Tariq Mahmood Awan

In Pakistan, civil service is not just a profession. It’s practically a nationwide obsession. For many, it’s the golden ticket to status, security, and influence. Parents dream of their children becoming civil officers. Thus, coaching academies thrive off the desperation of aspirants. And society collectively elevates bureaucrats to a near-sacred status, as if donning a government badge transforms one into a philosopher-king. But behind this glittering façade lies a silent, simmering crisis: the dinner diplomacy that is quietly eating away at the spine of Pakistan’s bureaucracy.

Let’s call it what it is! A social trap disguised as hospitality.

The civil service including the Police, unlike the judiciary or military, enjoys a unique place in the public eye due to their legal social connectivity. Judges remain cloistered in their legal towers, and military officers, despite their power, are culturally distant from the general public as far as legal connectivity is concerned, to say the least. Civil servants, on the other hand, live among the people. They go to weddings, sit on community panels, speak at seminars, and yes—they attend an astonishing number of invitations, of all sorts. This makes them not only accessible but also dangerously vulnerable.

Meals have become the new currency of influence in Pakistan’s administrative culture. Investors, businessmen, contractors, and political intermediaries have perfected the art of “soft bribery” lavish dinners, exclusive gatherings, and five-star restaurant invitations, all under the cloak of social interaction. They don’t hand over envelopes anymore; they serve steak. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the most efficient form of corruption in the 21st century.

Let’s not be naive. No one invites a bureaucrat to dine at a luxury hotel because they enjoy their company. They invite them because those bureaucrats control something—a license, a tender, a land permit, a transfer, a budget approval. The food is bait. The gathering is the trap. And once the bureaucrat has tasted the mutton karahi of the social investors, it becomes that much harder to say “no” later. So, it is the power of social meals, undeniable and unrefusable.

Worse still, there’s an entire industry built around organizing these interactions. Enter the “coordinators.” These are the behind-the-scenes middlemen—part socialite, part fixer—who curate dinner parties with bureaucrats, investors, media personalities, and social climbers. Their job is to bring power and money to the same table under the guise of networking. They make introductions, exchange numbers, and ensure the conversation flows smoother than the soup.

Please subscribe to the YouTube channel of republicpolicy.com for quality podcasts:

And why wouldn’t civil servants attend? After all, the food is awesome, the company flattering, and the invitations exciting. For younger officers, many of whom come from modest backgrounds, the allure is irresistible. The idea that someone important wants to dine with them can be intoxicating. What they don’t realize is that every bite they take chips away at their independence. Today it’s a dinner. Tomorrow it’s a recommendation. Next week, a “harmless” favour. And before long, their professional integrity is mortgaged for a lifetime supply of butter chicken.

It’s a slippery slope. One that most don’t see coming until it’s too late.

The language of this corruption is subtle. No one openly asks for a bribe. Instead, it’s “just a friendly dinner,” or “a chance to get to know each other.” The bureaucrat convinces themselves it’s harmless. After all, they didn’t take cash, right? Wrong. They took influence and obligation, and worst of all, they took part in a social transaction that now demands a return.

It’s not just individual relationships that are compromised. Entire institutions are weakened when civil servants become part of elite dinner circuits. Their decisions are no longer objective. They are shaped by who invited them last, who praised them at brunch, and who sent them a food basket for Eid. Governance becomes personal, not professional. And the public, who depends on a neutral and merit-based civil service, is left at the mercy of these backdoor networks. What’s even more dangerous is how normalized this practice has become. Society now sees a well-connected civil servant as a powerful one. Invitations are a badge of honour. Newly appointed officers are welcomed not with policy orientation but with dinner reservations. A civil servant who declines social gatherings is seen as rude, arrogant, or worse, “disconnected.”

Accordingly, civil servants have established Gymkhanas, clubs and other points to allure financial investors for social connections. These places are working against the public interest and merit-based governance. Let’s be clear: professional disconnection is not a flaw but rather a necessity. A civil servant’s job is not to be socially relevant; it is to be institutionally reliable. They are not entertainers, influencers, or celebrity guests. Their strength lies in being impartial, not popular.

So what must be done?

First, civil servants must develop a spine and learn to say no. Politely decline these fancy dinners, skip the high-society weddings, and avoid cozying up to people with too many business cards and too little sincerity. Respect the tiffin from home, not the overpriced buffet spread with strings attached. Hence, they must learn how to eat from their own pockets.

Second, the civil services must introduce and enforce personal strict codes of conduct around social interactions. There should be moral guidelines about accepting hospitality, and these should be taken seriously. Transparency isn’t just about financial disclosures. It’s about lifestyle choices too.

Third, senior bureaucrats must lead by example. If the senior-most officers are seen dining regularly with real estate developers and shady contractors, what message does that send to younger officers? Culture flows from the top, and right now, the top smells suspiciously like grilled lamb chops.

The cost of ignoring this problem is immense. It erodes public trust. It compromises governance. It creates a culture where merit is sidelined and relationships reign supreme. Worst of all, it creates a generation of bureaucrats who believe that dining with the powerful is more important than delivering for the powerless. And for what? A plate of Hiran, Mutton, Battair, Teetar, Chanp and a cup of mint lemonade? Nothing to say, but in the grand scheme of national service, the meal isn’t worth it. Not when it costs your independence. Not when it stains your conscience. Not when it turns public office into private property.

So to every civil servant out there: pack your lunch, stay professional, and remember—the only dinner that’s truly free is the one you pay from your salary.