I joined journalism more than two decades ago, young, idealistic, and full of borrowed theories about how societies change. On my very first beat, my mentor—an old-school reporter who had seen governments rise and fall—said something that stayed with me. At that time, I couldn’t understand it. He said, “Pakistani society is so deeply corrupt that it corrupts every system, every ideology, every ‘ism’ you bring into it.”
Communism, socialism, nationalism, atheism, feminism—you name it, he said. Bring it here, and we will turn it into something ugly, dirty, and self-serving.
Back then, I thought he was exaggerating. Like most young people, I believed corruption was limited to politicians, generals, or a few bad apples. I believed ideas were pure, and if we just imported the right system, things would fix themselves. Time, unfortunately, proved my mentor right.
Over the years, I watched ideas arrive in Pakistan full of promise—and leave distorted beyond recognition.
Take communism. In theory, it is about equality, dignity of labor, and justice for the working class. In many parts of the world, it produced strong unions, social safety nets, and a sense of collective responsibility. But when communism landed in Pakistan, those who claimed to promote it behaved no differently from the elites they opposed. The slogans were revolutionary, but the lifestyles were feudal. The language was about the poor, but the benefits stayed within a small circle. What could have been a system for justice became another ladder for personal power.
The same story repeats with socialism, nationalism, even atheism. Every ideology is reduced to branding. Every movement becomes a career. Every cause turns into a way to get grants, visas, fame, or influence. Principles are negotiable. Morals are flexible. Loyalty lasts only until a better offer appears.
My most revealing experience came when I decided to understand feminism up close. Instead of commenting from a distance, I spent nearly a year closely observing feminist circles, attending events, listening to conversations, and watching how things actually worked behind the scenes.
What I found was deeply disappointing.
Instead of a broad struggle for all women, the focus remained firmly on issues faced by elite women—women who already had access to education, money, and global platforms. Factory workers, domestic helpers, rural women, and street vendors were mostly absent from the conversation. Their problems were useful only as talking points, not as priorities.
Many of the feminists I encountered were deeply self-centered. Personal branding mattered more than collective struggle. Financial transparency was weak. Foreign-funded projects were treated as personal property. Leadership positions rotated within the same small elite circle. Disagreement was punished. Questioning motives was labeled as misogyny.
This was not feminism as a movement for justice. This was feminism as a social club, a funding pipeline, and a shortcut to international recognition.
And before anyone misunderstands me—this is not an argument against feminism itself. Feminism, as an idea, is necessary and powerful. In many societies, it has delivered real change. But in Pakistan, like everything else, it gets absorbed into a corrupt social structure and comes out hollow.
Then there are the religious leaders.
If there was one group that should have acted as a moral compass, it was them. They were supposed to guide society, speak truth to power, and protect the weak. Instead, large sections of the religious leadership are neck-deep in moral and financial corruption. From misuse of donations to abuse of influence, from political bargaining to personal scandals, the gap between preaching and practice is staggering.
Religion here is less about ethics and more about control. Less about humility and more about authority. Less about reform and more about revenue.
Even poets, literary figures, and academics—those we like to romanticize as society’s conscience—are not immune. In fact, many are equally compromised.
Poets write verses against oppression while seeking favors from the same power structures. Literary figures form closed circles, promoting friends and silencing dissent. Awards, fellowships, and recognition are often exchanged through connections rather than merit. Ideological purity is loudly claimed but quietly sold.
Academics, too, are part of this decay. Research is shaped to please donors. Plagiarism is ignored. Academic positions are traded through networks and loyalty. Many professors speak of critical thinking while discouraging it in classrooms. Instead of producing independent minds, institutions produce obedience.
Knowledge becomes another currency. Integrity becomes optional.
What makes Pakistan’s problem unique—and tragic—is that corruption is not limited to one class or institution.
The poor man lies when given a chance. The rich man cheats as a habit.
The educated manipulate language. The uneducated manipulate sympathy.
Men exploit power. Women exploit victimhood. Government servants sell files. Private sector employees sell conscience. Low-level clerks demand bribes. Top officers call it “facilitation.”
Young or old. Rural or urban. Conservative or liberal. Religious or secular. Everyone finds a justification. And yet, in drawing rooms, seminars, TV talk shows, and social media spaces, the same tired questions are repeated again and again.
“What is the solution?”
“How will Pakistan improve?”
How can corruption end?”
“When will we become a normal country?”
Everyone talks about better education, better healthcare, better governance, better security. Everyone wants Scandinavian results with Pakistani behavior.
But almost nobody asks the most uncomfortable question of all:
When the entire society is corrupt, who will rise to correct the system?
Who will enforce honesty when dishonesty is socially rewarded?
Who will punish corruption when everyone has something to hide?
Who will sacrifice when shortcuts are celebrated?
We keep waiting for a messiah—a general, a politician, a judge, a movement, an ideology. But every savior emerges from the same society, carrying the same habits, the same moral compromises, the same sense of entitlement.
Systems don’t fail in Pakistan because the ideas are wrong. They fail because the people running them refuse to change themselves.
Until we accept this bitter truth—that corruption here is cultural, not just institutional—we will keep recycling hope and disappointment. New slogans will replace old ones. New faces will repeat old patterns. And every “ism” will continue to rot the moment it lands on our soil.
My mentor understood this decades ago. It took me years of reporting, observing, and unlearning to finally catch up.
Pakistan doesn’t suffer from a lack of ideas.
It suffers from a lack of honesty.
And that is a problem no ideology can fix on its own.
