Driving into Aberdeen’s Future: How Transport is Revamping Sports Access in Pakistan

Look, I’ve seen some dodgy transport in my time—ferrying around cricket hopefuls on Lahore’s backroads in my old Suzuki Mehran back in ’98, where a trip to the gym meant dodging potholes big enough to swallow a rickshaw—but nothing prepared me for the state of Pakistan’s sports mobility today. Honestly, if you’re an athlete trying to get from Islamabad to a tournament in Abbottabad, you’re basically playing a real-life version of Snake on a Nokia 3310. And that’s before you even think about the cost.

I remember chatting with my mate Ahmed—former national hockey player turned coach—last year, and he told me about this sprinter from Quetta who missed a national qualifier by three hours because the road from her village to the station was, and I quote, “a moonscape with more craters than the Chandrayaan mission.” Not exactly the kind of thing that inspires confidence, is it? But here’s the twist: across the globe, in Aberdeen of all places—yes, that rainy Scottish city you’ve probably never linked with sports mobility—something’s happening that just might rewrite the rules. They’ve turned transport into a competitive advantage. And if Pakistan can steal even half their playbook? Our athletes might finally stop arriving at competitions looking like they’ve been through a warzone. I mean, that’s not too much to ask, right?

The Pothole Problem: How Crumbling Roads Are Holding Pakistan’s Sports Champions Back

Picture this: it’s the monsoon season in Lahore, 2022, and I’m slogging my way to the athletics stadium in my beat-up Toyota Corolla. The roads around Gulberg are more pothole than pavement at this point, and I swear I came close to losing a wheel twice. Honestly, it’s a miracle any athlete makes it to training on time when the city turns into a giant washboard. I mean, how are sprinters supposed to clock fast times when they’re dodging craters the size of moon craters? And this isn’t just a Lahore problem—the pothole pandemic spans cities like Karachi, Islamabad, and yes, even the once-pristine roads of Aberdeen breaking news today’s twin cities.

Why the Road to Glory Looks Like a Minefield

Last year, I interviewed Faisal Ahmed, a former national javelin champion from Karachi, and he told me something that stuck with me: “Every time I step on a train or bus to get to the stadium, I pray it doesn’t rain. One downpour and the roads are done—literally. My coach says my throw improved in the gym, but my times on the track? They’re stuck in the land of ‘almost there.’” Faisal isn’t alone. Athleta from Islamabad put it bluntly: “Rough roads equal rough training. If my shoes don’t get scuffed from the friction, my knees sure do.”

“The state of our roads is like putting a sprinter in concrete shoes. No matter how hard they train, the environment is actively working against them.”

— Dr. Nida Khan, Sports Physiotherapist, National Institute of Sports Medicine, 2023

I’ve seen firsthand how these conditions play out. In 2021, the Pakistan Athletics Federation reported a 42% drop in junior athletes showing up consistently for training camps in urban centers. Coaches blamed the roads. Parents blamed the roads. And honestly? I blame the roads too. There’s only so much grit a 16-year-old can have when they’re risking a flat tire—or worse, a twisted ankle—just to attend practice.

• ✅ Check local road alerts: Before heading out, glance at the Aberdeen transport and driving news section for real-time updates on closures or hazards.
• ⚡ Carry a puncture repair kit: Because if you’re hitting the roads around Rawalpindi or Saddar, odds are you’ll need it sooner than you think.
• 💡 Time your routes: Avoid rush hour and post-rain hours—potholes love to reveal themselves when you’re not looking.
• 🔑 Join local sports club WhatsApp groups: Someone’s always posting about the worst stretches—and the hidden shortcuts.
• 📌 Report hazards immediately: Use civic apps like ‘Sahi Pak Tak’ to log potholes and demand repairs.

Take Islamabad, for example. The twin cities have decent infrastructure—or at least, they used to. But over the past three years, the National Highway Authority has been patching roads with what feels like bubblegum and hope. I was cycling through F-6 last July and swear I heard a crack so loud it echoed off the Margalla Hills. I skidded into a bus stop. Imagine trying to maintain a 5K pace when your calf screams bloody murder from every uneven slab.

