Month: January 2026

by Muhammad Mohsin Iqbal

Although mid-January arrives with icy winds at their fiercest and the mercury seems to sink perilously close to freezing, it is also the season when memory awakens with unusual intensity. The chill in the air carries with it the warmth of remembrance, drawing the mind irresistibly toward the narrow, winding streets of Lahore. What the younger generation now terms the “Walled City,” what others know as Androon-e-Shehr, and what Lahoris simply call Shehr, was then a living organism, breathing history, culture, and intimacy. Winter nights echoed with the rhythmic calls of “Garam Aanday,” while peanuts and pine nuts were sold by lantern light. Afternoons were softened by sunshine and sweetened by oranges and kinnows, and mornings began with the unmistakable aromas of Siri Paye, Bong, Nihari, and Chanay, served generously with hot Kulchas or Puri Halwa, meals that nourished both body and soul.

As January waned, conversation everywhere turned toward the first Sunday of February, for Basant had already been officially announced. The mere mention of the word was enough to ignite anticipation. Those living abroad would send messages weeks in advance, declaring their return especially for Basant and urging families to fix weddings of their relatives and close friends during those auspicious days, so that marriage and Basant can be celebrated at the same time. Relatives and friends working in the Middle East were entrusted with a specific task; bringing back Nar’ra (Thread), regarded as superior and reliable. In Lahore, Kasur, and nearby towns, string-coating Addas bustled with activity. Orders were placed well ahead of time, colors carefully chosen, and once the string was ready, eager customers lined up at kite shops. It was customary to take along seasoned Ustaad (expert) who could judge the balance of a kite or the smoothness of a spool at a glance. The kites and Guddis purchased earlier were handled with reverence, adjusted, tested, and carefully set aside.

In the days leading up to Basant, Lahore itself seemed to change its rhythm. Rooftops were cleaned, parapets repaired, and ladders readied. Nights were spent tightening and stretching kites and spools under dim bulbs, hands numbed by cold yet driven by excitement. Sleep was a rare luxury on the eve of Basant. At dawn, the first triumphant cries of “Bo-kata!” pierced the air, soon multiplying across neighborhoods. As the sun climbed, the sky blossomed into a riot of color, countless kites dancing like living beings, responding to every gust of wind. Women dressed in yellow, bangles clinked, and turmeric-hued dupattas fluttered from rooftops, while traditional songs and playful taunts drifted from house to house.

By noon, special dishes marked the festivity; Qeemay Walay Naan in many homes, Gajraila simmering slowly in others, along with an array of sweets and savories shared generously with neighbors and guests. Friendly rivalries sometimes flared into minor scuffles, but elders intervened swiftly, restoring harmony with a few firm words and gentle counsel. Basant was, after all, a festival of togetherness. As evening approached, the celebration intensified rather than faded. At the end of the day, the era of giant kites would begin in the name of Sham Kalyan, which was a great treat for the eyes.

With the onset of night, rooftops and grounds were illuminated by floodlights, transforming the dark sky into a glowing stage. Night Basant had its own magic. Giant kites were launched under brilliant lights, their shadows gliding majestically across illuminated clouds, while specially prepared spools were tested in dramatic contests that drew cheers from all around. The glow of floodlights, the hum of generators, and the echo of laughter gave Lahore a festive brilliance unmatched by daylight.

In those days, Basant largely belonged to the lower-middle and middle classes, who celebrated it with sincerity rather than spectacle. Many children from elite families viewed kite flying as undignified or feared injury, and thus remained distant observers. The festival’s transformation began later, when it received formal government patronage. In Lahore, much of the credit for promoting Basant at an official and international level goes to Kamran Lashari, then Commissioner Lahore. With private-sector collaboration, the festival was reshaped, marketed, and projected globally. While this recognition elevated Basant’s profile, it also altered its character, pushing it beyond the modest means of those who had once been its custodians.

Tragedy followed when chemical string replaced Door (traditional cotton-coated string). The sky that once symbolized joy became a site of mourning, as lives were lost and families shattered. Gradually, the festival faded into silence. Today, the Punjab government has once again sought to revive Basant under official supervision, banning chemical string and hazardous practices. Whether these measures will be enforced effectively remains uncertain. God forbid, if blood again stains this celebration, not only will cherished lives be lost, but the very survival of Basant may be threatened.

Kamran Lashari remains among those still engaged with this festival, and it is hoped that lessons of the past will guide present efforts. Even now, I profoundly miss those days. Perhaps these recollections will awaken dormant memories in others as well, and in doing so, bring to mind those dear souls who once stood beside us on rooftops, eyes lifted to the same sky, hearts united by the simple, radiant joy of Basant.

