IN a statement released to the press in the wake of the gruesome massacre of Shia Hazaras in Quetta, Punjab Chief Minister Shahbaz Sharif declared, rather ominously, that Pakistan was on the verge of turning into a “failed state”.

It is tempting, at first, to dismiss Mr Sharif’s grim verdict on the future of Pakistan, as nothing more than a barb at the present government, especially given the impending elections.

However, there is something disturbing about his easy, almost casual use of the term “failed state”, not only because it reflects the frequency with which Western observers have, in recent years, used this term to describe Pakistan but also because it suggests that the focus of our elected representatives is on chalking up the shortcomings of their political opponents rather than in taking effective and necessary steps for state-building.

It is entirely pertinent, then, to ask what indeed is state-building? According to the eminent political scientist, Francis Fukuyama, writing in his book of the same title, state-building is the state’s fine balancing act between cutting back in certain areas and expanding in others.

According to him, a possible range of areas in which a state may act, include, in order of priority, defence, law and order, macroeconomic management, protecting the poor, addressing externalities, education, environment, regulating monopoly and developing insurance and financial functions.

The trick lies in the state’s ability to forego the temptation to adopt an ambitious agenda (which it does usually only to impress the electorate) that it is not in a position to perform, and to choose instead a limited scope of primary functions in which it either has the ability to deliver or, at least, has the ability to develop the capacity to deliver.

The ability of a state to deliver lies in its “power” which it derives not from the absolutism of a dictator but rather from the statesman’s deliberate investment in institutions through which the state operates.

It is important to appreciate that an institution in this context, does not merely mean a governmental authority or statutory body boasting an impressive building but the system that underlies the functioning of such governmental authority or body.

The strength of any institution lies in its ability to execute its functions transparently, efficiently and predictably.

It entails the ability of an institution to formulate and implement policy and enact laws, administer with a minimum of bureaucracy, control corruption, maintain a high level of transparency and accountability and most importantly, enforce laws.

The measure of the success of the state is only a compo-site of the effectiveness of its institutions.

Democracy is generally believed to be the single institution that can save all institutions because, in theory at least, it allows the electorate to vote bad leaders out of office and thereby guard against their incompetence and rapacity.

Reality suggests, however, that democracy can only cure social evils if the government it elects comes with the specific agenda of doing so. Such a government, in turn, can only be elected if the electorate is sufficiently aware of its best interests and realises the importance of participating in the electoral process.

It is Pakistan’s tragedy that the public generally believes that the electoral process is merely a playground for the politicians, fraught with danger for the ordinary man, and ultimately futile.

The explanation generally proffered for the country’s disillusionment with the electoral process is the history of extended military rule, which has prevented democratic institutions from taking root.

Whilst there is merit in this explanation, the responsibility for the disillusionment must be shared equally by politicians who have failed to live up to public expectations even when the opportunity has been given to them.

In fact, there has not been much difference between the military and political regimes: both have started with high promise and the avowed determination to bring about change but have soon fallen prey to the lure of self-interest.

In the words of Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson, in their recent book, Why Nations Fail all these regimes have merely perpetuated “extractive” rather than “inclusive” institutions which, even if they bring some prosperity in the short-run, breed long-term insecurity and instability.

Given this scenario, it is no surprise, that from the perspective of the electorate the political parties have become indistinguishable from each other, and irrespective of who is at the helm of affairs in the country, the common man believes that he is nothing more than a spectator in their drama rather than a participant whose input and interest will be taken into account and reflected in the electoral process.

This sense of disenfranchisement has led not only to apathy but a seething desperation.

I suspect our politicians do not fully appreciate that the patterns of extraction and exploitation they have created give rise to an urge on the part of the dispossessed to seize power in order to gain control of the very instruments of domination that have been used against them.

The truth of this statement will be evident to even the most casual observer of the Arab Spring, who will also know that when the desire for political change is awakened in the people their first victims are the very politicians who had most relentlessly oppressed them.

The need of the hour for our politicians, therefore, is not merely to employ symbolic, populist gestures, spew verbiage and indulge in the kind of political score-keeping that comes at the cost of national integrity.

What is needed is a genuine effort, if they are in power, to build institutions that are efficient, effective and adapted to our unique indigenous requirements and if they are out of power, to provide blueprints as to how they propose to do so if they are voted in.

Don’t tell us how we have failed but what steps we may take to build ourselves anew.

The writer is a barrister.

amber.darr@gmail.com