In the public eye, politics often appears as a game — of power, privilege, and corruption. Yet behind that glitter lies a dark web of pressure, fear, and compulsion that entraps nearly every politician. The truth is that those who seem powerful are often the most helpless. In our political system, the politician stands like a sandwich — pressed from all sides: by his voters, his own party, the establishment, and the propaganda war waged by NGOs, pseudo-intellectuals, and media channels.

The first layer of pressure comes from his constituency. Every voter expects immediate relief — a job, a road, a personal favor, a government post, or a local development scheme. The politician must attend weddings and funerals, settle disputes, and constantly “deliver.” Failure to do so quickly transforms popularity into resentment. Thus, the politician is forced to act not by policy, but by populism — enslaved to public expectations rather than guided by national vision.

The second kind of pressure comes from within his own party. Political parties, though outwardly democratic, are internally dominated by personal loyalties, group interests, and inner circles of power. Party leadership demands submission — support this policy, stay silent on that issue, or align with a certain faction. Those who disagree are deprived of ministries or sidelined entirely. Even within his own party, a politician remains far from free.

The third and most decisive pressure originates from the establishment — the invisible hand that controls the visible stage. Whether a politician contests elections, joins a particular party, supports or opposes a vote of no confidence — all often depend on signals from elsewhere. It is determined who is “fit to be elected,” who should be “fixed,” and who will be “restored” when needed. Political freedom thus becomes conditional; loyalty to the people turns into a struggle for mere survival.

Then comes the onslaught of propaganda. Certain NGOs, self-proclaimed writers, and media commentators have become instruments of mental control. Under the pretext of democracy and accountability, they propagate narratives that serve hidden agendas. Their mission is to portray every politician as corrupt, greedy, or anti-people — thereby deepening public despair and strengthening non-political forces. Intellectual manipulation has become the modern method of political control.

Meanwhile, the government in power uses state machinery to crush opposition. Development funds are frozen, water channels blocked, and false cases filed. When pressure fails, defamation campaigns begin — and when even that proves ineffective, bullets and bombs follow. Every election cycle brings with it attempts at assassination or actual killings.

Ironically, those same pseudo-writers who claim to represent the middle and lower classes often serve the very invisible powers they denounce. Their constant criticism is not aimed at reform but at discrediting politics itself, turning democracy into a spectacle of failure.

This is not to say that all politicians are innocent. Many have betrayed public trust for personal gain. Yet it is equally true that they operate within a deeply unbalanced system. To judge politics only through the lens of corruption is to ignore the structural imbalance of power that defines it.

In truth, a politician carries the burden of responsibility but not the possession of power. Real power lies elsewhere. This imbalance is not accidental; it is the colonial legacy of the British, designed under the Dyarchy system introduced in 1919 — where local representatives were made accountable to the people but denied actual authority. That design still lives on, reshaped but unbroken.

And when a politician dares to step outside this invisible boundary, the result is always tragic. History bears witness:

When Liaquat Ali Khan sought an independent foreign policy, he was silenced by a bullet.
When Zulfikar Ali Bhutto tried to redefine national sovereignty, he met the gallows.
When Benazir Bhutto challenged the same entrenched order, she was eliminated under the sky of Rawalpindi.
These are not coincidences — they are symptoms of a system that punishes defiance and rewards submission.

True reform will not come by changing faces in politics, but by democratizing the institutions that hold politics hostage. Until the balance between establishment, media, and political forces is restored, democracy will remain a show without substance — votes will be cast, elections held, but decisions made elsewhere.

In the end, the politician becomes the scapegoat — the face upon which the failures of the entire system are projected. He stands at the crossroads of expectations and constraints — outwardly powerful, inwardly powerless. To understand his dilemma is not to excuse him, but to recognize the deeper illness of our political order.

The Dyarchy System of 1919

Dyarchy, or “dual government,” was introduced under the Government of India Act, 1919, dividing provincial administration into two parts:

1. Reserved Subjects — such as defense, police, revenue, and finance, kept under direct control of the Governor and the British officials.

2. Transferred Subjects — such as education, health, and agriculture, handed over to Indian ministers elected by limited franchise.

Thus, local ministers carried responsibility before the people but lacked real authority. The British retained ultimate control. That same duality — responsibility without power — still defines our political culture.