Why I Write Instead of Active Politics
By Dr. Masood Tariq
Karachi, Pakistan
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Dear Friends,
Many of you — my companions from student politics, colleagues from local bodies politics, associates from provincial politics, and fellow travellers from the long years of struggle — often ask me a sincere question: Why do you write so much instead of returning to active politics?
The answer is that I do not write in isolation. Every article and research paper I produce carries the echo of our shared conversations, arguments, and silences — the memories of student halls, council chambers, cabinet meetings, and gatherings that once defined our political lives. Writing, for me, is simply a continuation of those dialogues that never truly ended.
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From Student to Provincial Politics
My political understanding was born out of experience, not theory. As a young man, I twice served as Senior Vice President of the Pakistan Muslim Students Federation (PMSF) Sindh, where politics meant organisation, debate, and hope. Those formative years were my first lessons in leadership, discipline, and collective vision.
Later, as a two-time Councillor of the Hyderabad Municipal Corporation, I learned that politics begins at the local level — in neighbourhoods where citizens meet the government directly. Those years grounded me in the realities of administration, compromise, and service.
Eventually, I entered provincial politics, serving from 1993 to 1996 as Advisor to the Chief Minister and Member of the Sindh Cabinet. Those were decisive years. I witnessed how bureaucracy and federal control restricted provincial autonomy, and how language and identity were turned into instruments of centralisation.
After nearly two decades in public life, I resigned on March 5, 1996 — not out of despair but conviction. I had realised that Pakistan’s transformation required independent thought, historical honesty, and intellectual courage rather than conformity to a system designed to preserve the status quo.
Throughout this journey, I have never committed any crime, corruption, or unlawful act. I have never taken bribes, misused authority, engaged in misconduct, or sought any financial or economic benefit from the public or the government. No person — whether in Karachi, Hyderabad, or Sindh as a whole — can truthfully claim that I ever demanded money, misused power, or committed any act of misconduct during my tenure as Councillor or as Advisor to the Chief Minister of Sindh. My record, Alhamdulillah, has remained transparent, accountable, and free from any stain of dishonesty.
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Three Decades of Reflection
After stepping away from office, I did not retire from politics. Instead, I began to think politics more deeply. I spent three decades studying the Holy Qur’an, exploring spiritual knowledge, and observing national and global developments with renewed perspective.
By the grace of Allah Almighty, at sixty-eight I understand politics far more fully than I ever did in office. Experience without reflection becomes repetition; reflection without expression becomes silence. Writing became my way to transform experience into vision.
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Personal Relationships That Shaped Me
Throughout my political life I interacted with countless figures — from student leaders to ministers — but a few relationships were not public or ceremonial; they were personal, sustained, and formative. These friendships became the true classrooms of my life.
In Sindh, I was privileged to share close dialogue with Pir Pagaro (Shah Mardan Shah II), whose blend of mysticism and realism taught endurance; G.M. Syed, whose intellect deepened my understanding of autonomy and betrayal; and Rasool Bux Palijo, whose commitment to socialism, women’s rights, and Sindhi culture shaped my sense of justice.
From Punjab, Hanif Ramay opened my mind to Islamic socialism and Punjabi pluralism, while Chaudhry Zahoor Elahi grounded me in the continuity of Punjabi politics.
From the Frontier and Kashmir, Air Marshal Asghar Khan and Khan Abdul Wali Khan became guides in integrity and federalism, and Sardar Abdul Qayyum Khan reframed the Kashmir question for me as one of dignity and humanity.
Among Urdu-speaking leaders, I shared long discussions with Nawab Yameen Khan of Hyderabad, who described Liaquat Ali Khan’s early government; Nawab Muzaffar Hussain, founder of the Muhajir Punjabi Pathan Mahaz (MPPM), who sought urban inclusion without denying indigenous rights; and Azad Bin Hyder of the Urdu Mahaz Karachi, who explained how migration reshaped Sindh’s urban politics.
And at the national level, Benazir Bhutto was both colleague and teacher. As her Adviser in the Sindh Cabinet, I saw her courage, intellect, and limitations up close. Working with her was not merely politics — it was a human education in the struggle between ideals and power.
In scholarship, my mentors were Dr. Hamida Khuhro and Ibrahim Joyo, whose homes were living universities. Dr. Khuhro taught me the discipline of truth in history, while Joyo reminded me that education and culture are the foundations of freedom.
These relationships were personal, not performative — built on trust and reflection rather than publicity or party lines. They shaped my understanding far more than any slogan or manifesto could.
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After Benazir Bhutto and the Decision to Write
After Benazir Bhutto’s assassination in 2007, I finally withdrew from party politics — not from fatigue but from disillusionment.
I realised that political parties in Pakistan had turned into private limited companies, operating through money, kinship, and patronage rather than ideology or democracy.
In such an environment, the pen seemed more powerful than the vote. Writing became my way to continue political struggle — free from factional loyalty and closer to truth.
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The Politics of Writing
For me, writing is politics — but without the noise of slogans. It allows me to critique without fear, analyse without compromise, and propose without the constraints of patronage.
I write to remember a Pakistan that could have been — a federation of equal nations, not a hierarchy of manipulated provinces.
I write so that future generations may know that silence was never our only choice.
I write because dialogue must not die, and because truth, once spoken clearly, carries its own quiet power.
Every article I write is both a record and a response — to those who taught, those who opposed, and those who still hope.
With warm regards and gratitude,
Dr. Masood Tariq
Karachi, Pakistan
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