SUNDAY BYTE: Jhelum Wonders! Who Serves, Who Speaks for Society and Why?
The Second Innings: Earning Trust in Public Service Beyond the Chair. Retirement offers a second opportunity to serve society. But citizens are equally entitled to ask whether today’s convictions echo yesterday’s actions.
Dr. Fiaz Maqbool Fazili
The afternoon light was softening over the Bund when I spotted him at Café Txx. A retired bureaucrat of considerable repute, now in his late sixties, surrounded by young civil society activists who hung on every word. He spoke eloquently about judicial independence, about the importance of civil liberties, concerns on ecological and environmental, preservation of water bodies and the need for institutional reform. The young listeners nodded approvingly. Here was a man who had seen the system from the inside, now offering wisdom from the outside.
I ordered my coffee and watched from a distance, not as a columnist seeking a story, but as a concerned citizen wrestling with an uncomfortable question. The same man had, until a few years ago, occupied one of the most powerful offices in the country. His signature had moved mountains. His phone calls had determined outcomes. His approval had opened doors. Now he sat in a cafe, speaking truth to power—or rather, speaking truth about power, having recently been part of it.
Public opinion is often divided whenever a retired bureaucrat, police officer, judge, or senior public servant emerges as a champion of social causes. One section welcomes the experience and wisdom such individuals bring. Another asks an uncomfortable question: Where was this concern when they occupied positions of authority? Both perspectives deserve consideration.
Every retired public servant who enters the arena of civil society advocacy must face this question. They ask, quietly but persistently, “Where were these concerns when you held the authority to act upon them?” This question is not an invitation to bad faith. It is the legitimate expression of a society that has been burned too many times by the gap between public office and public accountability. Citizens are not obliged to forget the past simply because the present offers a more attractive package. It is not an unfair question. It is not even an unkind one. It is the natural inquiry of a citizenry that has learned, through decades of institutional disappointment, exploitation, to regard apolitical convenience with suspicion. When a former judge suddenly discovers the importance of judicial independence after retiring from a bench that may have been less than fully independent, citizens notice. When a retired adminstrator speaks passionately about civilian supremacy after decades of active service, citizens notice. When a former police chief becomes a human rights advocate after years of maintaining the very systems that human rights advocates critique, citizens notice.
Yet there is another side to this matter—one that deserves consideration if we are to avoid descending into cynicism. Those who have spent decades in public institutions possess immense knowledge and experience that cannot be acquired in classrooms or NGOs. They understand how the state actually functions, not how it should function in theory. They know the constraints that operate upon decision-makers, constraints that are invisible to those who have never sat in the chair. The file comes to the secretary with fifteen prior comments, each shaped by institutional interests, political considerations, and bureaucratic survival instincts. The decision that emerges is never the product of a single mind or a single conviction. It is the sedimentation of an entire system.
One might therefore argue—and many do—that retired officers should be given space to contribute their experience to national discourse. That their second innings in civil society is a form of knowledge transfer, not hypocrisy. That their advocacy today, however belated, remains valuable. After all, there is a tradition in our culture of accepting the returning one: “Der āye, durust āye”—better late than never. People can change. Understanding evolves. And perhaps those who have experienced the system’s constraints are best placed to suggest its improvement. This argument has force. It rests on a generous view of human nature, one that allows for growth, for evolution, for the possibility that time in office may have taught lessons that only become visible in retirement. There is dignity in this perspective, and perhaps even wisdom.
But the counter-argument is equally compelling. If retired officers had concerns about institutional dysfunction while in office, why did those concerns not manifest in their decisions? If they believed in judicial independence, why did their bench not reflect that belief? If they valued human rights, why did the systems they administered continue to violate them? Public memory is not selective; it is cumulative. It accumulates decisions, actions, and the consequences of both. And it does not disappear simply because the actor has changed their position or their rhetoric.
Accountability does not end with retirement. Indeed, in many ways, it begins there. For it is in retirement that public servants are finally free to speak without institutional constraint. And it is in retirement that the gap between what they said and what they did becomes most visible. Citizens notice this gap not because they are judgmental, but because they believe public trust demands credibility and consistency.They have spent a lifetime watching powerful people say one thing and do another. They have learned to measure words against deeds, not as a cynical exercise, but as a survival mechanism.
