I recently came across the idea of long storming, a practice that encourages us to think slowly, deeply, and without interruption. Unlike brainstorming, it does not demand instant clarity or quick solutions. It asks only that we sit with complexity long enough for understanding to emerge. The idea stayed with me.
One evening, mentally drained and oddly restless, I found myself at Mazar-i-Quaid, drawn there to long storm through the history of Pakistan. The mausoleum was unusually quiet. No speeches, no banners, just white marble absorbing the fading light. I sat there not as a celebrant, but as a citizen weighed down by questions-questions about frail governance, institutions that no longer inspire trust, and a nation that constantly swings between outrage and bewilderment.
Somewhere between thought and imagination, I began to hear a voice-steady, composed, unmistakable. It was certainly the Quaid himself.
My thoughts first turned to distance-not merely geographical, but political and emotional. Provinces drifting apart. A government held together more by anxiety than trust. Almost as if anticipating my concern, the voice asked, “How can there be unity of government between areas so widely separated?” The answer followed calmly, “I can answer this question in one word. It is faith in Almighty God, in ourselves, and in our destiny.”
Faith in ourselves. I wondered when that confidence had thinned, when trust had quietly given way to suspicion. I spoke of people exhausted by promises and unsure of direction. The reply was firm and unambiguous. “Only one thing can save Musalmaans and energize them to regain their lost ground. They must recapture their souls and stand by their lofty principles, which form the basis of their unity.”
Recapturing the soul felt harder than reclaiming territory. My thoughts shifted to a state that often appears weak and perpetually defensive. Why does authority sound apologetic? Why does democratic strength feel staged rather than real? The response was neither emotional nor defensive. “The weak and defenseless invite aggression. The best way to serve peace is to remove the temptation from the path of those who think they can bully or attack us.”
From strength, my thoughts moved to freedom. I spoke of how freedom has gradually blurred into disorder, how responsibility is mistaken for repression, and how discipline has become unfashionable. The voice corrected me without hesitation. “Freedom does not mean license. It does not mean behaving as you please irrespective of the interests of others. A great responsibility rests upon you and upon the country. What is required now is a constructive spirit, not the militant spirit of the days when we were fighting for freedom.”
Constructive spirit. I thought of the daily noise-television shouting matches, outrage replacing reflection. I mentioned slogans, half-truths, and narratives repeated endlessly without thought. This time the response was sharper. “I must warn you not to allow your actions to be guided by ill digested information or catchwords. Do not repeat them parrot like.”
I then turned to inequality and exclusion, especially the persistent sidelining of women from public life. The response was immediate and clear. “May I appeal to the youth to emancipate our women. This is essential. They must share our life not only socially but also politically.” Not borrowed slogans. Not borrowed extremes. Simply participation as necessity.
I hesitated before raising the issue of intolerance-of fear masquerading as faith and the shrinking space for minorities and dissent. The reply came calmly, almost as instruction. “Islam stands for justice, equality, fair play, toleration, and generosity towards non-Muslims. They are like brothers to us and citizens of the state.” Citizens, not conditional participants.
From principles, my thoughts turned to practice. I spoke of crumbling infrastructure, labour unrest, and an economy unable to carry its people with dignity. The response was practical, almost administrative. “No industry can thrive without contented labour.” Housing, dignity, and basic amenities were not luxuries. They were foundations.
Finally, I spoke of governance itself-of interference, patronage, and corruption disguised as loyalty. The voice hardened. “If leaders interfere and bring political pressure that leads to corruption, bribery, and nepotism, they are doing nothing but disservice to Pakistan.” Yet there was balance. No invitation to cynicism or withdrawal. “This is your government. Praise it when it deserves. Criticize it fearlessly when it deserves. But do not indulge in destructive criticism. This is not a foreign government. It is yours.”
As the conversation faded, a quiet thought crossed my mind. If only people came here not to take photographs or chant slogans, but to sit-to longstorm-to ask and reflect upon difficult questions, and to allow themselves, rationally and honestly, to listen.
As I walked away, I noticed a small book cart near the exit. On it lay a thin collection of Quaid-i-Azam’s speeches. The realisation was unsettling. The conversation I believed to be imagined was merely an echo. Every answer had already been spoken by Quaid himself. I was only hearing his words return to me. The blueprint has always existed-in Jinnah’s own words-quoted ceremonially, pinned on classroom boards, stacked on shelves, but rarely read and even more rarely practiced.
I have not recorded the entire conversation here. Quaid-i-Azam did say certain things which, in today’s climate of censorship, are perhaps safest left within the silence of the grave. There, he rests in peace, beyond distortion and beyond disappearance.
I, however, had to return home.
-The author is a PhD student in History at the University of Karachi. The quotations attributed to Quaid-i-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah in this article are taken from Quotes from the Quaid by Syed Asghar Ali Shah (Peace Publications, Lahore).