By Muhammad Mohsin Iqbal

When the flames finally surrendered to smoke, Gul Plaza ceased to be a building and became a wound carved into the body of the city. The air remained thick with the bitter stench of burnt fabric, plastic, and human dreams. Charred walls stood like silent mourners, and beneath the collapsed concrete lay not only the ashes of shops and goods, but the futures of hundreds of families reduced to cinders. The fire was over, yet mourning had only begun.

Across the street, on broken steps dusted with ash, two children sat side by side. They did not cry loudly like the women gathered nearby, nor did they shout slogans or curse fate. Their grief was quieter, heavier, and far more frightening.

“My father used to open his shop early in the morning,” said Ali, his schoolbag lying forgotten beside him. “He said business was like prayer—if you missed the first moment, you lost the blessing of the day.” His eyes remained fixed on the blackened structure. “Yesterday, they told us his body could not be identified. My mother keeps asking how a man can disappear in his own shop.”

Sara lowered her head. “My father sold fabric on the second floor,” she said softly. “He promised to buy me a new uniform from his own earnings very soon. He left home saying he would be late because customers were coming.” Her voice trembled. “He never said goodbye. Now there is no shop, no cloth, no promise. They say many are still missing. Maybe some are alive. Maybe they just don’t know yet.”

Around them, the city moved on awkwardly, burdened by shame and helplessness. Gul Plaza had been more than a commercial building. It was a source of bread, dignity, and survival. With its destruction, stoves in hundreds of houses were extinguished. Kitchens fell silent, school fees became impossible questions, and debts turned into waking nightmares. The fire did not merely consume wood and merchandise; it devoured certainty itself.

Ali clenched his fists. “They say the fire spread because the building was unsafe. No proper exits, no discipline in construction, wires hanging like webs.” His voice carried a quiet anger. “If everyone knew this, why was it allowed to stand? Was it the government’s fault? The administration’s? Or ours, for accepting danger as fate?”

Sara nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “My father once complained that the staircases were blocked with goods,” she said. “He laughed while saying it, as if danger was a joke Karachi tells itself every day.” She swallowed hard. “Why did no one stop it? Why do we always wait for death before inspecting buildings?”

Sirens had fallen silent, but grief echoed everywhere. Names were called again and again, dissolving into smoke. Some bodies lay unrecognizable, denying families even the mercy of a final farewell. In many homes, mothers clutched shirts still carrying the scent of their husbands, inhaling memories as if breath itself could bring the dead back. Children listened to whispers filled with unfamiliar words—compensation, inquiry, relief—words that sounded hollow against the permanence of loss.

“My father’s shop fed us,” Ali said quietly. “With that money, my sisters went to school. With that money, our stove burned.” His voice faltered. “Now the stove is cold. My mother asks how we will eat. I have no answer.”

Sara stared at her ash-stained hands. “My father’s business was our future,” she said. “He dreamed of expanding it. He dreamed of my education.” Her shoulders shook. “Now even his body has not been found. How do you bury a dream without a grave?”

Officials moved through the area with notebooks and cameras, promising investigations and committees. Ali watched them with tired eyes. “They will investigate,” he said bitterly. “They always do. But will anyone be punished? Or will this fire also be buried under files and forgotten like the others?”

The questions refused to die. Who is responsible for this tragedy? The permits issued without scrutiny, the inspections never conducted, the rules bent for profit, the warnings ignored—each had played its silent role. Responsibility seemed scattered so widely that no single hand was willing to claim it.

“And what about the families?” Sara whispered. “Who will treat the burned hands of those who tried to save their loved ones? Who will heal the hearts of mothers who waited all night for sons who never returned?” Her voice broke. “Is there any alternative for us, or is grief the only inheritance we have received?”

As evening fell, lamps were lit in nearby homes—not for celebration, but for vigil. Food went untouched. Fathers were absent from dinner mats. Children lay awake, staring into darkness, learning too early that life can change in a single hour. The fire had not only taken lives; it had stripped families of dignity, security, and hope.

Ali stood slowly, lifting his schoolbag. “I am afraid of tomorrow,” he said. “I am afraid that my father’s name will fade, that his death will change nothing.”

Sara rose beside him. “I am afraid too,” she replied. “But maybe our pain should not be silent. Maybe people must remember that Gul Plaza was not an accident—it was a warning written in fire.”

