Javed Mughal
When I look back on my childhood, I can still hear the echoes of slogans filling the air — “Jiye Murshid! Murshid Murshid! Jiye Bhutto!” and countless others that resonated through every valley and marketplace. We, too, as children, would mimic the elders, unaware of what those chants meant. Politics in those days was not about awareness or accountability; it was a spectacle — a festival of noise, passion, and blind allegiance. People would gather in crowds, follow the leaders with near-religious devotion, and vote as if fulfilling a ritual. No one ever paused to ask what these leaders had actually done for the people — for education, for healthcare, for employment, or for the very cause of Kashmir’s freedom they so loudly proclaimed. This pattern of emotional politics began to fade only when the towering figure of Sardar Abdul Qayyum Khan, may Allah bless his soul, lay on his deathbed. He was the “Murshid” whom people once revered unquestioningly. Yet, even during his lifetime, a new consciousness had started to stir among the youth — a realization that these slogans were merely fueling family dynasties, not serving the public cause. The younger generation, watching this political theatre for decades, began to see through the illusion. The glamour of the slogans had dimmed; the reality of corruption, nepotism, and inequality had begun to bite. By the time Sardar Abdul Qayyum departed, his political party had shrunk to a single seat — a symbolic end to an era. Meanwhile, the old parties from Pakistan, PML-N and PPP, had already extended their influence into Azad Kashmir, shaping its politics in their image. For years, this cycle continued until 2018, when Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) emerged on the scene. The youth, weary of the old order, rallied behind it with hope and passion, believing it to be a new dawn. But as the federal government fell and opportunism returned, disillusionment deepened. The young realized that the same game was still being played — only the faces had changed. It was in this atmosphere of despair that a new voice began to rise. The youth, no longer willing to remain silent spectators in this game of power, united to form a movement that would later be known as the Public Action Committee (AAC). This movement was not born in drawing rooms or under the shade of power — it was born in the streets, in the frustration of unemployed graduates, under the dim lights of load-shedding evenings, and in the queues outside hospitals where patients were referred endlessly to Rawalpindi. It was the cry of a generation suffocated by a system that offered them neither justice nor dignity. Soon, this voice grew into a chorus. The business community, too, joined hands with the youth, realizing that corruption, favoritism, and administrative decay were eating away at the very roots of society. The Public Action Committee emerged in 2024 as a symbol of defiance — a collective stand against misgovernance. It demanded affordable electricity, fair taxation, a transparent hiring system, and a restoration of public trust. Yet, instead of dialogue, the rulers offered disdain. When their warnings went unheeded, the Committee called for protests. Some of its demands were reluctantly accepted, while the rest were tossed into oblivion. One year later, when promises turned into dust, the Committee called for a statewide lockdown on 29th September — a date that would change the political temperature of Azad Kashmir. Rather than engaging in reason, the government chose arrogance. The Committee was branded as “Indian agents,” and counter-rallies were staged to discredit it — rallies that fell flat. Then came the fateful week: for six days, Azad Kashmir came to a standstill. Roads were blocked, markets silent, and caravans of people, men and women, young and old, began marching toward Muzaffarabad. Barriers were erected, tear gas fired, and bullets rained down. The air grew heavy with grief as twelve precious lives — including three policemen — were lost to violence. The valley echoed with cries of pain, but also with a fierce determination that injustice would no longer be endured silently. At that perilous moment, when chaos loomed large and the region seemed on the brink of disaster, the intervention from Islamabad proved pivotal. On the direction of the Prime Minister of Pakistan, a delegation of senior politicians, including federal ministers, arrived in Muzaffarabad. Their presence brought calm where fury had ruled. Negotiations resumed, trust was restored, and finally, an agreement was reached. The Public Action Committee expressed gratitude to these federal representatives, and when the accord was announced to the people, the protests were called off peacefully. Yet, beneath this calm lies a truth that cannot be ignored: the government of Azad Kashmir failed to foresee the storm. Instead of embracing dialogue, it relied on force and rhetoric. The arrogance of power drowned out the voice of reason, pushing the region to the edge. It was only through the timely intervention of the federation that a catastrophe was averted. Now, as the dust settles, a new kind of danger emerges — one not of bullets, but of words. On social media, some elements — both within Azad Kashmir and across Pakistan — are sowing seeds of hatred and division. These irresponsible voices distort facts, insult sacrifices, and attempt to pit brother against brother. The attack on Pakistani police personnel was a tragedy that must be condemned, just as the handful of anti-Pakistan slogans raised by a few must also be rejected. Pakistan and Azad Kashmir are bound by a bond far deeper than politics — it is a relationship of faith, blood, and shared destiny. To tarnish that bond for momentary rage or rhetoric is a disservice to both. Yes, there exist small groups such as the Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front and certain nationalist circles who preach independence. Their voices, though loud in rhetoric, remain few in number. Even among them, many are divided, with family members holding opposing views. In truth, extreme opinions exist everywhere — even across the border, even within Pakistan’s own political landscape — but they do not represent the collective heart of the people. The reality is that the Public Action Committee issue was resolved with wisdom, restraint, and timely intervention. It was not merely a political success but a triumph of sanity over chaos. Had this crisis deepened, our adversary — ever watchful India — would have seized the moment, eager to exploit our internal discord. Now the burden of responsibility rests on the shoulders of the Government of Azad Jammu and Kashmir. The promises made must now be honored in both letter and spirit. The disillusioned youth who led this movement must not be pushed once again into despair. If their voices are ignored, their silence may not last long — and the next outcry may not be as peaceful. The story of the Public Action Committee is not merely about protest; it is about awakening — an awakening that reminds us that the people of Kashmir are no longer willing to be treated as spectators in the theatre of politics. They are, and always will be, the central characters in the struggle for dignity, justice, and self-respect. It is now upon the rulers to prove that they have learned something from history — for if they have not, history has a way of repeating itself, often with greater force than before.