IN
the shadow of a half-constructed multi-story plaza between two empty plots strewn
with construction rubble, sits a shabby looking shed of concrete blocks and
corrugated iron roof.
Inside,
under the pale glow of an energy saver light bulb sits a shalwar kameez clad
grade-7 official tapping away at a battered desktop computer. Meet Mr Kaleem
(real names have been changed on request), secretary of his union council in
Sialkot. He is surrounded by some locals with documents to be attested or
corrected.
Just
outside the shed sits Mr Jawed the former nazim of the union council. He is no
longer an elected official since the local government system introduced by
former president Gen Musharraf became defunct. Regardless, he comes to this
office every day in his white starched shalwar kameez on his motorcycle and
sets up with an empty chair next to him.
He
is on friendly terms with the public official inside, who often comes out to
ask him a question. “Jawed Sahib, this woman is a widow and says she cannot get
her husband’s pension because of something wrong in the death certificate … or
something. I cannot understand what the problem is.”
Jawed
asks the woman, Naseem Bibi, to sit in the empty chair and proceeds to pepper
her and the flustered official with questions. “When did your husband die?”
“Where is your marriage certificate? ID cards? His service record?”
Naseem
hands over a wad of documents to him. It is obvious that she cannot read.
Jawed’s brow furrows as he reviews each document carefully. Then: “Here! You
see, your deceased husband’s name is incorrect on the death certificate. Bibi,
you will need to go to the hospital where your husband passed away and get them
to correct the name based on his ID card and your marriage documents.”
The
woman looks worried. Jawed continues, “Don’t worry. I will call someone.” He
pulls out a phone from his pocket and places a call. After he finishes his call
he assures the woman that she will have her problem solved if she goes to the
hospital. The woman looks relieved and thanks him, before heading off. Kaleem,
looking relieved heads back into the shed.
One
of the more contentious debates in Pakistani politics is between those in
favour of elected local government and those opposed to it.
Those
in favour argue for “complete” devolution down to the district level. On their
side is the argument that there are a number of public services which are best
delivered at the local level.
It
is also undeniable that an elected local government is more likely to feel
accountable towards those who vote it in (and could vote it out) than a
government functionary, sent to the district by Karachi, Lahore, Peshawar or
Quetta. An officer at the local level is beholden to senior officers and
provincial representatives, not directly to local ones. There is little here to
disagree with.
A
minority argues against devolution to districts on the grounds that it would
create yet another tier of corruption and waste. In principal Article 140-A of
the constitution makes the debate moot.
It
commands that the provinces shall establish “a local government system and
devolve political, administrative and financial responsibility and authority to
the elected representatives of the local governments.” However, the
Constitution is silent on the time frame.
The
real argument is over the politics of devolution. For decades military regimes
have used various kinds of local governance mechanisms to thwart and weaken
democratic rule, generally, and party politics, specifically.
Because
so many of our political disagreements mirror provincial boundaries (actual or
hoped for provinces), a favourite tool of such regimes has been local
government systems; from Ayub’s Basic Democracies within one unit to
Musharraf’s LG system.
A
central consequence is to bypass the provinces, and thereby provincial
political actors. This undermines the essential nature of the federation: that
the provinces are the federating units.
In
this context, expecting political parties who derive their legitimacy and power
through the ballot at the provincial level to let go of some of the hard-earned
legislative and fiscal authority to the local level may be asking for too much
too soon.
In
Punjab, the battle between Lahore and the southern part of the province is
complicated by the demand for a separate province. Expect local government to
feature prominently in the back and forth, post elections.
In
Sindh, expect the PPP, the Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM), and Sindhi
nationalists to be locked in a constant battle on the matter. The only
realistic chance for the MQM to truly govern independently is to have elected government
at the local level.
The
PPP, loath to give up power to local actors, agreed to decentralise six
metropolitan areas in Sindh while maintaining the commissioner system
elsewhere, but it later reversed the decision.
Balochistan
and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa have passed laws governing the establishment of local
governments, but implementation is a considerable way off. Almost every party
manifesto includes a commitment to establish local government systems if they
come to power.
The
move towards elected local government will most probably be messy and
convoluted, pushed and pulled in every direction by interest groups. What
emerges ought to have greater legitimacy than previous efforts, however, owing
to the fact it would be authored by elected provincial legislators.
Back
at the shed, I ask Kaleem why he thinks Jawed does it, an ousted public
official serving locals for no personal gain. Kaleem shrugs his shoulders,
“Maybe, he hopes that if the LG system comes back they will remember. Maybe
they will vote for him again.”
The
writer is an Associate Fellow at the Sustainable Development Policy Institute.
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