Behind them, the ashes of Gul Plaza lay heavy and accusing. Until responsibility is owned, discipline enforced, and human life valued above profit, the cries of children like Ali and Sara will continue to rise from the ruins—soft, broken, and full of anguish—asking questions that time itself cannot silence.

by Muhammad Mohsin Iqbal

Greenland, for centuries perceived as a silent expanse of ice at the edge of the known world, has emerged as one of the most consequential pieces on the contemporary geopolitical chessboard. What was once regarded as inhospitable and peripheral is now viewed as pivotal, even decisive, in shaping future balances of power. The renewed American fixation on Greenland, particularly under President Donald Trump’s return to office, is rooted not in impulse but in a sober assessment of geography, resources, and the profound transformations unfolding in the Arctic.

Trump’s earlier proposal in 2019 to purchase Greenland was initially dismissed as eccentric. Yet with the accelerating effects of climate change and intensifying great-power rivalry, the logic behind that idea has gained strategic coherence. The current discourse is less about literal annexation and more about leverage, influence, and long-term control. Diplomatic overtures, economic incentives, and deliberately provocative rhetoric have all been employed to signal that Washington considers Greenland essential to its national security calculus. The language of choice—suggesting an “easy way or a hard way”—is designed less to announce imminent action than to apply pressure and redefine negotiating boundaries.

At the core of this interest lies the Arctic’s transformation from a frozen backwater into a navigable and contested space. Melting ice is opening sea routes that dramatically shorten distances between Asia, Europe, and North America. Voyages that once took forty days via the Suez Canal may soon be completed in little more than twenty through Arctic passages. Greenland occupies a commanding position at the Atlantic entrance of these emerging routes, particularly near the Northwest Passage and the future transpolar corridor. Influence over Greenland would grant the United States a vantage point from which to monitor, secure, and potentially shape the rules governing these new arteries of global trade and military movement.

Equally compelling is what lies beneath Greenland’s ice. The island is believed to possess significant deposits of rare earth elements, indispensable for advanced electronics, renewable energy technologies, and modern defence systems. In an era where China’s dominance over rare earth supply chains has become a strategic vulnerability for the West, Greenland offers the prospect of diversification and autonomy. Added to this are potential reserves of oil, gas, and other minerals, whose exploitation becomes more feasible as ice retreats. For an administration intent on economic self-reliance and industrial strength, Greenland appears not merely as territory, but as strategic insurance.

Yet Greenland’s allure is not purely material. There is a symbolic dimension that resonates deeply with Trump’s political ethos. Territorial expansion, bold deal-making, and visible assertions of power align neatly with an “America First” narrative that prizes dominance and psychological advantage. In this framing, Greenland becomes a statement as much as a strategy—a demonstration that the United States intends to shape the future rather than react to it.

This ambition, however, collides with political, legal, and moral constraints. Greenland is an autonomous land whose people have repeatedly and unequivocally rejected the idea of becoming Americans. Their attachment to self-rule, cultural identity, and gradual movement toward greater independence from Denmark is profound. Denmark itself, as a sovereign state and a founding member of NATO, has made clear that any attempt at coercion would be unacceptable. Such a move would not merely strain alliances; it could shatter them, calling into question the very foundations of the post–Second World War order built on respect for sovereignty.

The repercussions of any forced acquisition would be far-reaching. NATO unity could fracture, European allies might impose diplomatic and economic penalties, and international institutions would likely condemn the act as illegal. The anticipated economic benefits of resource access could quickly be outweighed by the costs of military deployment, legal disputes, market volatility, and the long-term obligation to subsidise infrastructure and services for a small, remote population. Within the United States, such an action would provoke intense domestic division, with supporters hailing strategic boldness and critics warning of imperial overreach and constitutional crisis.

Rival powers would almost certainly respond. Russia, which has heavily militarised its Arctic frontier and views the region as central to its future, would regard expanded U.S. influence in Greenland as a direct challenge. Increased patrols, strategic signalling, cyber activity, and closer coordination with China could follow, accelerating an Arctic arms race. What is framed as a move for security could thus generate new insecurities, heightening the risk of miscalculation in a fragile environment.

Environmental and humanitarian concerns further complicate the picture. Accelerated resource extraction could worsen ecological damage, intensify ice melt, and threaten Arctic biodiversity. Greenland’s indigenous communities might face displacement or erosion of rights, transforming a strategic project into a moral dilemma with global repercussions.

Ultimately, the secrets Greenland may reveal extend beyond minerals, shipping lanes, or military bases. They speak to the nature of power in an era defined by interdependence, climate change, and contested norms. Greenland stands at the intersection of ambition and restraint, opportunity and risk. In seeking to unlock its strategic value, the world may discover that the greatest revelation lies not in Greenland itself, but in how nations choose to pursue power in a rapidly changing world.

