The Beautiful Path of Forgiveness
By: Ayaz Amir
Roznama Dunya
Publication Date: 20 August 2025
Forgiveness and compromise were also options for Tipu Sultan. Fighting the British was nearly impossible. By then, the British were no longer just another Indian power—they had become a global force. In terms of strength and resources, Tipu had no comparison with them. Yet, he never learned submission from his illustrious father, Haider Ali. Therefore, in the name of reconciliation or pragmatism, he refused to bow to the British and chose martyrdom instead. There were countless kings and princes in India, but even today, it is only Tipu Sultan’s tomb that draws people in reverence.
Reconciliation and pragmatism are beautiful words. In their place, they represent wisdom and foresight. But in many contexts, they become synonymous with cowardice. In 1958, Khan Abdul Qayyum Khan, head of the Muslim League at that time, was considered a great leader. Pakistan’s first general elections were scheduled for February 1959, and it was widely believed that Khan Qayyum and the Muslim League would triumph. But martial law was imposed, and Khan Qayyum was arrested. The harsh conditions of prison proved unbearable for him, and from his cell, he wrote a long letter to General Ayub Khan, detailing his illnesses and poor health, and pleading for release. His request was granted, but his stature as a leader vanished forever with that letter.
In 1977, Rafiq Bajwa was the General Secretary of the Pakistan National Alliance (PNA), well-known for his role in the anti-Bhutto movement. His fortune collapsed when he secretly met with Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto and the news leaked. He was removed from his post and slipped into such obscurity that no one could even recall what became of him.
During India’s freedom struggle, countless Congress leaders endured imprisonment. Jawaharlal Nehru and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad spent years behind bars. Some of Nehru’s most famous books in English were written from prison. They could have compromised with the British, but had they done so, they would no longer be remembered as leaders. Nelson Mandela’s example need hardly be mentioned here—his story does not fit our politics. He was of another world entirely. But it is worth remembering that he spent 25–26 years in the harsh prisons of Robben Island. He lost his youth and the prime of his life, yet he remained steadfast—and was immortalized in world history.
Bhutto, too, could have begged for mercy, but then he would not have remained Bhutto. He endured unimaginable hardships in prison. Towards the end, he grew frail—surviving only on coffee, cigars, and books. When Rawalpindi Jail Superintendent Yar Muhammad Daryanah informed him of his black warrant, Bhutto was shocked for a moment, then quickly composed himself and said, “My beard has grown. Bring shaving items. I do not wish to die looking like a cleric.” To say such a thing with death looming requires immense courage. Assistant Superintendent Majeed Qureshi, who was tasked with escorting him to the gallows, recalled that when he entered Bhutto’s cell around 1:30 am, Bhutto was in deep sleep and had to be shaken awake. Imagine—the gallows waiting for you, yet you still fall asleep. What nerves of steel that man possessed.
Those who advise forgiveness or compromise may be sincere, but they forget that in societies like ours, matters never end with forgiveness. If one bends even slightly, the oppressor is not satisfied until the victim is utterly humiliated. Forget the grand halls of power—even in police stations, if you beg a Station House Officer for mercy, your ordeal will not end until you are fully disgraced. What we call “fate” is nothing more than a person’s character and temperament. Character is destiny. Life presents moments where a person must stand firm. A weak man cannot do this, and that weakness becomes his destiny. Bhutto could never have sought forgiveness from General Zia, because to bow in such a manner was against his very nature. He was “Akad Khan”—a man of defiance—and remained one till the very end.
Could Nawab Akbar Bugti have reconciled with General Musharraf? If he had bent a little, his life might have been spared. Why, in old age, did he need to ride camels into the mountains wearing a cowboy hat? He could have lived out his last years in comfort as a Nawab. There are no shortage of Baloch sardars who are masters of compromise and flattery. But Akbar Bugti was a man of principles—unyielding. If he had been more “pragmatic,” perhaps he would have lived longer.
Today, there is no shortage of those eager to advise Imran Khan. Indeed, a whole industry now exists for the sole purpose of advising him to “forgive” or “compromise.” Their real demand is that he bow down a little, adopt a pleading look, and then, perhaps, life will become easier for him. But first, they must answer this: does the “prisoner” (Imran Khan) even possess the temperament to bend? If such an element is entirely absent from a man’s nature, how can anyone expect him to adopt it? And even if he somehow agrees to bend, will it end there?
When Bayezid surrendered to Tamerlane, he was locked in a cage to be displayed before the world. When Hulagu Khan descended upon Baghdad, the humiliation of the defeated Caliph Al-Musta’sim was not enough to satisfy him. The last Abbasid Caliph was rolled in a carpet and trampled to death by Mongol horses. In our environment, compromise is nothing less than inviting eternal disgrace. Ordinary people suffer ordinary tragedies; historical figures, however, suffer historical tragedies.
There is no denying that Imran Khan has made mistakes. Great men make great mistakes. Bhutto made many mistakes too, and he paid the price. But societies like ours have no standard of justice. The scales of accountability are always tilted. The greatest “crime” in Pakistan has always been to be a popular leader. When the people embrace someone, the rotten pillars of power feel threatened. The greater the popularity, the greater the fear. For such leaders, there is no margin for error.
When Ayub Khan retired, he was no longer a threat to anyone. Once Yahya Khan was ousted, he became harmless. Bhutto was different—he remained a danger to those in power, and therefore, in 1977–79, he could not be forgiven. The rest, intelligent readers can conclude for themselves.