Faith Without Accountability: Reflections on Moral Erosion in Pakistan

Growing up in Germany as someone of Pakistani origin has given me the uneasy privilege of distance: close enough to understand the cultural and religious language of Pakistan, yet far enough to observe its moral trajectory with comparative clarity. Over time, that distance has turned into a growing sense of despair. What troubles me most is not poverty, instability, or even political dysfunction in isolation, but a deeper erosion of ethical sensibility - one that has increasingly been masked, rather than remedied, by religious expression.

Corruption and moral ambiguity in Pakistani society are often explained away through external causes, most prominently colonialism. Yet this explanation feels intellectually insufficient. The subcontinent’s encounter with British rule undeniably reshaped its institutions, but it did not invent moral laxity. In fact, the British introduced codified legal systems, bureaucratic procedures, and formal education - mechanisms that restrain arbitrary power. The deeper moral patterns that continue to afflict Pakistan predate colonialism by centuries. Pre-modern governance in South Asia relied heavily on patronage, discretionary authority, and personalized loyalty. Offices were treated as privileges, justice as negotiable, and public duty as inseparable from private gain. Such norms survived successive political transformations with remarkable resilience.

What distinguishes Pakistan’s postcolonial experience is not merely institutional weakness, but the way morality itself has been framed. Ethical transgressions are frequently interpreted through a theological lens rather than a civic one. Wrongdoing becomes a sin rather than a violation of trust; repentance replaces restitution; intention eclipses consequence. This framing is particularly corrosive in a society where institutions are already fragile. When moral failure is understood primarily as a private matter between the individual and God, social accountability weakens. Harm inflicted upon others is morally downgraded, because it can be symbolically erased through repentance or ritual.

This tendency was significantly amplified during the Islamization drive of General Zia-ul-Haq in the late 1970s and 1980s. Zia’s project did not merely introduce religious laws; it reoriented the moral vocabulary of the state. Legal codes were infused with religious symbolism, public piety was elevated as a marker of legitimacy, and ethical discourse was increasingly moralized in theological terms. Yet this process did not produce a more ethical society. On the contrary, it deepened the gap between outward religiosity and inward accountability. Public displays of faith flourished while everyday dishonesty, abuse of power, and moral cynicism became normalized. Religion, instead of acting as an ethical restraint, became a form of moral insulation.

One of the most revealing manifestations of this phenomenon is the cultural pride attached to acts of pilgrimage. Performing the Hajj, or visiting Shiite holy sites such as Karbala and Najaf, is often spoken of not merely as a spiritual milestone but as a moral reset. There is a widely held belief that these journeys “wash away” past sins, regardless of their social consequences. I have repeatedly encountered individuals who speak openly of corrupt practices, exploitation, or cruelty, yet express serene confidence that a pilgrimage has cleansed their moral ledger. The implication is deeply troubling: ethical failure is temporary and reversible, while the harm done to others is permanent and largely irrelevant. In such a moral economy, repentance substitutes for responsibility, and ritual replaces reform.

Comparing this with the societies I grew up in only intensifies the sense of loss. Many of the least corrupt societies in the world are not particularly religious. Their moral coherence does not stem from shared belief in divine judgment, but from strong institutions, predictable enforcement, and deeply internalized norms of accountability. Ethical behavior is expected not because God is watching, but because society is. Shame attaches to the breach of trust itself, not merely to the violation of a religious rule. This produces a form of morality that is mundane, procedural, and remarkably effective.

Pakistan’s tragedy is that it has moved in the opposite direction. As institutions weakened, religiosity intensified - but in a way that displaced, rather than reinforced, ethical responsibility. Moral language became louder as moral practice deteriorated. For someone like me, raised between two worlds, this dissonance has been devastating. I no longer recognize the moral confidence with which Pakistani society speaks, because it is so often detached from lived ethical reality. The pride in piety coexists with indifference to injustice; the rhetoric of righteousness masks a profound erosion of trust.

This is where my loss of hope begins. A society can recover from poverty, instability, even violence. It is far harder to recover from a moral framework that no longer recognizes accountability as a social obligation. When wrongdoing is endlessly redeemable through ritual, there is little incentive to change behavior. When ethics are outsourced to the divine, the human cost becomes invisible. Pakistan’s crisis, then, is not merely political or economic. It is moral in the deepest sense: a failure to anchor ethical life in responsibility toward others rather than reassurance before God.

As someone of Pakistani origin, I write this not out of hostility, but out of mourning. The society I observe today appears trapped in a cycle where faith substitutes for ethics, symbolism replaces substance, and hope is deferred to the hereafter. Without a fundamental reorientation - from forgiveness without consequence to accountability with dignity - the erosion will continue. And with it, the quiet disappearance of any credible moral future.