This brings us to the world of civil society organizations, and the broader landscape of advocacy. There is a distinction that must be drawn between those who work quietly, persistently, and often invisibly to improve the lives of ordinary citizens, and those who engage in what might be called performative activism. The genuine civil society actor is usually not the one in the newspaper. He /She is the one in the village, helping communities navigate the bureaucracy of birth registration. He/she is the one in the court, filing public interest litigations that no one will write about. They are the ones who submit memoranda without press releases, who conduct research without press conferences, who engage with institutions without Instagram.
Then there is another kind of activism—what might be called the “Nishastum, Guftum, Barkhastum” school of advocacy. Sit, speak, and leave. The seminar. The press brief. The statement issued to the media. This is advocacy as spectacle, engagement as optics, concern as content. It is not wrong to engage in such activities; they have their place in democratic discourse. But they are not, by themselves, service. They are not, by themselves, impact. And they should not be mistaken for the long, unglamorous, and often unrewarding work of institutional change. The distinction matters because it illuminates the difference between using one’s status and using one’s substance. A retired officer who issues statements is using status. A retired officer who mentors young activists, who shares institutional knowledge, who helps navigate the labyrinthine procedures of the state—this is using substance. The former is visible. The latter is effective.
Every society faces the question of what to do with its retired public servants. Some societies waste them entirely, allowing decades of experience to dissipate into retirement villages and golf courses. This is a loss. Others treat them as elder statesmen, consulting them on every matter, allowing their influence to extend indefinitely. This too is a loss. The wisdom lies somewhere in between.
A retired officer can be a national asset if the second innings is guided by humility rather than entitlement. Advocacy rooted in past privilege breeds resentment; service offered without seeking recognition becomes a gift to society. The difference lies not in advocacy itself, but in the spirit behind it. Actions are judged by intentions, not appearances or outcomes. This principle applies equally to retired officers, civil society activists, and NGO workers. Ikhlāṣ (sincerity of intention) is the true measure. The enduring questions are: Is it service or self-interest? Humility or pride? A genuine desire to contribute—or simply a desire to remain relevant?
As I left Café Txx that evening, I chose to walk along the Bund. The Jhelum flowed quietly beside me, just as it has for centuries—indifferent to rank, ideology, office or applause. It has watched rulers, judges, administrators, activists and ordinary citizens come and go. It reminds us that power is always temporary. Actions are judged only by intentions.” These teachings shift attention away from appearances towards the inner purpose that motivates every action. This profound message echoing in my hind sight has been beautifully captured by the renowned Kashmiri spiritual poet Rashid Jehangir:Gasi nei saaf dil dete laaf saasa,Nateo chate aabi Zamzam toti kya gov..Agar nei jazbei esaar aasi, Dohas par te Ism-e-A’ẓam toti kya gov.;reminds us that if the heart is impure, even the blessed water of Zamzam cannot transform it. If arrogance continues to resemble that of Iblis, what comfort lies in recalling Adam’s entry into Paradise? If the spirit of sacrifice is absent, even invoking the Greatest Name of Allah becomes an empty exercise. The lesson extends beyond spirituality into public life. Titles without humility become burdens. Visibility without service becomes performance. Knowledge without compassion loses much of its value.
Public trust is earned not by designation, nor by headlines, nor by the number of memoranda submitted. It is earned through consistency between yesterday’s authority and today’s advocacy; through quiet persistence rather than periodic visibility; through measurable outcomes rather than symbolic gestures. Character alone endures. Perhaps that is the enduring lesson of every second innings. Ultimately, sincerity is the invisible foundation upon which enduring public trust is built. Every retired public servant deserves the opportunity to begin again. Experience should never be wasted. Indeed, societies are poorer when they fail to draw upon the wisdom of those who have spent decades in public institutions. Yet citizens are equally entitled to ask difficult questions. “Where were these concerns…?”
Citizen’s judge outcomes; The chair is temporary. The Jhelum Wonders…Rivers remember what people forget. Truth may lie buried beneath their waters, but it never drowns. Some stories wait years for the right moment to surface. As” Amm Lala” follows the forgotten trail, the Jhelum slowly reveals the truths it has carried in silence—not for criticism, but for remembrance; not to reopen wounds, but to renew the quest for peace. Walking unhurried along its newly built bunds and quiet parks, I found the river speaking in silence. There, the Jhelum became my companion, and the pen found its lifelong friend.
(STRAIGHT TALK COMMUNICATIONS EXCLUSIVE. The author is a senior consultant surgeon, healthcare reforms expert, and independent commentator on public policy, governance, and society.)
