PESHAWAR (THE THURSDAY TIMES) — There is something painfully familiar about the storm brewing once again in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. A government that came to power promising a revolution of governance and accountability now appears to be collapsing under the weight of its own recklessness. What was once sold as reform has turned into a cycle of chaos, blame, and the tired theatrics of victimhood. And at the centre of it all stands Sohail Afridi, a man better known for street agitation than statesmanship, leading a province that seems to be slipping further into administrative disarray.
For years, Pakistan has lived through this cycle of political vandalism disguised as populism. The rhetoric is always the same: institutions are conspiring, the centre is unjust, the establishment is oppressive. Yet, time and again, when handed the reins of power, those who cry the loudest about governance seem to forget what it means to govern. The result is paralysis wrapped in populist slogans, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is paying the price.
Afridi’s rise in the provincial narrative was not built on policy but on protest. He has perfected the art of outrage, weaponising public sentiment and institutional mistrust for personal survival. But running a province is not a street demonstration; it requires quiet diligence, not noisy defiance. His government’s failures, from education and healthcare to policing and fiscal management, are no longer rumours whispered in opposition corners; they are visible in every district hospital, every unlit street, and every unpaid government salary.
Observers have begun to call Afridi a vandalism expert, not out of malice but out of accuracy. Under his watch, mobs are encouraged as instruments of politics, governance is reduced to reaction, and slogans replace substance. When the fires burn too high, his response is not to douse them but to fan them further. It is an art of self-preservation: if chaos reigns, accountability disappears.
After two years of administrative collapse, when faced with the realisation that performance is zero divided by zero, the next step is to manufacture confrontation. Create noise, provoke the centre, blame the institutions, and when the inevitable intervention comes, cry martyrdom.
It is a script Pakistan has seen before. From federal corridors to provincial assemblies, the playbook is unchanged. Fail to govern, incite disorder, and when removed, claim oppression. Afridi’s rhetoric has followed the same trajectory, one that begins in fiery defiance and ends in self-pity. It is the politics of the unaccountable, where incompetence is camouflaged beneath the illusion of resistance.
But this time, the game may not go as planned. The provincial administration’s internal cracks are now too deep to ignore, and Islamabad’s patience too thin to test. The federal government appears determined not to let another political group turn misgovernance into martyrdom. “They want the Governor’s Rule to be imposed so they can cry foul,” said one official. “But the centre will not hand them that narrative so easily this time.”
For Pakistan, the stakes are higher than one man’s political theatrics. Khyber Pakhtunkhwa has always been a sensitive province, a frontier of both opportunity and vulnerability. The institutions that protect it cannot afford to indulge political adventurism at a time when the country’s economic recovery and regional security depend on stability. The chaos that Afridi cultivates may suit his short-term politics, but it endangers the long-term peace of the province.
It is not lost on anyone that the very forces crying about institutional overreach today were once the ones cheering it on when they held the federal reins. Their moral compass shifts with the direction of power, not principle. They once lectured others on the sanctity of law and order; now they treat law as an inconvenience and order as an obstacle. There is something profoundly hypocritical about those who built their careers on accountability now running from it.
Pakistan deserves better than leaders who rely on confrontation to mask their incompetence. The country’s people, especially in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, have endured too much to become pawns in another cycle of self-serving politics. The state’s restraint in the face of provocation is not weakness; it is wisdom. And the resolve to uphold order, even against loud populism, is the true measure of governance.
Afridi’s mistake is assuming that anarchy is power. It never is. Power comes from legitimacy, and legitimacy cannot coexist with lawlessness. The days when political vandalism could masquerade as courage are fading. The people now see through the performance; they recognise that those who once promised change are simply repeating history’s worst mistakes.
In the end, Pakistan will endure not because of those who shout the loudest, but because of those who hold steady when the noise rises. The nation has weathered greater storms than this. The winds of political chaos will pass, as they always do, and when they do, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa will still belong to the people, not to those who tried to set it ablaze for the sake of their own survival.
