Every morning while driving along Mall Road, Lahore, my eyes often fall on a large public awareness board installed by the Child Protection and Welfare Bureau. The message on the board is clear and reassuring. It carries a helpline number and encourages citizens to report if they see a child in distress or in need of protection. The board represents the promise of the state. It tells us that institutions exist, laws exist, and there is a system meant to protect vulnerable children. For a brief moment, the message creates a sense of comfort, as if society has not forgotten its responsibility toward those who are most fragile.
But only a few meters before that board, there is a traffic signal that quietly tells another story.
When the red light stops the cars, a small child walks between the vehicles holding a tiny box of matches. The child gently taps on the windows of cars and softly asks drivers to buy one. Anyone who observes carefully understands what is really happening. The matchbox is only a pretext. The child is not truly selling matches; the child is asking for help. The clothes are dusty, the face carries the marks of hardship, and the eyes reflect a seriousness that childhood should never have to carry. Within seconds the signal turns green, engines start, and cars move forward. Yet the child remains there, waiting for the next red light and the next brief chance to survive another moment.
Why does the system seem so distant from the very children it was meant to protect?
Every time I witness this scene, the same question quietly rises in my mind. If the Child Protection and Welfare Bureau exists, if laws against child labour and exploitation are part of our legal framework, and if the state repeatedly assures the public that children will be protected, then why is a child still standing at the traffic signal on Mall Road, Lahore? Why has the system not reached this child yet? But the more one reflects, the more it becomes clear that this is not the story of a single signal or a single child. The same scene unfolds across countless intersections in our cities. At almost every red light, a child appears between rows of cars, carrying something small to sell, sometimes matches, sometimes flowers, sometimes simply empty hands stretched toward strangers. It is a scene repeated so often that it has quietly become part of the rhythm of urban life. What I witness on Mall Road is merely one moment in a much larger picture, a picture that raises an uncomfortable question about whether the systems designed to protect children are truly reaching those who need them most. If protection is promised in policy and announced on public boards, then why does the reality at so many traffic signals still look the same? Why does the system seem so distant from the very children it was meant to protect. Pakistan does not lack laws meant to protect children. Over the years, several legal frameworks have been introduced to prevent child labour, forced begging, and exploitation. Institutions have been created to rescue vulnerable children and provide them with shelter, education, and rehabilitation. Awareness campaigns regularly remind citizens that they should report cases of abuse or neglect.
The intention to protect vulnerable communities appears to exist.
But the child standing at the signal does not experience intentions.
That child experiences reality.
Instead of preparing for school in the morning, that child stands in the middle of a busy road surrounded by traffic and noise. Instead of carrying books or a school bag, the child carries a small matchbox. Instead of worrying about homework or exams, the child worries about whether someone inside one of the cars might show kindness before the signal changes. Childhood, which should be a time of learning, play, and hope, slowly turns into a daily struggle for survival.
This is where the real issue begins to reveal itself. The problem is not simply the absence of laws or institutions. The deeper problem lies in implementation. In our society we often announce initiatives with great enthusiasm. We establish departments, create policies, and launch awareness campaigns. Boards are placed in prominent places to remind people that the system exists. Yet the real test of governance is not the announcement of policies but the effect they have on people’s lives.
A board cannot rescue a child.
A helpline number written on a sign cannot remove a child from the street.
Only consistent action can do that.
The scene at the traffic signal is also a reflection of society itself. Hundreds of vehicles stop there every day. Some drivers lower their windows and give the child a few coins. Some buy the matchbox even though they do not need it. Others look away, unsure how to respond. For a few seconds, everyone sees the same uncomfortable reality. Yet when the signal turns green, life moves on and the moment disappears.
But the child remains there.
Waiting.
Children standing at traffic signals have gradually become a familiar sight in many of our cities. So familiar that many people have stopped questioning it. But it should never feel normal. Every child on the street represents a childhood interrupted and a protection system that has not yet fulfilled its promise.
The board on Mall Road promises protection.
The child at the signal quietly asks whether that promise is real.
Perhaps the true measure of governance is not how many announcements are made or how many boards are installed. The real measure lies in whether the most vulnerable members of society actually feel protected. Until the day arrives when no child has to walk between cars asking strangers for help, that board on Mall Road, Lahore will continue to stand not just as a message but as a question.
The writer is a legal researcher, specialising in law, public policy, and politics, with a particular focus on governance, institutional reform, and accountability.