Islamabad The Beautiful, regarded as a symbol of order and serenity, has slowly descended into a city of growing frustration and disarray for its residents. While often celebrated for its wide roads and landscapes, these features now mask a deeper, more troubling reality—a city gripped by mismanagement and a glaring lack of empathy from those in charge. Over the last decade, Islamabad has suffered from haphazard urban expansion, a surge of unplanned housing societies, and an absence of thoughtful urban planning. The result? A capital city plagued by traffic chaos, where central roads like the Expressway, Margalla Road near Shaheen Chowk, and Ninth Avenue near F-8 have become notorious bottlenecks, especially during peak hours. Approximately 20,000 vehicles from outside crawl through the city’s arteries daily, worsening the already congested roads.

Adding insult to injury, frequent road closures due to political protests, religious rallies, or VIP movements have become the norm, leaving citizens at the mercy of unpredictable, last-minute decisions. On October 13, 2024, I was caught in a situation that perfectly encapsulates the anguish ordinary residents face. In preparation for the SCO Summit, the city administration announced the official closure of the Expressway and several other key roads for October 14-16, and a public holiday was also announced.

The lack of empathy and bureaucratic mismanagement force citizens into constant anxiety over something as basic as commuting within their own city.

My daughters, who usually visit their grandmother on the weekend, planned a one-day visit on the 12th and return on the 13th before the road closures took effect to avoid any issues during the closures.  After dropping them off on the night of the 12th, a frantic call from my daughter the following morning upended our plans. She had seen a video from the Chief Traffic Officer on social media announcing that the closure would begin earlier, on the 13th, for a dress rehearsal. Panic set in as I rushed to pick them up from I-8. Near Koral Chowk, I encountered severe congestion and, in desperation, called the emergency number, 15, to check if the roads had already been closed. To my dismay, I was informed that the operators were stationed in Lahore and unaware of the situation in Islamabad. The local number they provided was out of service. While the police regularly update their X feed, it seems no one considered that, without a VPN, X is inaccessible in Pakistan. I checked the Islamabad Police’s WhatsApp community page, which advised citizens to tune in to 92.4 FM or call 15—both useless at that moment, as 15 had already failed, and 92.4 FM only played pleasant music instead of updates.

The city administration or police could have easily announced the closure starting on the 13th giving residents time to plan their logistics accordingly. Instead, mismanagement and a lack of empathy once again created unnecessary chaos.

This lack of empathy and bureaucratic mismanagement force citizens into a constant state of anxiety over something as basic as commuting within their own city. It reflects a deeper, systemic issue—a complete disconnect between those in power and the people they serve. What should be simple logistics become an ordeal, with the psychological toll on residents, especially children, often overlooked. For example, during SCO arrangements, students sitting for Cambridge exams, in particular, struggled when road closures disrupted their commute.

Empathy in governance doesn’t always emerge from within the system—it can be demanded from outside.

The trauma of this neglect runs deeper than mere inconvenience. It gnaws at the mental well-being of the city’s youngest citizens. One painful example is the experience of my colleague’s 15-year-old daughter, who had to travel from Bani Gala to E-11, navigating a city on lockdown for 2.5 hours, just to sit for her Cambridge exams. Her father endured a daily ordeal of over 4 hours commute to ensure his daughter reached her exam center. There was no backup plan from the city administration, no proper communication from traffic officials, and no consideration for the fragile minds of these students. What message does this send? That the education and future of our youth is not worth the inconvenience of thoughtful planning?

When we discuss mental health, we often focus on children affected by conflict or poverty, but we seldom consider how bureaucratic incompetence, and a lack of empathy can emotionally scar young minds. The mental strain of not knowing if they’ll reach school on time or whether they’ll miss an exam due to arbitrary road closures deeply impacts children’s mental health. My elder daughter, for instance, missed an exam a couple of years back because political protests had paralyzed the city.

The issue at hand is not just the logistical nightmare caused by poor planning—it’s the stark lack of empathy from those in power. Decision-makers, consumed with political wrangling and security concerns, seem to have forgotten the very people they are supposed to serve. For residents of Islamabad, the question isn’t whether the city will shut down—it’s when. In a city where an ordinary day can turn into a logistical quagmire at the drop of a hat, what does that do to the trust between citizens and their government?

We, the citizens, must demand a city that doesn’t just look green and organized on the outside but functions compassionately for those who live within its boundaries.

But this isn’t just a story of blame. It’s also a story of what can be done. State institutions must return to the core principle of governance: serving the people. Urban planning in Islamabad must prioritize public needs—ensuring that traffic management, emergency services, and access to schools and hospitals are non-negotiable, regardless of protests or events. VIP movements and security protocols must be balanced with public convenience through proper an advance planning, clear communication, and carefully, empathetically planned alternative routes. A dedicated page on the traffic police’s website providing live updates on traffic conditions, VIP movements, alternative routes for each sector, and key locations within Islamabad can also resolve the issue. Police officers stationed at road closures must also be trained to effectively guide citizens through such situations.

At the end of the day, the beauty of a city doesn’t lie only in its roads or landscapes—it lies in how it treats its people.

Civil society and citizens must also play their part. Collectively, we can force change by engaging in community advocacy, raising voices in peaceful forums, and holding local administration accountable. If residents become organized and vocal, the administration will be compelled to listen. Empathy in governance doesn’t always emerge from within—it can be demanded from outside.

Imagine a city where empathy is woven into every decision, where the students don’t have to spend sleepless nights worrying about reaching their examination center on time. Where road closures come with well-communicated detours, and public officials are trained not just in law enforcement but in public service. We, the citizens, must demand a city that doesn’t just look green and organized on the outside but functions compassionately for those who live within its boundaries. Because, at the end of the day, the beauty of a city doesn’t lie only in its roads or landscapes—it lies in how it treats its people.

About the Author: Asif Farooqui is the Director of Programs at the Accountability Lab Pakistan, and can be reached at asif@accountabilitylab.org