In the heart of District Bannu, tucked between hills and history, lived a boy with a dream too big for the streets he walked. Saad Ahmad, the third among three brothers, was not born into wealth or influence. His father, a retired head clerk from the Public Health Department, had served the state with honesty and humility, never once bowing to corruption, never once asking for more than his due. That integrity was the greatest inheritance he passed on to his children—especially to Saad.
From a young age, Saad showed signs of brilliance. He wasn’t the loudest child, but he was always the most curious. While others raced bicycles down dusty alleys, he was reading poetry by Faiz and Iqbal, imagining a Pakistan where dreams were rewarded, and every child could rise on the strength of their merit. Teachers adored him. Neighbors whispered proudly about him. “He will make us all proud one day,” they’d say. And Saad believed it too.
With relentless dedication, he pursued his education. Scholarships, late-night study sessions, part-time tutoring—he did it all. His hard work bore fruit when he was accepted into NUST, one of Pakistan’s most prestigious institutions, for an MS in Transportation Engineering. It was not just a personal victory—it was a celebration for the entire community. Saad became a symbol of what was possible, even in a place where opportunity rarely knocked.
At university, Saad didn’t just study—he excelled. He researched sustainable infrastructure for underserved regions, focusing on accessible transportation for rural populations. His professors spoke highly of his intelligence and sincerity. He participated in national conferences, wrote papers, and proposed models that could have transformed small towns like Bannu. Everything he did was rooted in a simple idea: to serve his people with his knowledge and skills.
When he graduated, armed with a degree, high merit, and a vision for national development, Saad believed the world would finally open up. He entered the job market filled with hope, ready to contribute. But the system had other plans.
Over the next three years, he applied to more than 100 jobs. Public sector, private sector, provincial development bodies, academic institutions—he left no stone unturned. He passed exams with distinction, aced interviews, and even ranked among the top three in some final lists. But again and again, the final appointment never came.
Seats were quietly given to those who had influence or money. Sometimes the list would be changed at the last minute. Sometimes the position was never announced again. And sometimes, the person who bought the job would show up proudly, without even knowing the basics of the field.
Saad watched, heartbroken, as mediocrity was rewarded and brilliance was ignored. He kept trying. He adjusted his resume, refined his interviews, and held on to hope longer than most would. But eventually, reality broke through: merit, in his country, was not enough.
His father tried to comfort him, offering prayers and support. But Saad could see the disappointment behind his father’s kind eyes—the helplessness of a man who had taught his son to believe in a system that betrayed him.
Days turned into months, and months into years. Saad stopped writing poetry. He stopped attending seminars. His research journal gathered dust. His dreams, once bright and defiant, now flickered like a candle in the wind. He walked the streets of Bannu silently, looking at broken roads, stalled projects, and wondering what could have been—if only ability had mattered more than bribes.
His friends from university, many of them far less qualified, had found jobs through references or backdoor deals. Some even joked about how “easy” it had been. Saad smiled politely, but deep inside, he was breaking.
Saad was not asking for a favor. He was asking for a fair chance—to serve, to build, to fix what was broken. But in a system that sells seats and buries merit, that chance never came.
He never went abroad. Not because he couldn’t, but because he still believed in staying. Believed, perhaps foolishly, that someone somewhere would recognize his worth. But the longer he waited, the clearer it became: this system had no place for people like him.
And what does a country lose when it turns away its best and brightest?
It loses planners who could rebuild its cities. It loses engineers who could design better futures. It loses poets who dream in blueprints, and sons who stay when they could leave. It loses belief—in justice, in process, in progress.
Saad Ahmad still lives in Bannu, still silent, Still brilliant, but no longer hopeful. He walks by the roads he once dreamed of redesigning, and now only wonders how many others like him were buried beneath layers of nepotism, corruption, and institutional failure.
He is not just a man denied a job. He is a mirror of a nation’s failure to reward those who deserve it most.
Until this land learns to honour merit over money, and fairness over favoritism. It will continue to bleed its future—not in loud revolutions, but in quiet tragedies like Saad’.
The author holds MS in Mass Communication from the University of Peshawar. He is currently serving as the Program Coordinator at a semi-government college in Mardan. For inquiries, he can be contacted via email at
[email protected].
Author: Hafiz Abdur Rahim Wazir