The “cockroach movement” has become one of South Asia’s most powerful political metaphors. First witnessed in Nepal, then in Sri Lanka, later in Bangladesh, and now increasingly visible in India, it describes a generation of young people who refuse to remain invisible. Dismissed by the establishment as insignificant, they suddenly emerge in overwhelming numbers to challenge the political order. Like cockroaches, they are often ignored until they are everywhere.
Pakistan appears, at least for now, to be an exception. Despite record youth unemployment, shrinking economic opportunities, rising inflation, declining social mobility, and growing frustration with the political elite, the country’s young population has not erupted into a nationwide anti-system movement. The question is why.
The answer may lie in a single individual: Imran Khan. Whether one supports him or opposes him, it is difficult to deny that Imran Khan accomplished something no Pakistani politician before him could. He transformed a generation’s anger into electoral politics. Millions of young Pakistanis who otherwise might have drifted toward political apathy, radicalism, or anti-state sentiment instead found a democratic outlet in his movement.
For over a decade, he gave them a destination. His rallies became gatherings of hope rather than rebellion. His message—however idealistic or unrealistic—convinced young Pakistanis that change was still possible within the existing political framework. They believed the ballot, not the bullet, could alter Pakistan’s future. That achievement alone deserves serious reflection.
Today, Imran Khan sits behind bars, yet his political influence arguably remains stronger than many politicians who enjoy complete freedom. More importantly, his imprisonment has not extinguished the hopes of Pakistan’s Generation Z. If anything, it has intensified them.
Across Pakistan’s universities, cities, and increasingly even rural areas, countless young people continue to believe that one day he will walk out of prison, return to power, and rebuild a system they see as fundamentally broken. Whether that belief is realistic is another matter.
Personally, I remain unconvinced that Imran Khan possesses the institutional capacity to repair Pakistan’s deeply entrenched structural problems. The country’s crises extend far beyond personalities. They involve governance, bureaucracy, economic management, institutional accountability, federal relations, and decades of accumulated dysfunction. No single leader, however popular, can resolve them overnight.
But politics is not driven by objective reality alone. It is driven by perception. And today, perception matters enormously.
For millions of young Pakistanis, Imran Khan represents the last remaining possibility that peaceful political change is still achievable. He has become less of a politician and more of a vessel carrying their collective aspirations. Ironically, this makes his continued political relevance one of the system’s greatest stabilizing forces.
Governments derive legitimacy not merely through authority or coercion but through hope. One of the most fundamental responsibilities of any state is to convince its citizens that tomorrow can be better than today. People can tolerate hardship when they believe their sacrifices have purpose. They can endure inflation, unemployment, and uncertainty if they believe someone is genuinely attempting to improve their future.
Hope is often the strongest pillar of political stability. Pakistan’s current rulers have struggled to generate that hope.
Economic indicators remain fragile. Young graduates face shrinking employment opportunities. Entrepreneurship has become increasingly difficult. Many educated Pakistanis dream not of building careers at home but of leaving the country altogether. Confidence in institutions has steadily eroded.
In such an environment, hope has not come from government policy. It has come from a political prisoner. This creates a remarkable paradox. A man imprisoned by the state may simultaneously be preventing a far deeper crisis for the state itself.
As long as millions continue believing that Imran Khan’s eventual return could restore accountability, improve governance, or reset the political system, they remain invested in waiting rather than revolting. Their frustrations continue to flow through a recognizable political channel instead of transforming into a leaderless anti-system movement.
History suggests this distinction matters. Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya was not built around one charismatic opposition leader. Bangladesh’s recent protests reflected accumulated frustrations that eventually exceeded institutional capacity to absorb them. Nepal experienced repeated waves of youth mobilization born from disappointment with established political elites. India, too, has recently witnessed what some commentators describe as a growing “cockroach” phenomenon—young people expressing deep anxiety over jobs, inequality, and political representation. The common thread is not identical politics. It is the disappearance of hope.
Once citizens conclude that elections cannot produce meaningful change, that institutions cannot correct themselves, and that no credible political alternative exists, they begin searching for answers outside conventional democratic channels. Sometimes those answers remain peaceful. Sometimes they become confrontational. Occasionally, they drift toward extremism. Pakistan should not assume immunity from this regional pattern. Our demographics make us particularly vulnerable.
Nearly two-thirds of Pakistan’s population is under the age of thirty. This generation is digitally connected, politically aware, impatient, and increasingly conscious of global standards of governance and opportunity. They compare their lives not only with previous Pakistani generations but with young people around the world. That comparison is often deeply discouraging.
At present, Imran Khan continues to function as a political shock absorber for much of this frustration. His supporters may believe that patience will eventually be rewarded through his return. But what happens if that hope permanently disappears? No one can answer that question with certainty.
Perhaps nothing dramatic will occur. Pakistan’s political culture has repeatedly demonstrated remarkable resilience. Society may continue absorbing shocks without major upheaval. Yet it would be equally unwise to dismiss the possibility altogether.
Political systems rarely collapse because of a single event. They weaken when hope gradually evaporates and citizens stop believing that peaceful change is possible. Pakistan’s policymakers should therefore ask themselves a difficult question. Are they governing in a way that restores public confidence, or are they relying on the continued existence of one opposition leader to contain public frustration?
If the latter is true, then the country’s political stability rests on surprisingly fragile foundations. The lesson from South Asia is clear. When hope disappears, the so-called “cockroaches” eventually emerge from the shadows—not because they suddenly become revolutionary, but because they no longer believe the system offers them any future within it. Pakistan may not witness such a moment. But neither can it afford the complacency of believing it never will.
Zalmay Azad : The author is an Islamabad-based senior journalist . He writes for NEWSMAN on regular basis