Scooby-Doo…! Where Are You?
Dim…
Dim…
Dim…
A faint metallic chime drifted through the evening air.
The sound grew louder.
Then, as if emerging from the margins of Pakistan’s unfinished democratic story, Babā Tāl [the bell-ma] appeared.
His navy-blue robe carried dozens of brass bells sewn into its fabric—small bells whispering, larger bells responding. Around his neck hung a great brass bell whose deep chime seemed to echo from one election cycle to the next.
Babā Tāl leaned forward.
The bells fell silent.
Then he whispered:
“Tell me… when the shepherd disappears, who counts the sheep?”
Nobody answered.
The question was not really about shepherds.
It was about Pakistan’s elected representatives.
And it was about a mystery worthy of Scooby-Doo himself.
Not the mystery of a haunted mansion.
Not the mystery of a missing treasure.
But a far stranger mystery:
Where do our elected representatives go after election day?
More importantly, how does an ordinary citizen contact them?
The question began haunting me recently during what should have been a simple journalistic exercise.
I wished to contact a lady Member of the National Assembly from Sialkot regarding a bill she had tabled in Parliament. I wanted to understand the purpose of the legislation, its practical implications, and the reasoning behind certain provisions. It was a routine journalistic inquiry—the sort of interaction that takes place every day in functioning democracies.
Surely, I thought, contacting a sitting Member of Parliament could not be difficult.
I began with Google.
Nothing useful.
I searched parliamentary records and public listings.
Still nothing that led to a meaningful conversation.
The search widened.
I contacted colleagues.
Then the Sialkot Press Club.
One helpful lead pointed elsewhere.
Another suggested I contact the Daska Press Club.
The trail was beginning to resemble a detective story rather than a democratic inquiry.
Finally, after considerable effort, someone produced a telephone number believed to belong to the honourable lady MNA.
At last!
I stared at the number with the satisfaction of an explorer discovering a lost city. The search was over. Democracy had finally provided an address.
With genuine excitement, I pressed the call button.
The phone rang.
For a brief moment, hope triumphed.
Then a calm recorded voice delivered the verdict:
“The number you have dialed is not responding.”
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
My encounter with representative democracy lasted only a few seconds.
The episode was humorous enough to make one laugh.
Yet it was serious enough to make one think.
If a journalist attempting to discuss parliamentary legislation with the very lawmaker who introduced it cannot easily establish contact, what hope remains for an ordinary citizen seeking assistance, information, or accountability?
What does a widow do?
A pensioner?
A farmer?
A shopkeeper?
A student?
A disabled citizen?
A father seeking justice?
A mother seeking help?
Where exactly are they supposed to go?
Democracy is not merely about casting votes every few years.
Democracy is about continuing communication between citizens and those elected to represent them.
The Holy Qur’an reminds us:
“Indeed, Allah commands you to render trusts to whom they are due, and when you judge between people, judge with justice.”
(Surah An-Nisā’ 4:58)
An elected seat is not personal property.
It is an amānah—a trust.
Likewise, Allah commands:
“And consult them in affairs.”
(Surah Āl-‘Imrān 3:159)
Consultation becomes difficult when representatives become unreachable.
The Holy Messenger of Allah[ Peace and blessings be upon him] stated:
“Each of you is a shepherd, and each of you is responsible for his flock.”
(Sahih al-Bukhari #7138; Sahih Muslim #1829)
Public office carries responsibility.
Responsibility requires accessibility.
Accessibility requires presence.
Yet somewhere along Pakistan’s political journey, accessibility appears to have become optional.
During election campaigns, candidates become remarkably visible.
They attend weddings.
Funerals.
Corner meetings.
Tea stalls.
Mosques.
Markets.
Cricket matches.
Street gatherings.
Every voter becomes important.
Every complaint matters.
Every hand deserves a handshake.
Then polling day arrives.
Votes are counted.
Victory speeches are delivered.