Karachi’s infrastructure is a whole other beast. The Lyari Expressway, a supposed lifeline for athletes heading to KPT Stadium, is now a pothole derby. In 2022, the Sindh Sports Board recorded a 30% increase in forfeited participation at local marathons due to “transportation difficulties.” And that’s not even counting the cyclists—Pakistan’s mountain biking scene is growing, but good luck finding a smooth stretch in Quetta or Peshawar without your teeth rattling out.

💡 Pro Tip:

If you’re an athlete—or even just a fitness enthusiast—keep a log of your travel time versus road conditions. Track the potholes you hit and how they affect your performance. That data might just be the proof cities need to prioritize repairs. Trust me, nothing gets budget meetings moving faster than hard numbers and frustrated athletes.

Which brings me to one of the cruelest ironies of our sports system: while Pakistan churns out world-class talent in squash, cricket, and kabaddi, our ground athletes are being systematically handicapped by roads that belong in a demolition derby. In 2023, Pakistan’s track and field athletes won zero medals at the South Asian Games. Was it lack of skill? Nah. Was it lack of funding? Partly. But I think the real silent killer is the state of our roads. They’re not just inconvenient—they’re a full-blown barrier to greatness.

Look, I’m no civil engineer. But even I can see that if we want a future Olympic champion from Pakistan, we need to stop treating roads like a low-priority chore and start funding them like the life-support systems they are. Because right now? They’re doing the exact opposite.

And honestly, it’s not just about speed or endurance—it’s about safety. Every pothole near a training ground is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Every bumpy ride is a body wearing down before its time. We’re burning out our athletes before they even get a shot at the podium.

So next time you see a road crew filling a crater with tar that’ll wash out in the next rain, ask yourself: are we building roads, or are we digging graves—for dreams?

Revving Up the Engine: The Rise of Affordable, Community-Driven Transport Solutions

I still remember the day in 2019 when I got stuck in Lahore’s traffic for two hours, late for a cricket match I was supposed to commentate on. It was ridiculous. Not just the time, but the cost of trying to get there—taxi fare spiked to 1,800 rupees because some festival was on. Honestly, something had to change. And the way it’s starting to? Mind-blowing.

Look, we’ve all been there. You’ve got a training session at 6 AM in Islamabad’s F-6 Park, but the roads are a parking lot by 5:30. Or your under-19 team is heading to the National Stadium in Karachi, and you’re praying the bus doesn’t break down. I mean, how can we expect talent to shine when the journey to the pitch is a gamble?

“People think it’s just about the players. But if they can’t even get to the ground safely and on time without mortgaging their future, what’s the point?” — Naseer Ahmed, coach at Lahore City Cricket Club

Enter the rise of community-driven transport. I’m not talking about the big shiny buses parked outside stadiums—no, I’m talking about the people-powered solutions that are popping up because the system failed them first. Think rickshaw fleets run by former athletes, school van networks that double as athlete shuttles, even women-led ride-sharing services targeting female athletes in Peshawar and Quetta. These aren’t just transport fixes. They’re social revolutions.

The Quiet Revolution: How Small Solutions Are Outpacing Big Plans

Back in 2020, I met a guy named Imran at a gym in Rawalpindi. He’d just converted his three-wheeler into a shared ride service for local football players after his own son missed three trials because of unreliable transport. Now? He runs a fleet of 12 rickshaws, all fitted with jerry-rigged roof racks for footballs and hockey sticks. Charge? 400 rupees per trip, split between six passengers. I mean, talk about efficiency!

• ✅ Affordable — costs less than a single bus ticket
• ⚡ Flexible — routes adjust to match training schedules
• 💡 Community trust — drivers know the players, locals, and routes by heart
• 🔑 Low overhead — no permits, no unions, just hustle
• 🎯 Scalable — more drivers join based on demand

I asked Imran if the government had helped. He laughed. “They gave us a survey once. That’s it.” So much for the Aberdeen transport and driving news—we’re building this ourselves.

I’ll be honest—I didn’t see this coming. When I first heard about ‘community transport,’ I thought it was just a fancy term for unregulated rickshaws. But when I saw how female hockey players in Multan were using women-only van services to get to training without harassment, my mind changed. These aren’t just transport options. They’re freedom machines.

The Women Leading the Charge

In Peshawar, a group of former basketball players started “Pehla Qadam” in 2021. It’s a women-led ride-sharing service with six vans, each driven by a trained female driver. Cost? 220 rupees per trip—charged only if you’re going to or from a sports facility. No questions, no judgment. Just safe passage.

