Muhammad Azim Khan Afridi

The Journey Begins

Following my earlier note expressing my intention to share the story of my life and experiences, I now begin that journey by sharing the Preface to my autobiography, From the Tribal Frontier to the Capital: An Autobiographical Journey Through Law, Justice and the Rule of Law. This is not merely an account of the positions I have held, the offices I have occupied, or the places through which life has taken me. It is an attempt to reflect upon the experiences, people, institutions, challenges and lessons that have shaped my life—from the tribal frontier of Darra Adam Khel to the wider worlds of education, law and the judiciary, and ultimately to the Islamabad High Court, followed by my present life as a practising lawyer. The journey has taken me through very different worlds: from the mountainous frontier, where roads climbed over barren hills and wound through narrow passes, to the broad and fertile plains of Peshawar, where the landscape opened into a spacious valley; from the traditions and social order of the tribal areas to the disciplined and intellectually vibrant environment of Islamia College Peshawar; and from the study and practice of law to the District Judiciary. From the mountains of the frontier, I travelled through the open plains of Peshawar and eventually arrived in Islamabad—a city nestled beneath the green Margalla Hills. Its wide avenues, carefully planned sectors and abundant greenery presented a landscape of order, openness and tranquility. To me, Islamabad was not merely another city; it represented a remarkable transformation in the landscape of my life—from the ruggedness of the frontier to the planned serenity of the capital. There, I began a new chapter of my life: to assume judicial office and exercise the constitutional jurisdiction of the Islamabad High Court. Each stage brought its own experiences, challenges, opportunities and lessons. I share these reflections with humility, not with the claim that my journey is extraordinary, but with the hope that the experiences of one individual may offer some insight into the changing face of our society, our institutions and our justice system. There will be memories of people who influenced my life, institutions that shaped my thinking, events that tested my resolve, and moments that, in retrospect, acquired a significance I could not have understood at the time. Above all, this is the story of a journey—from a remote tribal setting to the capital of the country, through education, law and judicial service, and eventually back to the profession of law. I now invite you to walk this journey with me. The journey begins.

Chapter 1

My School Era

In the years of my childhood, education in the tribal territories was far from being a priority. Poverty, scarcity and deprivation were among the many obstacles confronting those who aspired to acquire an education. The few government schools that existed in the area operated under difficult circumstances, and the environment was often hardly conducive to learning. For many families, education was a secondary concern when compared with the immediate demands of daily life. In a community where resources were limited and children were often expected to assist their families from an early age, sending a child to school was itself an achievement. Continuing education beyond the elementary level required financial means, determination and, perhaps most importantly, a belief in the value of education that was not yet widespread. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where my father understood that education could open a door to a different future. The government school I attended was modest in its facilities and resources. Like many schools in remote areas, it functioned with limitations that would be difficult to imagine in better-developed educational environments. I do not wish, however, to diminish the efforts of the teachers who served there. Many of them worked under difficult conditions and with limited resources. Their presence in such remote areas was itself important. Without them, the few educational opportunities available to children like me would have been even more limited. At the same time, the qualifications and professional preparation of some teachers were modest. The educational system of those days did not always provide teachers with the subject-specific training that effective teaching required. Some teachers were expected to teach subjects for which their own academic preparation was limited. I remember one incident that illustrates this limitation and still brings a smile to my face. A teacher was assigned the responsibility of teaching us grammar. During one lesson, he began explaining the meaning of a noun. He adopted his own method of explanation, but as he proceeded, his explanation seemed to lead him into some difficulty. For a moment, he appeared uncertain about how to complete the lesson satisfactorily. Then, as though inspiration had suddenly come to his rescue, he pointed towards the sky and then towards the ground. He explained, in substance, that everything beneath the sky and above the earth was a noun. As children, we accepted the explanation with the seriousness with which pupils generally receive the words of a teacher. We had neither the knowledge to challenge it nor, probably, the courage to do so. I remember the incident today with affection and amusement. The definition was obviously not a grammatical definition of a noun, but the incident illustrates the educational environment in which we studied. Teachers sometimes had to depend upon their own limited knowledge and ingenuity, and the system did not always provide the specialised preparation necessary for effective teaching. There were occasions when teachers with relatively modest academic qualifications were entrusted with subjects requiring specialised knowledge. Science, mathematics and subjects such as physiology and hygiene were sometimes taught in circumstances where adequate subject-specific preparation was not always available. Yet I would hesitate to judge those teachers entirely by the standards of a later age. They were themselves products of an educational system with considerable limitations. Many served in remote areas where facilities were rudimentary, professional support was scarce and the conditions of service were difficult. Some nevertheless left a lasting impression upon their pupils through their sincerity, personal conduct and concern for their students. When I look back upon my primary school years, I remember many of my teachers with affection. I also remember the sticks and canes that some of them regarded as legitimate instruments of discipline. Corporal punishment was not viewed with the same disapproval that it would attract today. The prevailing belief was that strict discipline was an essential part of education and that fear of punishment could encourage a reluctant child to study. Students who showed little inclination towards their studies were therefore sometimes subjected to such discipline. Not surprisingly, however, punishment did not always produce the intended result. Some children preferred to avoid school altogether. Rather than face the teacher's cane, they would disappear for the day into the nearby barren areas and hills. Others gradually lost interest in education and eventually abandoned their schooling. The challenge of keeping children in school was therefore much greater than simply providing a school building. It involved overcoming poverty, family circumstances, inadequate facilities, limited educational awareness and, in some cases, the children's own reluctance to remain within the classroom. For a child growing up in such an environment, continuing education beyond the basic level was not necessarily an obvious or predetermined path. Many children around me did not continue their studies. Some left school because their families needed them. Others were discouraged by poverty or distance. Some simply saw little connection between education and the life they expected to lead. The world around us offered few examples of what education might ultimately achieve. In such circumstances, a child's aspirations are often shaped by what he sees around him. If the people he knows have never travelled beyond their immediate surroundings, higher education can appear distant and almost unimaginable. My father, however, saw things differently. He understood that education could provide an opportunity to transcend the limitations of geography and circumstance. He repeatedly encouraged me to continue my studies even when the surrounding environment did not necessarily support such ambitions. His insistence became an important force in my early life. At that stage, I did not fully understand the significance of what he was asking of me. I simply knew that my father wanted me to study and that he regarded education as important. Gradually, however, his belief became my own. As I progressed through school, I began to understand that education was not merely about passing examinations or obtaining certificates. It was opening a world that had previously been invisible to me. Books introduced me to places I had never seen and ideas I had never encountered. Education gradually widened the boundaries of my imagination. The mountains of Darra Adam Khel had defined the physical horizon of my childhood. Education began to expand that horizon in my mind. I began to appreciate that the circumstances into which a person is born need not necessarily determine the circumstances in which he will spend the rest of his life. This was perhaps the first great lesson that education gave me. I had been born in a remote tribal environment where opportunities were limited. But education was showing me that the world was considerably larger than the world I knew. My father's insistence on education therefore became one of the most important influences of my childhood. He did not merely want me to attend school. He wanted me to continue my education and create possibilities beyond those immediately available to us. At a time when many children in our area left school early, his insistence required both conviction and persistence. Looking back, I realise how important that decision was. My father could not change the circumstances into which I had been born, but he believed that education could enable me to rise beyond them. His expectation gradually became my aspiration. Completing my schooling therefore meant much more to me than obtaining an educational qualification. It represented the opening of a door. The world beyond Darra Adam Khel was beginning to become imaginable. By the time I completed my secondary education, I had begun to look beyond the mountains that had defined my childhood. I had developed an interest in continuing my studies and discovering what lay beyond the familiar world in which I had grown up. Thus, in 1975, having completed my primary and secondary education in Darra Adam Khel, I was ready to leave for Islamia College Peshawar. The decision marked the end of one stage of my life and the beginning of another. Until then, the mountains of Darra Adam Khel had been the boundaries of my physical world. Education had begun to remove those boundaries from my mind. I was about to discover how far that journey could take me.

