Tariq Mahmood Awan
I do not personally know Mr. Usman Tahir Jappa, yet I have often heard of him as a man of generous heart, exuberant spirit, and deep affection for literature, TikTok and culture. However, at the same times, there are other stories both subjectively or objectively regarding him. Then, as a writer, it is not my duty to write personal things. But, at times, I fee it necessary to write about those who are unfairly criticized, not for faults, but for qualities that narrow vision fails to appreciate. Mr. Jappa, however, is far more than such criticism—he carries a presence that speaks of warmth, humanity, and a spirit larger than the limits placed upon him. The discussion is regarding his administrative work only.
The story of Muzaffargarh’s Deputy Commissioner, Mr. Usman Jappa, is a curious tale of how governance and performance collide in twenty-first century Pakistan. At a time when entire villages were drowning under floodwaters, he was seen in videos steering boats, handing out food parcels, and wading through the muck. But what caught public attention was not only the relief operations—it was his suit, his tie, his camera-ready presence, and the unmistakable flair of a man conscious that he was being watched.
This visibility, some argue, is mere narcissism. Others accuse him of cheap publicity, of playing hero in a tragedy. Yet, the question remains: is perception management not already part of governance? In an age where politicians livestream rallies and ministers announce policy on Twitter, why should a deputy commissioner remain cloistered in a file-ridden office? Perhaps Mr. Jappa’s real crime is that he disrupted the invisible stereotype of the bureaucrat, dragging him—suit, tie and all—into the glare of social media.
It is worth remembering that floods are not a backdrop for academic debates. They are cruel, muddy, and devastating. Families cling to rooftops, livestock is washed away, and children shiver in makeshift shelters. The administration must fight chaos with both logistics and symbolism. Relief camps, medical teams, and food supplies form the logistics. But reassurance—the ability to show that “the state is with you”—is equally essential. Mr. Jappa may have blended the two, sometimes awkwardly, but not without sincerity.
Critics point out that a bureaucrat should be disciplined, reserved, and faceless, a background figure of governance. Yet this archetype is crumbling. Citizens today demand that officials be seen in the field, accountable and present. Visibility creates confidence, and confidence creates cooperation. Without it, public trust in the state evaporates. Mr. Jappa’s videos may have looked theatrical, but they also sent a clear message to villagers in Muzaffargarh: “your DC is with you.” That message matters more than memes.
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There is, admittedly, a streak of vanity. He enjoys the lens, perhaps too much. But history has never frowned upon vanity so long as it was yoked to service. Don Quixote, absurd in his armor, still inspires nobility. Our local folk heroes cared as much for image as for cause, and their image carried their message further. Likewise, the tie and jacket, the camera-aware glance, may be vanity—but vanity that reassures, vanity that mobilizes, vanity that does no real harm.
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What is unacceptable, however, is the turn from satire to slander. Some have not stopped at mocking his style; they have questioned his sincerity, hurled insults, and defamed his character. This crosses the line of public accountability. Criticize his methods, yes. Debate the role of bureaucrats on TikTok, certainly. But personal defamation is both unjust and unlawful. The Constitution of Pakistan safeguards the dignity of every citizen, bureaucrats included.
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One hopes that Mr. Jappa himself will learn balance. Less TikTok, more focus on policy depth; fewer dramatics, more quiet execution. Because while the public enjoys heroes, the bureaucracy demands restraint. He must walk the tightrope between enthusiasm and discipline, between visibility and sobriety. If he leans too far into showmanship, he risks alienating his peers. But if he retreats entirely, he risks losing the trust of his people.
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Still, between an invisible administrator and an over-visible one, the choice is obvious. The latter may err, but at least he engages. At least he inspires debate, and debate itself is healthy for governance. Villagers who receive relief do not question whether the moment is filmed; they are simply grateful. Children rescued from waters do not accuse the rescuer of narcissism; they are simply alive. When crisis strikes, the line between performance and service blurs, and the one who shows up deserves credit, not ridicule.
Governance in Pakistan has long been about perception as much as performance. Governments fall on images of sugar queues, petrol shortages, or wheat crises, regardless of statistical nuance. Officials who understand perception may therefore serve their people better than those who ignore it. Mr. Jappa, in his own imperfect, camera-friendly way, embodied this truth. His critics see vanity; his supporters see visibility. Both are correct, but the balance tilts in his favour because at least he acted.
The future of our civil service may well lie in such experiments. If every deputy commissioner dared to be visible—without being theatrical, if every secretary dared to be approachable—without being populist, perhaps the public would begin to trust its institutions again. Bureaucracy would no longer be a faceless monolith but a human presence. And if that presence comes with a tie, a camera, and a boat in a flood—let it be so.
So let us defend the man, even as we laugh at his theatrics. Because in the story of Muzaffargarh’s DC lies a reminder that bureaucracy is human, service is messy, and governance in the social media age is both drama and duty. Mr. Usman Jappa may not be flawless, but he is sincere. And sincerity—whether in mud or on TikTok—is no small gift. Mr. Jappa must have the benefit of the doubt.
Lastly, it must be a learning curve for him. And, finally, it is he who will have to understand it. Most of the bureaucracy is not happy with his TikTok work.
The Writer is a civil servant.
