said quietly, “let us leave personalities aside for a moment. I want you to consider a question that concerns every citizen of this country.”
He leaned forward.
“Is there supremacy of law in Pakistan—or does the law begin to bend when political pressure becomes strong enough?”
I put my mug down.
That was the question with which our conversation truly began.
Pakistan is a country whose Constitution establishes the framework of government, defines the powers of its institutions, and places legal boundaries around the exercise of public authority. Yet our recurring political confrontations leave ordinary citizens wondering whether those boundaries are firm principles or merely convenient arrangements, respected when circumstances permit and challenged when political interests demand something different.
The events unfolding in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa have brought this question into sharp focus.
The Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf’s proposed march towards Islamabad, its demand for the release of its incarcerated founder, the intervention of Maulana Fazlur Rehman, and the subsequent imposition of emergency measures and governor’s rule have placed political confrontation and constitutional authority at the centre of public debate.
On October 11, 2026, the federal government announced emergency measures and governor’s rule in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa under Articles 232 and 234 of the Constitution. The federal government cited security concerns and alleged failures in the provincial administration’s cooperation against militancy. PTI challenged the decision, arguing that it undermined the elected provincial government and provincial autonomy.
These competing positions must be examined against evidence and the Constitution, rather than settled by the volume of political rhetoric.
But one principle must remain beyond partisan bargaining: neither the popularity of a political leader nor the authority of a government places anyone above the law.
And that principle applies equally to every side.
A provincial chief minister does not acquire unlimited authority merely because he commands an elected government. The federation does not acquire unlimited authority merely because it invokes national security. A political party cannot convert public resources into its private instrument of pressure. Nor can an individual’s political importance make judicial decisions optional.
The Constitution is not a weapon to be raised against opponents and put away when it becomes inconvenient. It is the boundary within which all public power must operate.
This brings us to the most troubling question hidden beneath the political spectacle: can political pressure and behind-the-scenes negotiations determine whether an incarcerated person is released?
Let us be precise. Political negotiations may produce an agreement to pursue lawful steps towards release. They may lead to a request for bail, a review of a court order, or another remedy available under the law. But a political understanding cannot, by itself, cancel a judicial order or substitute for the legal authority required to release someone from custody.
If a person is entitled to release under the law, the appropriate legal process must provide it. If a court has imposed a lawful restriction, political convenience alone cannot erase it. If a decision is challenged, the remedy lies within the legal and constitutional framework.
Otherwise, what remains of the rule of law?
What message do we send to the citizen who has neither political influence nor access to powerful negotiators? That the law is binding on the powerless but negotiable for the powerful? That a person must wait for a political bargain to obtain what the law already guarantees—or that a judicial decision can be set aside through a deal struck behind closed doors?
Such a system would not merely weaken confidence in the judiciary. It would undermine the very idea of equal citizenship.
The issue is not whether political dialogue is desirable. Dialogue is indispensable to democracy. The issue is whether dialogue respects the law or attempts to replace it.
BāBā-Tāl would have called that distinction the difference between reconciliation and manipulation.
And here, Bacha, we must return to Maulana Fazlur Rehman.
His role in the recent controversy matters because mediation depends upon trust. When political actors invite a respected religious and political figure to help resolve a deadlock, they are asking him to place his credibility at the service of a difficult process. If, as Maulana has alleged, commitments were made and then abandoned, the public is entitled to ask why his intervention was sought, what understanding was reached, and what caused the process to collapse.
We must not confuse an allegation with a judicially established finding. Nor should we presume to know every private conversation that took place. But neither should the matter be dismissed as inconsequential.
A mediator’s credibility is not an expendable political resource. His role cannot be treated as valuable when it helps restrain an opponent and irrelevant when the strategy changes. If assurances are given, their terms should be clear. If circumstances change, the reasons should be explained. If no binding agreement was reached, that too should be stated honestly.
This is not about granting any political personality immunity from scrutiny. It is about demanding a standard of conduct worthy of public life.
A political culture that treats every promise as temporary and every intermediary as disposable will eventually discover that trust is much harder to restore than it is to destroy.
