I am one of Pakistan’s spare parts. I am at a dinner party in Pakistan, where I have just been asked the dreaded question: “So Abdul-Rehman, what do you want to be?” My parents shuffle uncomfortably, aware of what’s about to come. In a timid voice, I quietly reply, “I’d love to be a writer”, and stare intently at the floor. The air freezes momentarily in an embarrassed, awkward silence and my relative’s eager smile suddenly turns quizzical. They quickly recover and ask, “A writer? Why don’t you become a doctor or an engineer?” I know that whatever I say, I am immediately judged as a boy without ambition or talent. In Pakistan, creativity is measured with a sneer.

That happened about five years ago. Now when I am asked, I fight my corner but it makes little difference. People romanticise about the time of our great poet, Allama Iqbal, and the Muslim literary artists such as Rumi. Modern Pakistani English literature is a black hole, a vacuum, an almost non-existent entity – you can count the number of English fiction writers on your fingers. When I first read T. S Eliot’s The Waste Land, the intensity of ideas and his cutting insight into the human condition fascinated me. Robert Lowell’s meticulously crafted Father’s Bedroom, with its perfect mix of ambiguity and detail, made me think about the relationship between children and their parents. What literature does best is give us time to escape, to think about who we are and to empathise.

What Pakistanis need most is an opportunity to think, a chance to look at the reflection in the mirror. I would not be so naïve and idealistic to say that a book, a poem, a film or an album can change a country. But a novel, with all of its thought-provoking complexity, can act as a stimulus for change, even in Pakistan, a country of juxtapositions. The Northern areas of the country are home to three of the tallest mountain ranges in the world, peppered with beautiful lakes and a diverse range of wildlife. Every so often, though, the angry rattle of gunfire echoes through the valleys. Down at the southern tip of the country’s coast, Karachi is the hub of Pakistani trade and commerce, a bustling modern city of opportunity. But almost every other day, we read news stories about target killings in the city.

Instead of destroying, we need to create. Ideas and emotions are everlasting entities, immune to corruption and threats. An idea clings to the soul and never lets go. What better way to pour these ideas and emotions to the masses than in the depths of a novel, a play or a poem? If, by creating a piece of poetry or prose, I could shift perspectives, spark debate or stimulate personal thought, then I will have accomplished something significant for a generation of Pakistanis disillusioned from, and cynical of, the corrupt political process.

Allama Iqbal stays close to the heart of many Pakistanis. His poetry is passed down through generations, almost as if we are afraid that we will forget him. Pakistan needs more people like him. People who are not afraid to write of the most intimate of human emotions or controversial issues. Pakistan needs an injection of creativity and I hope that, one day, I will be able to administer it – to spark a grassroots revolution: page by page, letter by letter.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.