Tariq Mahmood Awan
Had Charles Bukowski worked in the Pakistani public sector, he would not have simply said, “I have decided to starve.” He might have said, “I have been starved of dignity, meaning, and sanity.” In a system where corruption is culture, mediocrity is rewarded, and honesty is mocked, Bukowski’s rebellious soul would have suffocated. He would not have been the writer who inspired millions through his raw, brutal honesty. He would have become a bitter, invisible public servant writing files that no one reads, under fluorescent lights that never go off.
The Pakistani public sector is not merely inefficient; it is a system that actively consumes the best in people. It does not just ignore merit, it is hostile to it. If you are honest, the system ensures you either break or bend. If you are talented, you will be surrounded by mediocrity that neither appreciates nor tolerates excellence. And if you are creative, you will either lose your creativity or be labelled a “misfit” and sidelined. In every way that matters, the Pakistani civil service is anti-human, anti-progress, and anti-mind.
Young, bright individuals often look at civil service as a noble path, prestige, influence, and the chance to serve the country, at least ostensibily. But once inside, they realise that the uniform or the title is only a shell. The real machinery is powered by patronage networks, political pressure, bureaucratic inertia, and above all, a deep rot that feeds on compliance, not competence.
Laws are bent daily. Orders come from above, not from reason or ethics. Files are moved based on relationships, not merit. Promotion depends not on performance but on how loyal you are to the right power centres. The best intentions are laughed at. If you want to follow the law, you are seen as naïve. If you question authority, you are labelled “troublemaker.” If you speak the truth, you will either be transferred or trapped.
Honest people in the system pay the heaviest price. They suffer in silence, pushed to corners where they do nothing of consequence. They are given meaningless assignments, denied promotions, and isolated socially. The psychological cost is enormous. They lose their sense of purpose, their courage, and their will to fight. Some internalise the injustice and fall into depression. Others turn bitter, angry, and destructive. A few may leave, but most stay as silent, enslaved, broken.
Bukowski said, “Find what you love and let it kill you.” In Pakistan’s public sector, what you love won’t kill you; it will be killed in front of your eyes, and you’ll be forced to watch every day. Your dreams, your integrity, your principles; all compromised gradually until you become another cog in a dying machine.
The civil service is not a place for thinkers, innovators, or questioners. It is a factory that produces conformity. You are not allowed to ask “why”; you are only expected to say “yes.” Creativity is seen as a threat. Original ideas are viewed with suspicion. People who try to reform the system are considered dangerous. As a result, the civil service becomes a place where nothing ever changes, and nothing new is allowed to grow.
For a young person with ideas and passion, this is death. The Pakistani public sector turns you into someone who survives, not someone who lives. It teaches you to smile politely at injustice, to lie without blinking, to follow orders even when they go against your conscience. Over time, your moral compass is either lost or twisted beyond repair.
In an ideal world, public service should reward integrity. In Pakistan, it punishes it. Whistleblowers within the system are humiliated. Law-abiding officers are mocked for being “bookish” or “foolish.” Those who refuse illegal orders are either marginalised or canned. Meanwhile, those who manipulate rules, please politicians, and participate in corruption rise faster and farther.
The message is clear: to survive, you must become part of the rot. You must close your eyes, seal your lips, and compromise. If you don’t, the system will chew you up, spit you out, and forget you. You will not only lose your career, but you may lose your sense of self.
The most valuable asset a nation has is its talented youth. But in Pakistan, the public sector is where talent goes to die. It absorbs bright minds and slowly drains them of energy, ambition, and idealism. The result is a generation of intelligent people doing meaningless work, trapped in a structure that makes them complicit in the country’s decline.
Talented, honest, and creative individuals must resist this trap. They should not offer their minds and hearts to a machine that thrives on compromise and punishes principle. The courage it takes to walk away is far greater than the comfort of staying in a secure but soulless job.
If you join the system and stay silent, you may have stability, but you will not have peace. You may have a house, a car, and a title, but you will not have your voice, your soul, or your sleep. You will spend years convincing yourself that you are “doing your best within limits,” even as you become part of the very problem you once hoped to solve.
In the end, the question is not whether Pakistan needs reformers in the public sector. Of course, it does. But the system is so structurally broken, so aggressively hostile to reform, that unless you are protected by exceptional power, your idealism will be your downfall.
Bukowski chose to starve for his freedom. In Pakistan, freedom is not just about food or money, it is about the right to think, speak, and act without fear. And that freedom does not exist in the public sector anymore.
