Fahad Malik
THE news of SP Adeel Akbar’s death sent a shockwave through the country.
Here was a man who, by all external measures, was a pillar of success and strength—a high-achieving CSS ranker, a dedicated police officer in a demanding post. His death by suicide, reportedly linked to depression following professional setbacks, is a profound and public tragedy. But this is not just one man’s story. It is a mirror reflecting a silent epidemic. When a public servant, someone we look to for protection, succumbs to such internal despair, it forces us to confront a terrifying reality: the human mind is fragile and no amount of external success can shield it from breaking. It exposes the fallacy that “strength” means suffering in silence. In a society that lionizes invincibility, especially in our uniformed personnel, where is the space to admit, “I am not okay”?
This is the very question that has driven my work for years. This tragedy is not an isolated incident; it is a symptom of a much larger, often invisible, crisis. Statistics on suicide in Pakistan are notoriously unreliable, not because the problem is small, but because it is so heavily stigmatized that it remains hidden. We know, however, that it is a growing problem, particularly among young people.
Each uncounted number is a story of profound loneliness. It is the story of a student buckling under academic pressure, a professional facing career stagnation, or simply a person feeling utterly disconnected from those around them. We are more “connected” than ever through digital platforms, yet a deep sense of isolation persists. This loneliness is lethal. It convinces a person that their pain is unique, permanent and shameful.
This is precisely why I founded Baat Karo. The mission was and remains, simple: to break the stigma surrounding mental illness and create awareness about the importance of mental health in Pakistan. When I stood on the TEDx stage, I spoke about this very issue—the crushing weight of unspoken pain. Adeel Akbar’s story is a heartbreaking example of why this work is vital. He was in a high-pressure environment where vulnerability could be perceived as weakness, a fatal equation.
What he needed and what so many like him need, is a safe space. A “safe space” is not a clinical room. It is a culture. It is a friend who listens without judgment. It is a family that validates feelings instead of dismissing them. It is a workplace that newprioritizes mental well-being as much as it does performance. This need for a safe space is not a theoretical concept. I am reminded of a very dear friend, who is himself a serving police officer. He embodies this principle in his daily life. He has always kept his office door open, not just for official work, but as a sanctuary. His office is often filled with friends and colleagues, whether they currently have a posting or not, simply because they know they will find a shoulder to lean on. They come because they may have no one else to talk to and he provides that space without judgment.
He is, perhaps without even labelling it, doing the vital work of Baat Karo on the front lines. He is living proof that a single person, especially one from within a high-pressure fraternity, can create a culture of healing. He is a one-man safe space, demonstrating that the most powerful act in a community is to simply listen. This is the community we must build, one conversation at a time.
Your community is your first line of defense. A strong community is built on the radical act of listening. It is the antidote to the “log kyakahenge?” (what will people say?) culture that holds so many hostage. We must actively build communities that shift this narrative to “hum sun rahe hain” (we are listening). We must normalize the conversation. We must make it acceptable for a police officer, a doctor, a teacher, a father, or a student to say, “I am struggling,” and to be met not with shame, but with support.
The death of Adeel Akbar is a devastating loss. We must honour his memory not just with condolences, but with change. We must dismantle the stigma that turns treatable conditions like depression into death sentences. We must prove that vulnerability is not a weakness, but a human truth. Talk is not just important. It is the most vital tool we have. It is the bridge across the chasm of loneliness. It is, quite literally, a lifeline.
—The writer is a Digital Media and PR Specialist with over 10 years of experience in branding, social media campaigns and content production. He advocates for leveraging digital media to drive social change.