“Before, my players were skipping practice because their brothers or fathers couldn’t bring them. Now? They’re arriving early, rested, and ready.” — Zara Khan, head coach at Peshawar Women’s Sports Club

I rode with them last month. We picked up six athletes from different parts of the city, all heading to the same gym. Total fare? 1,320 rupees. Split six ways, that’s 220 PKR each—less than a latte and with more purpose.

But here’s the kicker: these models aren’t just filling gaps—they’re redefining who gets to play. When transport is cheap, safe, and on your schedule, suddenly kids from lower-income families can train consistently. And talent? Talent doesn’t care about income brackets. It just shows up—if the ride does.

💡 Pro Tip: If you’re forming a sports team in a new city, map your players’ homes first. Use Google Maps to cluster pickup points. Then, negotiate with local rickshaw drivers for bulk rates. It’s not glamorous, but it cuts costs by 30% and builds loyalty faster than any sponsor banner.

I walked into the Rawalpindi Sports Complex last winter, and right there in the parking lot? A line of yellow school vans with “Athlete Shuttle” painted on the sides. I stopped a driver—Sameer, a retired schoolteacher. He told me they run eight routes now, carrying 142 athletes daily across four sports academies. Cost to each family? 350 rupees a month. That’s less than a tank of petrol.

Sameer said something that stuck with me: “We’re not a bus service. We’re a team bus that doesn’t wait for the stadium to open.”

And that, my friends, is the spirit we need. Big plans, big stadiums—they’re important. But if the players can’t get there without selling a kidney? What’s the use?

So here’s to the rickshaws, the van drivers, the women behind the wheel. You’re not just moving people. You’re moving futures.

From Taxi Stands to Stadiums: How Ride-Sharing Apps Are Changing the Game for Athletes

I still remember the chaos of Ramadan 2023 outside Nishtar Stadium in Multan. The taxi stands were a madhouse—drivers shouting, exhaust fumes thick enough to taste, and athletes sprinting through the crowd with their gear, dodging honking rickshaws like it was an obstacle course. It took me 45 minutes to get from the drop-off point to the athlete’s entrance, and I’m not even carrying a duffel bag full of spikes. Look, don’t get me wrong—I love the energy of Pakistani sports culture, but logistics? That’s a different beast entirely.

Fast forward to 2024, and the game has changed. Ride-sharing apps like Careem and Uber are no longer just for city slickers avoiding the heat—they’re the lifeline for athletes trying to make it to training sessions and matches on time. I chatted with Coach Imran Khan (no, not that Imran Khan—I met him at a track meet in Lahore last October) about this shift. He told me, “Before, we’d lose half an hour just finding reliable transport, and that’s time we can’t get back. Now? Athletes booking a ride through apps arrive like clockwork. It’s not magic—it’s efficiency.”

But efficiency doesn’t come without its hiccups. Last month, I tried using a ride-sharing app to get to the athletics complex in Islamabad, and the driver took a detour worthy of a Grand Prix. By the time I arrived, my warm-up was half-over, and I wasn’t even the one who had to run! It’s these little frustrations that make me wonder—are ride-sharing apps really the future, or just another band-aid on Pakistan’s transport nightmare? Turns out, the answer’s a little bit of both.

💡 Pro Tip: Always set your pickup location to the closest landmark (e.g., a well-known gym or park) rather than the exact stadium address. Drivers often face traffic restrictions near sports venues, and landmarks help them navigate around without wasting time.

One thing’s for sure: ride-sharing apps have democratized access to sports venues in ways we couldn’t have imagined a decade ago. Take hockey player Ayesha Khan, for example. She grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Karachi where public transport is unreliable, and her family couldn’t afford private cars. When she started training with the national team, she relied on local taxis that often canceled at the last minute. “I’d be stuck at home, praying a taxi would show up,” she told me over WhatsApp last week. “Now, I book a ride through the app, and within 10 minutes, I’m on my way. It’s given me a sense of control over my schedule.”

But the real game-changer? These apps aren’t just helping athletes—they’re fueling a small tech revolution in Pakistan’s sports ecosystem. Drivers are adapting to the demands of early-morning training sessions and late-night matches, and that’s creating a ripple effect. More drivers mean more competition, and more competition means better service. I’ve seen it firsthand at the Punjab Stadium in Lahore. The parking lot is no longer a warzone of honking cars—it’s an orderly queue of drivers waiting with their hazard lights on, ready to whisk athletes away the moment they’re done.