Garlands are exchanged.
Convoys begin moving.
Security protocols expand.
And suddenly many representatives enter what appears to be a witness-protection program.
The public funded the election.
The public paid the salary.
The public provided the mandate.
Yet the public often struggles to locate the representative.
This is not how mature democracies function.
In the United States, members of Congress maintain official district offices funded specifically to serve constituents. Office addresses, telephone numbers, staff directories, and electronic communication portals are publicly available. Citizens know where to go when they need assistance or answers.
In the United Kingdom, Members of Parliament regularly conduct constituency “surgeries” where citizens can directly present concerns and questions. Accessibility is not viewed as generosity; it is viewed as part of the job.
In Canada, parliamentary budgets include resources specifically for constituency offices. Staff answer calls, schedule appointments, and assist citizens in navigating government services.
Australia follows a similar model. Federal representatives maintain electorate offices whose locations, office hours, telephone numbers, and email addresses are publicly available.
Germany’s Bundestag members likewise maintain local offices and communication channels so voters can engage with those elected to represent them.
These democracies are not perfect.
Politicians remain politicians.
Complaints remain complaints.
Bureaucracies remain bureaucracies.
But one principle is widely accepted:
A representative should be reachable.
The contrast with Pakistan can be uncomfortable.
Many Pakistani representatives perform admirable work within their constituencies, and fairness requires acknowledging that fact.
Yet the larger system often depends upon personal networks rather than institutional accessibility.
A citizen frequently needs a friend who knows a friend who knows another friend who knows a political worker who might know an assistant who may or may not possess a working telephone number.
That is not a communication system.
That is a treasure hunt.
The result is a curious paradox.
Pakistanis can often contact banks, airlines, courier companies, ride-hailing services, online retailers, and even foreign embassies more easily than they can contact the individuals elected to represent them in Parliament.
That should concern every democrat regardless of ideology or party affiliation.
Accessibility is not charity.
Accessibility is not public relations.
Accessibility is not a favour bestowed upon grateful citizens.
Accessibility is one of the fundamental obligations of representative government.
Thomas Jefferson is often credited with the principle that government functions best when it remains closest to the people.
Pakistan, unfortunately, sometimes appears to be experimenting with the opposite theory:
The farther the representative remains from the voter, the safer the representative feels.
The problem extends beyond inconvenience.
It affects accountability.
Citizens cannot question representatives they cannot reach.
Journalists cannot seek explanations from lawmakers they cannot locate.
Researchers cannot discuss legislation with sponsors who remain inaccessible.
Democracy gradually transforms from participation into speculation.
We begin guessing what our representatives think because we cannot ask them directly.
The poet Oliver Goldsmith once warned:
“Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.”
One wonders how he might revise the verse for certain modern democracies:
“Ill fares the land… where representatives disappear.”
Perhaps Parliament should consider a modest reform agenda.
Every elected representative should be required to maintain:
• A functioning constituency office.
• A publicly listed telephone number.
• A verified email address.
• Published office hours.
• A citizen complaint mechanism.
• Minimum standards for responding to public inquiries.
None of these measures require constitutional amendments.
None require foreign loans.
None require international conferences.
They merely require respect for voters.
And here we arrive at an uncomfortable question.
Why has this happened?
Because powerful oligarchic networks appear to have wrapped their fingers around the throat of public accountability, leaving democracy alive—but struggling to breathe.
Before the next election campaign begins, citizens may wish to ask a very simple question.
Not about ideology.
Not about party loyalty.
Not about development schemes.
Not even about election promises.
Just one question:
“After you win, where exactly can we find you?”
For democracy is not merely the right to vote.
It is the right to be heard.
And until ordinary Pakistanis can reliably locate and communicate with the people elected to represent them, Scooby-Doo’s greatest mystery may not be hidden in an abandoned mansion.
It may be hiding in plain sight.
Somewhere between Parliament House and the constituency.
Still waiting to be solved.
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