DRIVING through Islamabad these days feels like navigating a maze, with containers blocking key intersections and the once smooth flow of traffic turned into a chaotic struggle. It seems as though every few months, the capital is brought to a standstill by yet another dharna. As someone who has lived here for years, I’ve seen this pattern repeat itself so often that it’s become a disturbing norm. What once was a city known for its tranquillity and orderliness now frequently resembles a fortress under siege. This is the new reality for those of us who call Islamabad home, and it’s not one that inspires pride or hope.
These protests, often touted as the purest form of democratic expression, have increasingly become tools for political leverage. There’s a bitter irony in the way dharnas have evolved in Pakistan. On paper, the right to protest is a powerful democratic principle, a way for the people to hold their leaders accountable. But in practice, here in Islamabad, it often feels more like a hostage situation. The city’s residents are the ones who bear the brunt of these demonstrations—caught in endless traffic jams, cut off from work, schools, and essential services. The containers that block the roads may be there to prevent unrest, but all they really do is choke the life out of the city.
This was not what democracy was supposed to look like. I find myself questioning how we’ve allowed our democratic rights to be twisted into something that creates more problems than it solves. The original intent of a dharna is noble—to bring attention to grievances and force those in power to listen. But when it’s used as a blunt instrument by political parties to strong-arm the government, its purpose becomes corrupted. What we’re left with is a situation where the citizens, who should be the beneficiaries of democratic processes, are instead the ones suffering the most.
What’s even more troubling is the normalization of this chaos. There was a time when a dharna in Islamabad would have been a rare and significant event, but now, it’s almost routine. The sight of containers on the streets doesn’t shock us anymore; it’s just another day in the capital. This acceptance of disruption as a way of life is perhaps the most dangerous outcome of all. It reflects a collective resignation to a broken system where the voices of the few can bring an entire city to a halt.
It is argued that these protests are necessary, that they are a sign of a vibrant democracy. But at what cost? When I speak to residents, there is a growing sense of frustration and helplessness. They are tired of having their lives upended by the whims of political leaders who use dharnas not to engage in meaningful dialogue, but to gain the upper hand. It’s the daily wage earners, the small business owners, the students, and the sick who pay the price. These are the people who can least afford to lose a day’s work or miss a critical appointment, yet they are the ones who suffer the most.
This isn’t to say that the right to protest should be curtailed. On the contrary, it’s a vital part of any functioning democracy. But there must be a better way to exercise this right—one that doesn’t involve paralyzing a city and infringing on the rights of others. We need to rethink how protests are conducted in Pakistan. Designating specific areas for demonstrations, much like London’s Hyde Park, would allow people to express their views without causing widespread disruption. Such a measure would ensure that protests remain powerful and visible, but not destructive.
I can’t help but think that we’re missing an opportunity here. Instead of using dharnas as a tool for political gamesmanship, what if we used them to genuinely build consensus? What if, instead of blocking roads and shutting down cities, our leaders engaged in open dialogue with the public, addressing grievances before they escalate into mass protests? This would require a fundamental shift in how we view power and governance, but it’s a shift that is desperately needed.
As I navigate the maze of containers and blocked roads, I can’t help but feel a deep sense of disappointment. Islamabad, with its tree-lined streets and peaceful ambiance, used to be a symbol of what Pakistan could aspire to—orderly, calm, and progressive. Now, it feels more like a battleground, not of ideas, but of egos. The residents are mere bystanders in a power struggle that seems to have no end. The current state of dharna politics in Pakistan should be a wake-up call for all of us. It’s a reminder that while the right to protest is crucial, the way we exercise that right matters just as much. If we continue down this path, where protests are more about power than principle, we risk not just the stability of our cities, but the very fabric of our democracy. It’s time to think beyond the containers and the chaos, and envision a future where our democratic rights are used to build, not to break.
—The writer is a policy advocate and researcher. She is a Public Policy Master’s graduate of King’s College London.
