The Dream That Refuses to Die…By Atif Mehmood

From the very cradle of our childhood, we were nursed on promises; noble, golden, and righteous. We were told of a Pakistan that would rise above want and wretchedness, where no soul would slumber on an empty stomach, where every woman would walk freely under the sun and moon without fear or shame. We were assured of justice that would not bend to power, of education that would reach every alley and corner, and of hospitals where healing would not be auctioned but bestowed, free and dignified, as a constitutional right. That every citizen, regardless of caste, creed, or faith, would be equal beneath the sun and before the law. That schools would blossom in every village, and hospitals would serve not the powerful, but the people.

We were told this, again and again, like verses from a sacred hymn. That the Constitution was our covenant, that the martyrs of 1947 did not lay down their lives for a land of despair. That every drop of blood spilled during the great partition was the ink with which the contract of this nation was written. But I ask today, with a heart heavy and yet alight with hope: were these promises truths yet to come, or simply lullabies sung to silence a nation?

Such were the ideals whispered in our ears, repeated in our textbooks, thundered from political pulpits, and echoed in every Independence Day speech. They were not mere fantasies; they were the founding promises of Pakistan. But today, as we stand more than seventy-five years since the inception of this homeland, let us look with clear eyes and honest hearts: what has become of those promises?

The Constitution, that sacred manuscript which declares the right to life, dignity, and opportunity, is quoted endlessly, but seldom honoured. The right to education, guaranteed under Article 25-A, is mocked daily by the reality that millions of children remain out of school. They are not in classrooms, but in workshops, on footpaths, in fields; robbed of their childhood by a state too burdened by corruption to care. In our hospitals, the poor are handed prescriptions they cannot read, let alone afford. Mothers cry in corridors while their infants die for lack of a ventilator. The rich fly abroad for surgeries. The poor sell their land to buy medicine. Is this the justice we were promised?

We were told no one would sleep hungry. Yet today, inflation has clawed so deeply into the flesh of the common man that food is weighed not by need, but by survival. People line up for hours in scorching heat just to collect a bag of flour. The government doles out charity and calls it welfare. Charity is not justice; it is an insult to a people who were promised dignity.

We were told our women would be free, honoured, and safe. But women in this land are still silenced, shamed, harassed, killed for ‘honour,’ or told to ‘stay home’ for their protection. We chant slogans of respect but offer none. A woman’s body is still a battlefield, her life still subject to the permission of men.

We were told minorities would be equal citizens. And yet, they live as shadows in their own land. Their temples are desecrated, their voices drowned, their rights bartered for political gain. The Constitution protects them, but society persecutes them, and the state watches in silence.

Most heartbreaking of all, we were told this land was the fruit of sacrifice. That millions left everything behind, homes, businesses, identity to forge a future for generations unborn. They faced trains soaked in blood, walked barefoot for days, lost loved ones to fire and fury, because they believed in a Pakistan that would be just, honourable, and compassionate.

And now? The descendants of those martyrs are taking their own lives, not because they are weak but because this system has failed them. Farmers drown themselves in canals after being crushed by loans. Jobless graduates hang from ceiling fans after years of broken promises. Families are destroyed not by war, but by hunger.

So, I ask you; are these slogans we grew up with merely tools of deceit? Were they songs composed to lull us into obedience, while a corrupt elite plundered the land? Must we, the people, simply accept that the rich will grow richer, and the poor will serve them in silence? Shall we throw the dream into the abyss, feed the privileged, and silence the hungry?

I say, no. No, we shall not feed the greed of a class that has already gorged on our sweat and blood. No, we shall not surrender our dream at the altar of hopelessness. For even now, amid this darkness, the dream breathes. Faint, battered, but alive.

It lives in the child who still clutches a torn schoolbag, determined to learn.
It lives in the widow who works two jobs to raise her sons honest.
It lives in the teacher who teaches without pay, in the doctor who treats without fee, in the journalist who writes the truth though it endangers his life.
It lives in every citizen who has not given up, who still demands justice, who still believes that Pakistan can be what it was meant to be.

This is not naïveté. It is faith; the same faith that built this nation. We must rise. Not with despair, but with defiance. Not with hate, but with fire; the fire of accountability, of courage, of collective will. We must demand more than charity. We must demand justice. We must not settle for slogans; we must insist on action.

This land belongs not to the few who have hijacked its soul, but to the millions who still carry its heartbeat. Let them hear us. Let them know:
We are not beggars.
We are the heirs of martyrs.
And we still believe.
Not because the system works, but because we shall make it work.
Not because the promise was kept, but because we will keep it alive.

For the dream of Pakistan refuses to die. And neither shall we.

The writer is deeply engaged in social issues, offering insightful perspectives on societal matters. For inquiries, contact atif@live.ie