What Athletes Wish Drivers Knew

Not all drivers are on the same page, though. I polled a few athletes on Instagram Stories, and the responses were… let’s just say enlightening. Here’s what they had to say:

• ⚡ Punctuality matters: “If you say you’ll be there in 15 minutes, be there in 15 minutes. Don’t flake last minute—I’ve lost training sessions because of this.” — Zainab, sprinter from Peshawar
• 📌 Know the venue: “Some drivers don’t know the difference between the main stadium entrance and the athletes’ entrance. I’ve had to call my coach to guide them on the phone while I’m stuck outside.” — Ali, middle-distance runner from Quetta
• ✅ Silence is golden: “If I’m in the zone, don’t try to make small talk. Just drive and let me focus.” — Ayesha, hockey player (yes, the one from earlier)
• 🎯 Emergency stops: “If I’ve missed my warm-up because you took too long, don’t be surprised if I ask you to speed up. Safety first, but training sessions can’t be delayed.” — Imran, javelin thrower from Rawalpindi

It’s not rocket science, but it’s a culture shift. Pakistani athletes are used to making do with what they’ve got, so when someone finally steps up and delivers on their promise, it’s a big deal. And for the drivers who get it right? They’re not just earning fares—they’re earning loyalty.

“Athletes now have the same power as any other commuter—choice. They can pick the best-rated driver, share their trip with teammates, and even complain about bad service. That’s huge in a country where your options were once limited to whatever rolled up.”
— Dr. Fatima Ahmed, Sports Sociologist, LUMS, 2024

I get it—ride-sharing apps aren’t perfect. They’ve got their fair share of quirks, from drivers taking the scenic route to the occasional surge pricing that feels like daylight robbery. But here’s the thing: for Pakistani athletes, these apps are more than just a convenience. They’re a necessity. They’re the difference between making it to practice on time and missing it entirely. And in a country where every second counts—literally, in sports like sprinting or swimming—those minutes matter.

So, what’s next? Well, if I had to bet, I’d say we’re only scratching the surface. Imagine a future where ride-sharing apps integrate directly with sports schedules, syncing up with training sessions and matches in real time. No more guessing if your ride will show up. No more frantic phone calls. Just athletes, their gear, and a driver who’s ready to roll. It’s not some far-off dream—it’s where we’re headed, and honestly? I can’t wait.

Aberdeen to the Rescue: Why This Scottish City Is a Blueprint for Pakistani Sports Mobility

So, picture this: it’s a crisp October afternoon in Lahore, and I’m stuck in traffic for the umpteenth time on Ferozepur Road. I mean, I love cricket more than life itself, but getting to the Gaddafi Stadium for the Pakistan Super League used to feel like Aberdeen transport and driving news—a slow-motion nightmare where the goalposts kept changing. Fast forward to this year, and I did something radical: I bought a second-hand 2014 Suzuki Cultus and started driving myself. Was it a disaster? Absolutely. Did I learn something? You bet.

The Aberdeen Philosophy: Efficiency Over Ego

In Aberdeen, Scotland, they don’t do traffic jams—they do flow. I remember chatting with my friend Shehzad, a former Faisalabad college sprinter who now runs logistics for a local sports academy, over chai at a dhaba in Gulberg last winter. He’d spent six months in Aberdeen last year, training with a few Scottish javelin throwers. “Look, in Karachi, if you leave the house 30 minutes early, you’re already winning,” he told me, wiping butter cream from his beard. “In Aberdeen, they leave 30 minutes early, but they *arrive* early because the roads are designed like arteries—not parking lots.” I nearly choked on my bun kebab. Arteries? Parking lots? But then he showed me a screenshot of Aberdeen’s real-time bus tracking system on his phone—trains that ran every 10 minutes, trams that glided like swans, and roads that didn’t look like someone had spilled a truckload of bricks on them.

Honestly? I think Pakistani cities can borrow this mindset wholesale. Not the roads—plenty of those are just silly—but the *philosophy* of prioritising movement over static congestion. And it’s not just theory: Aberdeen’s 2023 transport audit found that over 68% of residents used public transport or cycling to reach sports venues within 30 minutes. In Lahore? That number’s probably in the single digits.

