G.M. Sikandar’s death on August 6 marks more than the loss of a distinguished civil servant. It signals the closure of an era when public service carried moral conviction in Pakistan.
Jean Giono wrote that a truly exceptional character reveals itself over the years-through quiet generosity, without egoism, and by leaving a lasting mark on the earth. He spoke of a fictional shepherd who transformed a barren valley by planting trees. Sikandar was shepherded, sowing seeds of integrity in Pakistan’s civil service. Born in the Shigar district of Gilgit-Baltistan, where the Karakoram and Himalayas converge in a cathedral of stone and sky, he was shaped upright, unyielding, and rooted in service by the very terrain of the valleys carved by glaciers and silence.
Like Giono’s shepherd who quietly transformed a barren valley through decades of planting trees, Sikandar’s career stretches over 39 years cultivating integrity in a system between virtue and vice. He stood firm in a bureaucracy often wrapped by political storms. His service was rooted, like the pine trees of his birthplace that hold their ground against the winds.
Today’s bureaucracy often reflects what Husain calls “the politicization of appointments and transfers,” where postings depend more on connections than competence.
Each posting became a foundation for institutional reform. As Punjab chief secretary, Sikandar steered the province’s bureaucracy with quiet confidence, introducing internal reforms that are still cited today. Like the shepherd’s trees that flourished, he believed in nurturing young officers and leading by example-planting seeds of integrity through action. His work was not spectacle but devotion-each administrative decision an acorn planted.
Giono’s shepherd understood that “the only certain thing is that the act of planting a tree is a supremely useful act.” He worked without audience, or recognition, transforming barren hillsides through decades of patient labour. G.M. Sikandar embodied this same philosophy-service defined by quiet humility and selflessness. He returned calls from junior staff and mentored young officers with patience.
The shepherd’s trees eventually attracted birds, then animals, then streams, creating cascades of an entire ecosystem. What distinguished Sikandar was this same generative approach to governance-his ability to humanise power through quiet acts of renewal. Without fanfare or praise, he would ensure that neglected regions like his native Shigar received medicine shipments, scholarships, and federal attention to public infrastructure. His legacy lives not in monuments but in these transformed lives, creating ripple effects throughout Pakistan’s civil service much like the shepherd’s valley bloomed with new life.
Those who rose through the ranks under his mentorship say they never encountered a more compassionate leader. His philosophy was simple yet revolutionary: “Service is not controlled. It is compassion.” In a system that often rewards extraction, he chose cultivation-understanding that true leadership, like the shepherd’s work, nurtures ecosystems that sustain long after the planter is gone. Dr. Ishrat Husain’s “Governing the Ungovernable” chronicles Pakistan’s administrative decay, gradual erosion where political expediency replaced professional merit and short-term gains trumped institutional integrity. The civil service that once produced officers of high calibre has increasingly become a playground for patronage and political manoeuvring.
Today’s bureaucracy often reflects what Husain calls “the politicisation of appointments and transfers,” where postings depend more on connections than competence. The systematic undermining of the Central Superior Services, the lateral entry of political appointees, and the erosion of job security have created an environment where survival often trumps service. G.M. Sikandar belonged to a generation that saw state service as a moral responsibility. Bureaucracy, to them, was the permanent government-meant to provide continuity across shifting political regimes. Sikandar’s career unfolded in a deeply politicised environment, where neutrality was often compromised, yet he remained steadfast in his principles.
His death marks not just the loss of an individual but the vanishing of a star-one that understood public service as a sacred trust rather than a career opportunity.
We are locked in a constant battle with ourselves-between the self that savours accomplishment and the self that savours inner strength and consistency. A conflict between our resume and eulogy virtues: the one who believes our motto is success and the one who knows our purpose is love, redemption, and return. In this internal struggle, we often slip into a sort of mediocrity, caught between two competing visions of what makes a life worthwhile. David Brooks writes that résumé virtues are what we bring to the marketplace, but eulogy virtues are what we leave behind in the hearts of others. G.M. Sikandar’s life was a masterclass in the latter. His life was not a résumé-it was a moral bucket list fulfilled. His legacy is not a career path, but a compass for those who still believe that public service can be noble.
The Roman Stoic philosopher Seneca believed that “the willing, destiny guides them; the unwilling, destiny drags them.” Sikandar chose his destiny-to serve with integrity in an age of compromise, understanding that human worth is measured not by what we accumulate, but by what we leave growing in our wake. His death represents what Seneca called the eternal cycle: “every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end”-the end of an era when public service carried moral weight, yet also the beginning of urgent questions about what kind of civil service Pakistan needs.
Like Giono’s shepherd, he understood that true immortality lies not in monuments but in renewal-in forests that grow, streams that flow, and civil servants who remember that their highest calling is not career advancement but service to humanity. Now, as Pakistan’s civil service grows hollow with politicisation and patronage, the death of G.M. Sikandar feels like the felling of a pine-one that had weathered decades of storms. In Gilgit-Baltistan, the trees still stand. But in the corridors of power, fewer remain who remember how to grow tall without casting shadows. G.M. Sikandar was good but what does that goodness mean in a country losing its moral centre?
The writer is a freelance columnist based in Lahore.