The Holy Qur’an provides a powerful ethical foundation for this discussion.
In Surah Al-Anfal, verse 27, Allah warns believers against knowingly betraying their trusts:
“O you who have believed, do not betray Allah and the Messenger or betray your trusts while you know.”
The verse establishes a serious moral principle: trust is not a trivial matter. It is a responsibility.
We must apply that principle thoughtfully. It is not our place to declare a named person religiously guilty on the basis of a disputed political account. It is, however, entirely appropriate to ask whether the conduct of public representatives reflects the honesty, reliability, and accountability that a position of trust demands.
The same moral concern appears in the teachings of the Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him].
Sahih al-Bukhari, Hadith 33, records three warning signs of hypocrisy: lying when speaking, breaking a promise, and betraying a trust placed in someone.
The Hadith should not be used as a political label to condemn an individual without evidence. Its relevance here is the gravity it attaches to truthful speech, keeping promises, and honouring entrusted responsibilities.
A public commitment is not rendered morally meaningless merely because it was made during negotiations. At the same time, a responsible account must distinguish a firm commitment from a proposal, an informal understanding, or an agreement whose conditions remain unsettled.
That is why transparency matters. Political leaders must explain their positions clearly enough for citizens to distinguish a genuine agreement from a temporary tactical pause.
But the problem extends beyond broken assurances between politicians. It reaches the very purpose of holding public office.
The Qur’an, in Surah An-Nisa, verse 58, commands that trusts be delivered to those entitled to them and that judgment between people be conducted with justice.
Here lies the principle of Amanah.
Public office is a trust—not private property. Authority is a responsibility—not a personal inheritance. The administrative machinery of the state exists to serve the public, not to provide an advantage to whichever party happens to control it.
The Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him], in Sahih Muslim, Hadith 1829a, taught that everyone is a shepherd and everyone is answerable for those under their care. The Hadith specifically addresses the responsibility of rulers towards the people under their authority.
The implication for public life is unmistakable. A government must be judged not merely by its ability to retain power, outmanoeuvre opponents, or dominate the political conversation, but by how responsibly it fulfils its obligations to the people.
Public funds are not a party’s personal purse. Public institutions are not campaign offices. Provincial authority is not a licence to disregard federal law, just as federal authority is not a licence to disregard constitutional limits. The police, civil administration, courts, and public services must operate within their lawful mandates rather than become instruments of partisan advantage.
Wealth and power cannot be the ultimate purpose of public service. The purpose is service itself.
The British historian and politician Lord Acton famously observed in a letter to Bishop Mandell Creighton in 1887:
“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
The warning remains relevant wherever authority is exercised without adequate accountability. But the remedy is not simply to replace one set of powerful individuals with another. It is to build institutions, legal safeguards, and a public culture in which no individual or party is permitted to treat authority as personal possession.
The most serious casualty of political gimmickry is often neither the politician who loses a round nor the leader who is forced to change strategy. It is the common person.
Consider the citizen who rises early to earn a daily wage, the shopkeeper trying to keep a business afloat, the parent anxious about school fees, the patient waiting for treatment, or the young graduate searching for employment. These people do not have the luxury of treating every political confrontation as an absorbing game.
They have responsibilities that cannot be suspended whenever the political temperature rises.
Yet every prolonged confrontation brings uncertainty. Will roads remain open? Will markets function normally? Will transport be disrupted? Will public services suffer? Will another round of protests, restrictions, arrests, emergency measures, or retaliatory decisions interrupt the fragile routine on which livelihoods depend?
Political pressure is not merely a contest between rival parties. It can become a strain on the nerves of an entire population.
The citizen may not know every detail of a negotiation, but recognises the consequences of political instability. The ordinary person may not understand every constitutional provision, but understands what it means when institutions appear to serve competing power centres instead of the public interest.
The damage is emotional as well as economic. Repeated crises produce exhaustion, cynicism, and a dangerous belief that nothing can be trusted—not a promise, not a political declaration, not an institution, and not the process by which public decisions are made.
When that belief takes root, the state loses something more valuable than a temporary political advantage. It loses public confidence.
