ISLAMABAD (Big Digit) Humanity Engulfed by Floods and the Role of Syed Abid Imam

ISLAMABAD (Big Digit) Natural disasters have long haunted Pakistan’s collective memory. Earthquakes, droughts, and above all, floods have relentlessly tested the resilience of its people. The recent floods in South Punjab were no exception. Entire villages were submerged, thousands of homes destroyed, crops lost to furious waters, and millions left without shelter. Once again, the hollow promises of governance drowned beneath the very deluge that consumed the lives and livelihoods of the most vulnerable.

What emerges in such moments is not the voice of government press releases but the presence of genuine leadership. True leadership is not defined by speeches delivered in well-guarded halls but by the willingness to walk alongside those in despair. In the flooded plains of South Punjab, when desolation seemed to reign supreme, one figure stood out as a source of hope — Syed Abid Imam.

His approach was different from the political norm. He did not arrive for a fleeting photo opportunity; he came to serve. He walked through mud-caked alleys, sat among displaced families in makeshift tents, listened to their grievances, comforted their children, and sought the blessings of the elderly. His words echoed deeply:

> “This is not a time for politics, but for humanity. Those who are not with the people today have no right to stand before them tomorrow.”

In a political landscape dominated by rhetoric, this was not just a statement — it was a manifesto of sincerity.

While many politicians reduce disaster relief to carefully staged optics, Abid Imam chose a path of genuine solidarity. He distributed food with his own hands, ensured medical camps were set up, and looked survivors in the eye as equals, not as subjects. His presence was not symbolic; it was transformative. For those stranded by the floods, he became a source of confidence that they were not abandoned.

More importantly, his vision extended beyond immediate relief. He outlined a framework for long-term rehabilitation: from medical aid and permanent housing to restoring schools, rebuilding infrastructure, and creating new opportunities for employment. His assertion — “These people are not just my voters; they are my strength, and their rehabilitation is my obligation, not my politics” — underscored his belief that service is not a ladder to power, but a responsibility akin to worship.

In Pakistan’s political history, service has often been reduced to slogans. The gap between words and action has grown so wide that people no longer expect sincerity from leadership. It is in this context that Abid Imam’s intervention stands out. He reminded us that leadership is not about authority but about empathy. It is about kneeling on the ground with those who have lost everything and reassuring them that they are not alone.

Yet, his efforts raise a larger question: if one individual can deliver so much in times of crisis, why do our institutions fail so spectacularly? Why do agencies like the NDMA, district administrations, and provincial bodies — equipped with enormous budgets — consistently fall short when disaster strikes? Why do survivors always end up relying on non-governmental initiatives and private relief efforts rather than the state itself?

These are questions that haunt our national conscience. Every calamity exposes the same structural rot — a governance system that collapses precisely when it is needed most. But in the vacuum left by the state, leaders like Abid Imam remind us what service and responsibility can look like. His presence in flood-hit areas was not merely a humanitarian gesture but a challenge to the political culture that has for decades reduced citizens to mere numbers in electoral rolls.

If such a vision gains ground, it could alter the very fabric of our politics. It could dismantle the entrenched view that politics is a transaction of power rather than a covenant of service. It could restore faith in the principle that leadership must emerge from empathy, sacrifice, and a sense of shared destiny.

The floods, like every disaster before them, have left behind a trail of destruction. But they have also revealed something else: that even in the darkest of moments, individuals with conviction can become beacons of light. Abid Imam’s work in South Punjab is not simply a story of relief — it is a reminder that the future of politics in Pakistan lies not in the corridors of power, but in the mud-stained tents of those who have lost everything.

The final question, however, lingers: if one leader can do this, why not others? Why must citizens continue to face calamities alone, abandoned by the very institutions meant to protect them? Will Pakistani politics ever mature to a point where service takes precedence over slogans, and empathy becomes the benchmark of leadership?

For now, the people of South Punjab have found their answer in Abid Imam. The rest of the political class has yet to prove if they are capable of the same.