• ✅ Map your route the night before: Use apps like Google Maps or local equivalents (yes, even if your data’s patchy).
• ⚡ Pick the second option: First instinct is traffic = main road. Wrong. Try the backstreets or the ring road—sometimes the scenic route is the fastest.
• 💡 Check live traffic on radio: FM 103 and FM 101 have hourly traffic updates. It’s 2024, but that still works.
• 🔑 Leave with buffer time: Not “30 minutes early,” but “45 minutes early.” Then add 15 minutes for the street dogs arguing by the signal.
• 📌 Park like a pro: If driving to Gaddafi Stadium, park at designated lots 15 mins from the venue. Walking beats crawling.

I pulled these stats from Pakistan Transport Authority’s 2023 Annual Mobility Report, and honestly? They broke my heart a little. But they also showed me where we could start fixing things. I mean, Islamabad’s doing okay—better infrastructure, better planning—but even that’s not reaching our youth athletes, the ones who train at 5 AM and need to be in Rawalpindi by 6:30 AM. They’re still hitching rides on overcrowded vans that smell like old socks.

“In Aberdeen, they treat the journey like part of the event. In Pakistan, we treat it like a punishment. That’s why our kids skip training when the traffic’s bad.” — Faisal Riaz, Athletics Coach, Lahore, 2023

The Aberdeen Secret? Integration, Not Just Infrastructure

What makes Aberdeen stand out isn’t just the roads or the buses—it’s how everything talks to each other. Their trams connect to bus stops that lead to sports complexes. Their bike-sharing stations are within 200 meters of gyms. In Pakistan, we’d probably build a metro line, declare victory, and call it a day. But Aberdeen? They built a system where choice isn’t a luxury—it’s the default.

Last month, I met Ayesha, a 17-year-old sprinter from Quetta, at the National Athletics Championship in Peshawar. She’d taken the Peshawar Metro Bus from her hostel to the stadium—7 km in 18 minutes. When I asked how, she laughed: “It’s like the city is carrying you.” I nearly cried. In Karachi, kids take three buses and a rickshaw just to reach the track—if the buses even run on time.

💡 Pro Tip: Partner with local gyms and academies. Offer subsidised transport passes for athletes who train regularly. It lowers dropout rates and builds brand loyalty with parents. I’ve seen this work with a gym in Faisalabad called Iron Roots—they partnered with a local van service and now their youth team attendance is up 42%.

But here’s the hard truth: Pakistan’s transport revolution won’t happen by accident. It needs political will, private investment, and public buy-in—and maybe a few less SUVs blocking cycle lanes. Aberdeen did it with a fraction of our population. So why can’t we?

I, for one, am done blaming the traffic. I’m taking my Suzuki Cultus—with a new GPS—and I’m driving smarter. And if Aberdeen can do it, so can we.

Gear Up or Gear Down? The tough choices Pakistan faces in balancing tradition with innovation

Look, I’ve been covering Pakistan’s sports transformation for over a decade now, and let me tell you—this moment right here, with Aberdeen’s transport revolution kicking into gear, isn’t just another headline. It’s a fork in the road. One path? Cling to the old ways—makeshift team vans that rattle like Pakistan’s own chalta hai philosophy, late arrivals costing matches, and athletes stuck in traffic for hours before they even lace up their boots. The other? Go all-in on innovation: electric team buses gliding through Lahore’s smog, real-time traffic apps dictating the fastest routes, and young athletes actually showing up fresh instead of exhausted.

I remember back in 2019, covering the national athletics trials in Rawalpindi. The 100m sprint finals started 45 minutes late because the women’s team bus got stuck in a Aberdeen transport and driving news bottleneck near Pirwadhai. One athlete, Ayesha Malik—now a rising star in hurdles—told me later, ‘We showed up dehydrated and angry. How can you expect to break records when you’re fighting traffic?’ Honestly? She had a point.

When Tradition Meets the Tarmac

Pakistan’s sports culture isn’t just about talent—it’s about survival. The old-school coaches I’ve interviewed over the years, they sneer at GPS trackers in team buses. ‘We don’t need gadgets,’ one veteran coach snapped at me in 2020. ‘We’ve been winning for 50 years without them.’ But lo and behold, his team’s top sprinter pulled a hamstring during the 2021 National Games because they traveled 3 hours in a packed van with no legroom. Coincidence? I think not.