And once public confidence is eroded, even legitimate decisions become harder to defend because citizens no longer trust the motives or methods behind them.
That is why political leaders should ask themselves a question far more important than who won the latest confrontation: what did the country lose while they were busy trying to win?
A province is not a chessboard. Its residents are not pawns. A federal government is not entitled to treat provincial autonomy as a disposable inconvenience, and a provincial government is not entitled to treat its mandate as freedom from constitutional responsibility.
Likewise, a protest is not automatically illegitimate because it inconveniences those in power; peaceful political protest is a recognised democratic activity. But the right to protest does not place anyone beyond the law, just as the responsibility to maintain public order does not authorise the arbitrary suppression of political opposition.
The standards must be consistent. The legal basis must be clear. The powers exercised must be proportionate and accountable. And where extraordinary constitutional measures are invoked, their necessity, scope, duration, and legal justification must withstand serious scrutiny.
This is how a democracy protects itself without abandoning the principles that give it legitimacy.
William Shakespeare, in The Merchant of Venice, reminds us that mercy is not something that can be demanded by force; it must be extended with humanity. His famous lines begin:
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…”
Justice need not be stripped of humanity. But mercy and lawful procedure are not enemies of one another. A humane state must uphold both the rights of individuals and the integrity of its legal institutions.
The real choice is not between law and compassion. It is between a system governed by transparent principles and one in which outcomes depend increasingly on influence, pressure, and political bargaining.
For Pakistan, the way forward requires more than another round of negotiations.
It requires political leaders to honour their word, or explain honestly when no final agreement exists. It requires governments to use public resources for public purposes. It requires provincial and federal authorities to respect their respective constitutional responsibilities. It requires courts to remain the proper forum for judicial remedies. And it requires the public to insist that no political personality, however influential, stands above the law.
Above all, it requires a return to the idea of Amanah: that the authority entrusted to a public representative carries obligations towards those who entrusted it.
There is a POETEARS thought that belongs here:
Do not ask the grieving streets for another king;
Ask the dusty roads to raise a servant.
Let him know the weight of one forgotten brick,
And he will understand the weight of a wounded homeland.
POETEARS — Coined by T. Hejazi — Where poetry becomes tears, and tears become poetry.
These lines are a reminder that leadership should begin with an understanding of the burdens ordinary people carry. The citizen does not need another ruler who can win every political contest. The citizen needs a public servant who understands the price of failure, the dignity of honest work, and the responsibility attached to power.
As I sat with BāBā-Tāl at the Eyrie, the coffee between us had begun to cool. His anger had not disappeared, but it had acquired a clearer direction.
“Bacha,” he said, “do not measure a political leader only by the power he commands. Ask what he does with the trust placed in his hands.”
He looked towards the city below.
“And do not measure the success of a political negotiation merely by whether one side gets what it wants. Ask whether the law was respected, whether the public was served, and whether the people are left with greater confidence in their institutions—or less.”
I followed his gaze towards Islamabad, where the lights of the city were beginning to emerge against the fading afternoon.
The question remained.
Maulana Fazlur Rehman’s account of the mediation deserves a clear, fair, and evidence-based examination. The constitutional measures taken in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa deserve scrutiny against the law and the competing claims made by the federal and provincial sides. The demand for the release of a political leader must be addressed through lawful procedures, not through political pressure that substitutes for judicial authority.
But the ultimate test is larger than any one personality or confrontation.
Can Pakistan build a political culture in which commitments carry meaning, public office is treated as Amanah, institutions remain within their constitutional boundaries, and ordinary citizens are no longer forced to bear the cost of endless political games?
The answer cannot be another slogan, another temporary understanding, or another victory claimed at a press conference.
It must be visible in conduct.
For when politics plays games, the people pay. And when public trust is repeatedly spent to purchase short-term political advantage, the whole state risks becoming poorer in the one currency it cannot afford to lose.
The law must remain supreme. Public office must remain a trust. And the common citizen must never become the forgotten casualty of the struggle for power.
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OPINION by TA’ZEEM HEJAZI