I H AVE grown up watching a stark divide between the `special` and the `ordinary`.

The special are those who have access to corridors of power, to privilege and to comfort, while the ordinary struggle to survive, unnoticed even within the family, and unacknowledged.

But even in the 1980s, there was still some humanity left. People cared. Evil existed, but it was still shy, still hidden in corners.

I have spent time in nearly 15 countries, many of them non-Muslim, and, surprisingly, not welfare states in the strictest definition of the term. But their systems ensured all life was treated with due dignity. Once in a European country, a friend caught a cold. The hostel supervisor took it seriously enough to contact a hospital to which he ws taken and where he was admitted and treated for the next 15 days. The care was the responsibility of the government. The entire system worked quietly, efficiently, and without any fanfare. Will any of us even think of the same in our country?The roads were amazingly clean. Their food systems were so organised that fresh meant fresh, and prices were rational, not dictated by the whims of mafias. Even their graveyards were peaceful and well-kept, a quiet dignity for the dead. Cleanliness was not just a slogan; it was a lived reality. We have everything in sharp contrast at our end.

We, the people, have become united only in negativity. We take to the streets to stage sit-ins and strikes, but fall silent when a neighbour goes hungry. Our politicians have been busy blaming one another. Not a single regime has yet proven itself capable of placing people`s wellbeing at the centre of policy-making process.

Eventually, our state will begin to heal only when it decides to serve all its citizens without any discrimination, when it puts the wellbeing of the common man before the luxuries of the elite class.

Zaheer Udin Babar Junejo Hyderabad