The return of international cricket to Pakistan was not just a sporting revival — it was a symbolic milestone loaded with pride, hope and emotional rehabilitation. For over a decade, Pakistan’s cricketing arenas carried a tragic emptiness, haunted by the memory of the 2009 attack on the Sri Lankan team. So when international teams began returning, starting with Zimbabwe and later Sri Lanka and others, there was a collective sigh of relief: Pakistan was once again ready to host world-class cricket. This development certainly deserves applause, especially for the resilience shown by the Sri Lankan team, which continued to play despite the blast that occurred in Islamabad. Their commitment to stand with Pakistan in a moment of insecurity will remain a moment of profound sportsmanship and courage.
However, while there is every reason to appreciate the return of cricket, there is also a need to critically examine how Pakistan has attempted to secure visiting teams — and the message that such extreme security conveys to both guests and its own citizens. The intention behind extraordinary measures is understandable: no one wants to see history repeat itself. Yet when entire roads are blocked, bridges are militarized, and civilian mobility is paralyzed for hours, a paradox emerges — the more security a nation displays, the more insecure it begins to appear.
The idea that “more security equals more safety” is not always true, especially when the scale of security arrangements begins to resemble those of a battlefield rather than a sporting event. A cricket match is supposed to feel festive — not like the arrival of a high-risk military convoy. When roads remain sealed for long stretches, when schools and workplaces are forced to revise timings, and when the army patrols the city more than the police, the atmosphere subconsciously communicates fear instead of safety. The very effort to reassure becomes an admission of danger that Pakistan is not safe enough to host an event without turning the entire city into a controlled zone.
A soft image cannot be performed; it must be lived, experienced, and observed organically. Nations do not become trustworthy by staging safety — they become trusted when life appears normal, spontaneous, and unrestricted. Tourism thrives not where soldiers are stationed, but where civilians roam freely.
If cricket teams are uncomfortable with routine public-level security, perhaps it signals that Pakistan should pause, improve internal stability, invest in policing reforms, and build confidence gradually rather than rushing to prove readiness through spectacle. Bad advice leads to rushed decisions, and rushed decisions lead to damaging public experiences. In this case, the attempt to show “all is well” is inadvertently convincing the world that “all is not well.”
Pakistan must aim for security that is smart, invisible, and integrated, rather than security that is overwhelming, intimidating, and militarized. Countries like England, Australia, and New Zealand protect sports teams without shutting down entire cities. Their model is quiet confidence, not loud caution.
Pakistan can get there too — but not by prioritizing image over citizen comfort.
Cricket’s return to Pakistan is a blessing, a victory, and a source of national happiness. But happiness should not come at the expense of ordinary people or by broadcasting insecurity in the name of protection. True safety is felt, not enforced. True image is earned, not staged. And true progress balances pride with practicality.
Until that balance is achieved, Pakistan will continue to secure cricket — but not necessarily the confidence that cricket is meant to restore