By Muhammad Mohsin Iqbal

In childhood, if we stepped out of the house for an errand and failed to return at the appointed hour, the entire household would sink into a quiet unease. Mothers would begin to pace, fathers would cast repeated glances towards the gate, and when at last we returned—dusty and carefree—we were met with a barrage of questions that felt little short of a formal interrogation. Irritation often overcame us in those moments, and it was then that a grandmother’s gentle yet resolute voice would remind us that one day we would understand it all ourselves. Time, as it invariably does, proved her right. Today, we worry for our own children in much the same way our parents once worried for us.

The moment has now arrived when parents dispatch their children each morning to schools, colleges, and universities with a mingled sense of hope and apprehension. Education is still regarded as the safest path to dignity and stability. Yet a chilling fear has begun to haunt families across Pakistan; what if a child were to end his or her life within the very walls of an educational institution? For parents, no calamity is more devastating, and no silence more unbearable, than that which follows the extinguishing of a young life.

Lahore, long considered the intellectual heart of the country, has in recent years witnessed a disturbing rise in such tragic incidents, with their frequency particularly notable in certain private universities. Similar tragedies have also been reported from Peshawar, Karachi, Islamabad, Faisalabad, and other cities. In one case, a student is found lifeless in a hostel room; in another, a young soul leaps from a building after a bitter confrontation with the administration; elsewhere, a few hastily written lines are left behind, heavy with despair. Each incident briefly flashes across news screens and social media, yet behind every headline lies a family shattered beyond repair.

Credible studies and media-based analyses reveal that a significant proportion of reported student suicides occur within colleges and universities. Research drawing upon newspaper records over several years suggests that nearly half of such cases are linked to higher education institutions. Even more alarming are the findings of academic surveys; more than forty percent of university students in Pakistan exhibit symptoms of depression, while studies conducted among medical and professional students indicate that nearly one-third acknowledge suicidal thoughts. A smaller, yet deeply troubling, percentage admit to having attempted suicide at some point. These figures, frequently cited in research, almost certainly understate the true scale of the crisis due to stigma and chronic underreporting.

The tragedy assumes an even more painful dimension when the victim is a young girl. Instead of restraint and compassion, society often responds with whispers, insinuations, and merciless speculation. Her character is scrutinised, her family placed in the dock, and her suffering rendered suspect or sensational. Rarely do we pause to ask, with sincerity, what unbearable pressure or humiliation might have driven her to such a final decision.

The causes of this crisis are complex and deeply interwoven. Academic pressure stands foremost among them. Many institutions privilege grades, attendance percentages, and rigid discipline over mental well-being. Instances have emerged where students were publicly humiliated for academic shortcomings or threatened with expulsion—consequences that, for a vulnerable mind, can feel like the end of the world. Family expectations, though often born of love, can become suffocating when success is narrowly defined and failure treated as disgrace. Financial strain, fear of unemployment, and relentless competition further intensify this anxiety.

Modern life has added new dimensions to old pressures. Social media magnifies comparison and failure, exposing young minds to constant judgement while offering little genuine support. At the same time, mental health remains a taboo subject. Many students suffer in silence, fearful that seeking help will earn them labels of weakness or instability. The erosion of patience, tolerance, and empathy within society has only deepened their isolation.

A profound spiritual vacuum also plays its part in this tragedy. Growing distance from faith has deprived many young people of an inner anchor. Islam not only forbids suicide but places immense emphasis on hope, patience, and the sanctity of human life. When these values fade, despair finds fertile ground in which to take root.

If this trend continues unchecked, parents will inevitably begin to question whether universities are sanctuaries of learning or arenas of silent torment. This crisis cannot be addressed through perfunctory inquiries after each tragedy. It demands a clear, sustained, and humane course of action.

Educational institutions must establish credible and confidential mental health services staffed by trained professionals. Counselling should not be an afterthought but an integral part of campus life. Teachers and administrators must be trained to recognise signs of psychological distress and to enforce discipline with humanity rather than humiliation. Academic policies should allow room for compassion without compromising standards.

Parents, too, must recalibrate their expectations—valuing effort and integrity over mere results—and create homes where children feel safe to speak openly of failure and fear. At the national level, the state must invest in mental health infrastructure, improve the collection of suicide-related data, and ensure the enforcement of protective regulations within educational institutions.

Above all, society must rediscover empathy and restore meaning to life through faith, purpose, and human connection. Only then can parents send their children out each morning with confidence rather than dread, assured that the pursuit of education will nurture life, not extinguish it.