The Jackals’ Last Howl

There they stand, the guardians of nothing, the high priests of a hollow creed.

For seventy five years, they wrapped themselves in the flag, clutched the Quran to their chests, and sold the nation a lie: that they were the sword of the Ummah, the defenders of the faith, the immutable wall against which the tides of heresy and hegemony would crash and break. And now, before a watching world, the gilded mask has been torn away, and the face beneath is not that of a ghazi, but of a mercenary. Not that of a mujahid, but of a housebreaker in khaki.

Look upon them, the anointed ones of Rawalpindi. From the four star who trades the blood of martyrs for the smile of a foreign master, to the sepoy who points his gun not at the enemy of his nation, but at the unarmed Afghan neighbor across a fabricated western frontier.

You are the men who turned the ideology of Pakistan into a joint stock company, with shares held by the CIA, traded on the whims of the Pentagon. You speak of national security, yet you are the architects of national insecurity, hollowing out the state from within so that you might better rule over its ruins. You are the inheritors of a tradition of treachery so profound that it would make Iago blush.

What damnation is sharp enough for those who use the soil of Pakistan not as a homeland, but as a staging ground for the enemies of its faith? You opened the skies over Jiwani for the aggressor’s missiles, hoping their contrails would obscure your own moral decay.

You staged your pathetic theatre of terror… a few bombs in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, a cowardly strike on sleeping families in Kabul? all so you could provide the “security” that your foreign handlers demanded? You manufactured a crisis on the western border to prove your worth to the very powers you were created to resist.

This is not strategy, it is pimping. You have pimped the geography, the blood, and the honor of a nation of 240 million for a seat at a table where you are not guests, but court jesters.

And the puppets you prop up, the Ishaq Dars and their ilk, these hollow men in tailored suits, mouthing platitudes of support for Iran while their masters’ jets are refueling in the dead of night over Balochistan. Their hypocrisy is so vile, so transparent, that it becomes a form of obscenity. They are not leaders; they are the ventriloquist’s dummies, gifted with a pulse so that the rot at the top can have a voice in the parliament. The judiciary, bound and gagged. The bureaucracy, a servile chorus line. The civil liberties, a forgotten memory replaced by the dungeons of the state. The people of Pakistan do not live in a country; they live in a cantonment, under curfew, hostages to the paranoia of a junta that knows its days are numbered.

This is the true face of your New-World-Order, you architects of ruin.

It is an order built on the shattered glass of Iranian cities, on the wails of Afghan orphans, on the broken bodies of Baloch and Pashtun protesters, and on the solitary confinement of a prime minister who dared to be popular without your permission.

You have not protected Pakistan; you have imprisoned it. You have not served the nation; you have served the warrant for its arrest. You speak of enemies at the gate, but the enemy has long been inside, sleeping in your beds, wearing your stars, and drawing your salary.

Pakistan continues air strikes against Afghanistan. Only footages are not being made public. They will bomb a neighbor into submission, then hide the footage like a guilty secret. They want you to feel the thunder, to smell the cordite, to cheer for the strongmen… but they dare not let you see the face of the enemy they have created, because that enemy is you. That rubble is your future. Those orphans are your children, sacrificed on the altar of their relevance. The strikes are real. The blood is real. The only thing fake is the justification.

And so, as the missiles fly and the fog of this particular war thickens, a different kind of smoke rises from the ruins of your credibility. The damnation you face is not one that will arrive with a foreign army or a revolutionary mob. It is far more terrible. It is the judgment of history, which remembers not the conquerors, but the betrayers.

You will be remembered not as generals, but as gravediggers. For when the final battery is switched off and the last lie is told, the nation you have sold out will awaken. And in that awakening, the name PAKISTAN may yet live on, but the institution that wore its uniform as a shroud will find itself not in the history books, but in the footnotes of infamy, remembered only as the jackals who, in their final hour, chose to howl for the master rather than roar for the pride.

…Concluded.

Also Read: From STRATEGIC DEPTH to ARCH ENEMY …The Ugly Journey of Pakistan Betrayed by Its Guardians

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