I heard the prime minister proclaim, “People from other countries would come here looking for jobs.” Falling for his ideological premise, I took its literal meaning, and my patriotism pushed me back to Pakistan after the completion of my postgraduate degree from the world’s top-150 ranked university rather than attempting to find work or inducting in a PhD programme there. Though I had been cautioned by some that unemployment rates in Pakistan were on the verge of an unprecedented rise, from 6.07 to 6.74 percent in 2019, according to the IMF, I returned blindly believing that it wouldn’t matter because the prime minister had reiterated that “people from other countries” would come for jobs. My job hunt began in many organisations, from one to another, but without one essential ingredient: ‘reference’. Well, I may have had that, or maybe not, depending on what a reference is, to begin with. Stemming from the word ‘refer, it seems patent that reference should imply someone referring you for something, but that someone should know you ‘professionally’ since profession is hypothesised here. For a fresh graduate, the apparent references are that of their university professors. But little did my experience made me comprehend that the role of a teacher in Pakistan ends where they mark your final grade with a red marker, and the rest is on ‘others’ to decide, for which the judgement of your professor hardly matters. Let me complete our prime minister’s sentence: people from other countries would come looking for jobs but “after not finding any, they would go back” It was soon revealed that the reference I took the meaning for was not the reference I was supposed to have. Perhaps, here is the thin line between the two seemingly interchangeable words: ‘sifarish’ and reference. After never being called for an interview anywhere, eventually, I walked into my university-from where I did my undergraduate-after excitedly reading an opening for visiting lecturers, without any doubt of making it due to good grades and repute within the faculty. All I needed was an interview to prove my worth, and fortunately, or unfortunately, I did get an interview. After taking tips from past instructors about how interviews should go, I had rigorously prepared myself for all sorts of scenarios but one. I wore my brown suit, with a pin of Pakistan’s flag on the lapel, firmly determined to play my part in enlightening the fellow youth of my country. It was something I had always dreamt of. But as I walked into the interview room after a wait of four hours I was in for a shock. The subject I had applied for and had prepared for the last few weeks had numerous ‘senior’ applicants. I was not shortlisted for that, or for another of which I was never informed, and I had never studied it throughout my educational career. Two or three questions, which of course I could not answer, about that unknown subject, was what that staged ‘interview’ all about. Within a minute it was over. And there I was, outside the room with the flag on my coat. I had been preparing for the interview for months. I had good reasons, passion, enthusiasm and drive to do something for my country. But no one asked why I wanted that job, why I was there, why I was back. Perhaps I needed to ask myself those questions again. Let me complete our prime minister’s sentence: people from other countries would come looking for jobs but “after not finding any, they would go back.” If that is not the case, why do so many of my countrymen wish to go abroad on the very first opportunity they find? People like Shaukat Aziz, Hafeez Sheikh, or recently, Tania Aidrus, are gloried as the ones coming back to serve their nation. But sometimes, they return to their American or European dreams after holding key offices; to extrapolate the image that people come back to Pakistan is inexact. The reason for this belief is also a bottom-to-top approach rather than the other way. At this moment, one also wonders: where is Dr Imran Malik? The doctor who stood at a lake promising to return to Pakistan. To convince people to stay we need a good system, a system that gives equal chances and equal opportunities across the board. I was immensely disturbed to have that experience in the institution that has the best meritocracy system within itself running that university in such an unfair fashion. What happened to me at that university was not very uncommon as friends and family tell me, so maybe I was naïve, but I want to stay naïve if accepting this reality is what not being naïve looks like. It is time to wake up from this constant stupor to the principles of the great Quaid whose symbolic photo hangs in every second office, and who did not let his relative’s son practice law where he did, for he knew people would unconsciously favour him. That is the kind of the leader our state needs. The country has already seen many speakers; deliverance of merit is what we desire now, especially of fresh graduates. Let’s put our hearts, rather than words, at the right place. The writer is a public speaker and a social media skits producer