A national honour is not supposed to be a gift basket. It is not a retirement present, a political courtesy, a reward for friendship, or a token of appreciation handed out because someone’s name happened to reach the right desk. An honour is a nation’s most solemn way of saying: this person did something exceptional, and we want generations to remember it. That is why Pakistan’s civil awards matter and why their growing abundance should concern us.
On August 14, 2026, Pakistan announced 355 civil awards. Three hundred and fifty-five people, in one national honours list, were presented as recipients of distinction. The previous year, 263 awards were announced. The scale itself should make us pause. When hundreds receive the nation’s highest forms of recognition every year, the fundamental question is unavoidable: what remains exceptional about an honour that has become so common?
There is nothing wrong with honouring people from different walks of life. Quite the opposite. A country should celebrate its teachers, scientists, doctors, soldiers, police officers, artists, journalists, athletes, philanthropists and social workers. But it should honour the exceptional among them, not simply the representative among them.
Give the highest recognition to the teacher who spent thirty years in a remote, flood-prone village and transformed generations of children. Honour the scientist whose research solved a problem Pakistan had struggled with for decades, or whose invention changed lives. Honour the doctor who served the poorest communities when more lucrative opportunities were available elsewhere. Honour the police officer who entered a burning building to save strangers. Honour the soldier who displayed extraordinary courage under fire and, above all, the shaheed who gave his life for the country. Honour the rescue worker who ran towards danger while everyone else was running away.
Honour the farmer who developed an extraordinary agricultural innovation. The engineer who designed something that saved millions in public money. The entrepreneur who created thousands of decent jobs without exploiting workers. The social worker who quietly spent a lifetime feeding, educating or rehabilitating people whom society had forgotten. Honour the writer whose words changed the national conversation. The journalist who remained a journalist when journalism became difficult who investigated rather than merely repeated, questioned rather than merely praised, and stood for truth even when truth was inconvenient. Honour the actor who gave an extraordinary lifetime of artistic excellence, not simply someone who became famous. Honour the singer whose contribution to our musical heritage will survive generations. Honour the athlete who represented Pakistan with extraordinary distinction. Honour the overseas Pakistani whose work brought genuine credit to the country.
There is room for all these people. But there cannot be room for everyone. That is the essential distinction we appear to have forgotten. The purpose of an honour is not merely to say thank you. Governments can say thank you in a hundred ways. Awards exist to establish a hierarchy of national memory: these are the people whose contributions were so exceptional that the Republic chose to place them above ordinary recognition.
If the list becomes enormous, the message becomes blurred. When a scientist, a gallantry hero, a lifelong teacher and a television celebrity receive essentially the same distinction in the same annual exercise, the problem is not necessarily that any one recipient is undeserving. The problem is that the system has stopped telling the public why each person is exceptional. Look around the world. Serious honours systems understand the value of scarcity. India’s Bharat Ratna has historically been awarded to very few people; the United States Presidential Medal of Freedom is also selective. Other countries subject nominations to rigorous scrutiny and attach detailed citations to explain the precise contribution being recognised. The principle is simple: rarity creates value.
Pakistan needs the same philosophy. The answer is not to abolish civil awards, but to restore their worth. Keep the numbers limited, make selection independent and transparent, and reserve honours for truly exceptional and sustained service. National honour should never be a free lunch. Every undeserving award cheapens the honour itself. When too many are honoured, honour loses its meaning. The highest national recognition should be rare enough to remain truly prestigious.
Pakistan does not lack heroes. We have them in classrooms, laboratories, hospitals, police stations, military units, newsrooms, farms, workshops and streets. Some are famous. Most are not. Perhaps that is precisely why we should be more careful. The teacher should know that her lifetime of service can place her name beside the greatest educators of the nation. The scientist should know that an invention can earn a distinction no politician can manufacture. The soldier and police officer should know that extraordinary courage will be remembered. The journalist should know that integrity matters. The artist should know that a lifetime of excellence, not mere celebrity is what earns national memory.
An honour should not be something one receives. It should be something one is almost overwhelmed to have earned. Let Pakistan honour fewer people and honour them far better. Let an award once again make the country stop and ask: Who is this person, and what extraordinary thing did they do for Pakistan? If the answer is compelling, give the honour. If it is not, give them our gratitude but not the nation’s highest decoration. Because the table was built for heroes. It should not become a table where everyone with the right invitation gets a free lunch.
—The writer is PhD in Political Science, and visiting faculty at QAU Islamabad.