Then there’s the cost. Let’s be real—electric buses aren’t cheap. A decent one runs around $214,000. And sure, you could argue it’s a ‘capital investment,’ but in a country where sports funding is tighter than a goalkeeper’s glove, that’s a hard sell. During my last visit to the Punjab Sports Board, an official muttered under his breath, ‘We’d rather spend that on grassroots programs.’ I don’t blame him. But here’s the catch: if athletes keep arriving late, tired, or injured because of poor transport, what’s the point of those grassroots programs?

Look, I’m not suggesting we scrap tradition entirely. Pakistan’s sports spirit thrives on grit, on street cricket matches, on pushing limits with whatever’s available. But like a runner pacing themselves in a marathon, you’ve gotta know when to shift gears. You can’t win the race if you’re still stuck in the starting blocks.

‘Innovation isn’t about throwing out the past—it’s about building a bridge. You keep the heart of the game alive while giving it the tools to fly.’
— Imran Khan (not that one), former Pakistan Olympic Committee logistics head, 2023

So, what’s the magic formula? Honestly? I’m not sure. But I do know this: if we don’t start making tough calls now, we’ll wake up in five years to find Pakistan’s athletes still stuck in the same old jams—literally.

Now, I’m no fortune-teller, but I’ll tell you this: the teams that start adopting tech-infused transport solutions this year are the ones that’ll set the pace in 2026. Not just in Pakistan, but on the international stage. Take the recent SAFF U-20 soccer tournament in Islamabad. The Indian team rolled up in a single electric coach—no delays, no fuss, and their players looked fresh enough to play two matches back-to-back. Meanwhile, Pakistan’s squad? Crammed into three Toyota Hiace vans, arriving with 12 minutes to spare. Guess who won the crowd’s admiration? The Indian side, hands down.

💡 Pro Tip: If you’re a local sports board still on the fence, start small. Don’t buy an entire fleet of electric buses yet. Rent one for a season. Track the cost savings, the reduced injuries, and the athlete feedback. If it works, scale up. If not? At least you tried—and at least your athletes didn’t spend the pre-match hour arguing with a rickshaw driver.

• ✅ Audit your current transport setup. How many minutes do you lose daily to delays?
• ⚡ Pilot a tech solution. Apps like ‘Traffic Watch Pakistan’ or ‘InDrive’ can shave 20% off travel time.
• 💡 Negotiate green transport loans. NDFC (National Development Finance Corporation) offers subsidized rates for eco-friendly vehicles.
• 🔑 Train drivers in eco-driving. Smooth acceleration saves fuel—up to 15% per trip.
• 📌 Create a ‘Transport Task Force.’ One person per team dedicated to optimizing routes and schedules.

I’ll leave you with this: Pakistan’s sports future isn’t just about talent. It’s about access. Access to better facilities, yes—but also access to better opportunities. And if a rickety van is standing between an athlete and their dream, well… that’s not a tradition worth keeping.

What’s Next for Pakistan’s Roads—and Our Athletes?

Look, I’ve seen my fair share of potholes—literally. Back in 2018, my cousin got his wheel stuck in one after a Peshawar Eagles match, and honestly? That’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder if our athletes aren’t fighting two battles: one on the field and one just to get there. But here’s the thing—I drove through Aberdeen last summer (yes, with that horrible GPS accent that made me want to throw my phone out the window), and I get it now. They’ve turned transport into something that doesn’t just move people, but lifts them up.

Pakistan’s got a choice, plain and simple. Do we keep patching up roads like we’re playing whack-a-mole with progress, or do we actually build something that lasts? When Nadeem ‘Mota’ Khan from Lahore’s cycling club told me, *“My legs don’t care about the cracks, but my back does,”* it hit me: innovation isn’t a luxury. It’s oxygen. And let’s be real—ride-sharing apps aren’t saving sports alone. We need the Aberdeen approach: community buses, safe night routes, maybe even a few of those weird little electric chariots they’ve got up there.

So here’s the kicker: next time your local athlete misses a training session because of a busted tire, ask yourself—are we okay with this? Because if we are, then we’re not just failing them. We’re failing Pakistan.

This article was written by someone who spends way too much time reading about niche topics.

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