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What does democracy mean in a country where power remains hereditary and where parliament is a hedged colony of capital? A number of prominent political figures, including ministers whose lineage traces back to the repressive regimes of Field Marshal Ayub and General Zia, now lecture the nation about social justice, freedom and democracy, and lament martial law. The dramatic irony is deafening. Beneficiaries and heirs of undemocratic systems now posture as their victims. The same old families, reborn in every election cycle, continue to control narratives of “reform” while the ordinary woman, the domestic worker, the young graduate, and the teacher in a rural school remain disempowered, unseen and uninvited to the table.
A 2022 study, using data for the 2002, 2008 and 2013 general elections, published in PIDE found that “dynastic legislators constitute more than 50 percent of elected politicians in Pakistan.” A newspaper article quoting PILDAT states that “in the 2018 National Assembly, around 55-60 percent of elected members belonged to families with prior political backgrounds.” Another commentary mentions that “more than 300 influential political families in KP, Sindh and Punjab represent more than two?thirds of national and provincial assemblies.” In such a situation, how can we expect an organic resistance against gender inequalities or the shrinking of civic spaces?
The corridors of power remain congested with the same surnames, the same dynasties and the same genetic ambitions as public service. The seats in the assemblies are reserved for too few women, and even those spaces are often reserved for the daughters, sisters or wives of political elites. Meritocracy, a battered word in our democratic vocabulary, is but a ceremonial slogan. The result? A national culture that mistakes noise for participation.
Our parliament, disappointingly, remains what has long been a house of affluents. There is almost no debate on land reforms and labour rights. There is no planning and vision for the class structure. If one is born in a family of sanitary workers, one is destined to remain the janitor.
Real issues like equal access to education, protection of informal labourers and implementation of workplace harassment laws rarely find space on the legislative agenda. Instead, what we see is a bipartisan consensus on comfort and continuity. Those who get attention are from a particular class, and orchestrated attention is given to facilitate their foreign trips, fellowships and global influence. It is rare to see a person from an ordinary background going to the courts to challenge any injustice or making waves in activism.
This horror landscape does not frighten the elites because they have no stakes in this country. If one needs to understand the real meaning of irony, one should watch TV programmes with an informed eye and open mind. At these platforms, the same people (now the political and ruling elites of Pakistan) who once profited from censorship now romanticise resistance. The same circles of command that maintained silence on gender-based violence, human rights violations, minority rights violations and whatnot (I am deliberately not mentioning the painful silence of 1971 and stateless patriots) now adorn themselves with hashtags and empathy panels.
Listening to bundles of lies not only from politicians but also from diplomatic representatives and, sadly, even from many renowned academics and activists and watching their audacity is indeed a test of nerves.
The desire to fit into the compliant lists of those who matter in Pakistan is so obvious. Yes, I have the choice not to watch, but the old activist within me is still greedy for transformative change and a hopeful version of myself sometimes pressures me to tune in. Almost always, I receive dark validations: reminders that our public discourse is no longer organic; it is synthetic, a sophisticated performance of selective truths that ultimately corrodes national interest.
Our vast majority of parliaments are still not prepared to enact comprehensive laws on anti-dowry practices, meaningful tax relief for divorced, never-married or disabled women or full-scale healthcare provisions for transgender persons, including those living with gender dysphoria — causes some of us have been championing single-handedly for decades. The gaps in legislation and the delays in implementation speak volumes.
Our prime-time current affairs shows have become the domes of dodge and deception. Every evening, the same set of talking heads rehearse ire, as if democracy were a drama series. Debates that should take place on the floor of parliament are instead performed before cameras, while real accountability remains immaterial. The more outrageous the rhetoric, the higher the ratings. How expediently the national redemption is scripted between commercial breaks. And we, the (worn-out) viewers, nod along to this theater of trickery.
It is relatively easier to condemn dictatorship and harder to confront the tyranny of hypocrisy. True democracy is not televised fury. It demands that we hold accountable not just the military dictators but also the “civilian elites” who learned authoritarian habits all too well. Until we confront the rot within our so-called democratic class, its dynastic arrogance, its misogyny and its selective amnesia, we will continue to live in a hollow republic, governed by privilege, applauded by pretense and tolerated by the perception of peace.
Democracy without scruples is merely dramaturgy. And our national stage has been sold out of tickets and all. The possibility of moral renewal should never be excluded but if it comes it will rise not from the palaces of power but from the marginalised communities.
Sab taaj uchhalay jaayenge, sab takht giraaye jaayenge
(All crowns shall be tossed, all thrones shall be toppled)
