If nations were destroyed by paperwork, Pakistan would have collapsed decades ago—under the sheer weight of files marked “Seen”, “Put up”, and “Submitted for kind perusal.” At the heart of this slow-motion tragedy stands Pakistan’s bureaucracy: self-declared savior of the republic, undisputed expert on everything under the sun, and—most importantly—its own biggest admirer.
From this proud opening act begins a long-running national tragicomedy. Pakistan’s bureaucracy does not merely administer the state; it performs it—complete with costumes, protocol, accents, and the confidence of actors who believe they wrote the script, directed the play, and invented the audience.
Pakistan’s bureaucracy is not just inspired by the British Raj—it is emotionally attached to it. The Raj may have left in 1947, but its spirit stayed behind, applied for a government job, and was promptly promoted.
The colonial bureaucracy was designed for one purpose: to rule subjects, not serve citizens. Its job was to collect revenue, suppress unrest, and remind the locals who was in charge. After independence, Pakistan inherited this system and, instead of modernizing it, preserved it like a museum exhibit—except this exhibit issues notifications.
Thus, Pakistani bureaucrats do not see themselves as public servants. They see themselves as custodians of the state, guardians of order, and occasionally as philosophers. The public, meanwhile, is something to be managed, delayed, redirected, and—when necessary—scolded for not understanding “procedures.”
At the heart of this system lies the most sacred ritual of all: The Exam. Pass it once, and you are reborn—not as a civil servant, but as a permanent intellectual authority.
The exam rewards memory, conformity, and the ability to reproduce answers that examiners already expect. Original thought is risky. Critical analysis is dangerous. But once you clear it, you are officially smarter than everyone else—for life.
From that day onward, learning becomes optional. Reading becomes unnecessary. Self-doubt becomes treason. A bureaucrat who passed an exam at 25 feels no need to update his thinking at 55. Why should he? He already proved himself—once and forever.
The Pakistani bureaucrat is a rare creature: an all-season expert. Today he is running health, tomorrow education, next year climate change, and the year after that a port authority. Expertise, after all, is transferable—as long as you have a staff car.
This explains why a bureaucrat can confidently tell a cardiologist how to run a hospital, a professor how to run a university, and an engineer how to build a dam. One such bureaucrat once told a friend of mine—an actual university professor—that running a university was “no big deal” for him. After all, he had run district administrations and several government departments.
My friend later laughed and said, “Running a district means issuing orders. Running a university means managing thousands of students, independent-minded faculty, research agendas, academic freedom, and constant disagreement. It is not a joke.” But bureaucratic confidence does not recognize such nuances.
If Pakistan were ever to export something successfully, it would be bureaucratic confidence. This confidence is immune to data, allergic to feedback, and completely resistant to failure.
When policies collapse, the bureaucrat does not ask why. He asks who else can be blamed. Politicians are convenient. The public is ignorant. Experts are impractical. The system itself, of course, is flawless.
Ask a bureaucrat a difficult question and you will never hear “I don’t know.” You will hear phrases like “we are looking into it,” “a committee has been formed,” or the classic “the matter is under consideration.” Translation: please check back after retirement.
Perhaps the most unintentionally funny part of this story is the transformation bureaucrats undergo after induction. Many come from modest, even struggling backgrounds. They once waited in lines, took buses, and worried about bills.
Then comes the badge—and suddenly, doors must be opened by others. Literally. A bureaucrat opening his own car door would be a violation of unwritten law. Staff must run ahead, chairs must be placed correctly, and tea must arrive on time.
Sirens become essential—not to save time, but to announce importance. Protocol replaces personality. Humility exits quietly, without submitting a resignation.
It is a strange kind of royalty: no crown, no public mandate, but endless entitlement.
While publicly preaching discipline and morality, the system quietly perfects the art of enrichment. Postings are traded like football transfers. “Good” departments are never random. Files move faster when motivated. Land changes hands mysteriously.
This is not crude corruption. It is refined, procedural, and stamped in triplicate. Everything is legal—or at least documented. And all of it is done while maintaining the moral posture of someone deeply concerned about national interest.
Universities decline. Hospitals deteriorate. Infrastructure projects balloon in cost and shrink in quality. Yet bureaucrats continue rotating, untouched by outcomes. Failure does not block promotion; it often accelerates it.
Professionals are sidelined because they ask inconvenient questions. Experts are ignored because they lack “administrative experience.” Initiative is discouraged because it disrupts routine. The system does not reward excellence. It rewards obedience.
Pakistan does not suffer from a lack of intelligence. It suffers from an excess of unearned confidence wrapped in colonial arrogance.
The country does not need bureaucrats who think they are masters. It needs public servants who understand they are employees. It does not need exam gods; it needs learners. It does not need protocol-driven royalty; it needs accountable professionals.
Until the steel frame is rebuilt—not repainted—Pakistan will remain trapped in a system that knows everything, understands nothing, and governs least of all.
Zalmay Azad
The author is an Islamabad-based senior journalist. He can be reached out at
zalmayk@gmail.com