Chapter 2

Lessons Beyond the Classroom

School was only one part of my education. Much of what shaped my outlook on life was learnt not from textbooks or teachers, but from the unique society in which I grew up. Darra Adam Khel was a classroom of a different kind. Its rugged mountains, strong traditions, and deeply rooted institutions exposed me from an early age to unwritten lessons about honour, authority, responsibility, and human conduct. At the time, I did not recognize them as lessons. They were simply part of my daily life. It was only decades later that I understood how deeply those early impressions had influenced my understanding of justice and society. Growing up, the family and the tribe occupied the centre of an individual's existence. Relationships carried heavy obligations. The conduct of a single person could enhance or damage the reputation of an entire family or tribe. In such an environment, honour was never an abstract concept. It was part of everyday life and influenced how people spoke, behaved, and resolved disputes. At the apex of this social structure stood the elders. Their authority did not come from a government office, a badge, or a formal title. It rested upon age, experience, family standing, and, above all, the confidence placed in them by the community. They were regarded as guardians of communal harmony. They protected tribal honour and intervened whenever the social order was threatened. As a child, I accepted this arrangement without question. It was simply the way the world around me functioned. Many of the values I absorbed during those years were admirable. Hospitality: A guest was received generously and treated with dignity. Loyalty: Commitment to family and community was considered an important obligation. Dignity: Courage was respected, while personal honour was regarded as an essential part of one's identity. These values became part of my character long before I had the maturity to understand them intellectually. They instilled in me a lasting respect for others, a sense of responsibility, and an appreciation for human dignity. But society, like the individuals who live in it, is rarely entirely consistent. Even as a child, I occasionally encountered conduct that seemed to contradict the very values that society professed. One particular incident remains permanently etched in my memory. It was a moment that made me wonder, perhaps for the first time, about the gap between what people profess and what they actually practice. That experience would leave a lasting impression on me. It taught me that the real character of a society cannot always be understood from the principles it claims to uphold. Sometimes, it is revealed more clearly by the contradictions between those principles and everyday conduct. That was a lesson I would understand much more deeply many years later. The incident that disturbed my childhood understanding of the world was simple, yet profoundly confusing to a young boy. On one occasion, I noticed that people in our community, who were otherwise expected to avoid wrongdoing, were openly gambling and placing bets. It bewildered me. I had grown up hearing constantly about honour, discipline, and the importance of protecting the reputation of the family. How, then, could such conduct take place openly in the very same community that claimed to disapprove of it? What puzzled me even more was that our area was not without authority. Frontier Region Kohat was administered under the authority of the Political Administration. At that time, the system of administration was distinctive. Government officials, including the Political Tehsildar and the Assistant Political Agent, exercised considerable formal authority. Alongside this official structure existed the powerful influence of tribal customs and elders. I did not understand the legal and administrative complexities of this dual system. I only knew that government officials possessed authority and that elders possessed influence. So I asked myself a simple question: If authority existed, why were activities that violated our social and moral norms allowed to continue? When I asked adults about it, the explanation I heard was even more disturbing. I was told that the posting of senior administrative officers involved heavy unofficial expenses and that certain illegal practices were tolerated to generate money to meet those expenses. I cannot vouch for the accuracy of that explanation today. I record it only as I remember hearing it as a young boy. But the impression it left on me was permanent. What stayed with me was not the gambling itself. It was the contradiction between authority and practice. The rules existed. The authorities existed. Yet reality did not always correspond with what those rules required. As a child, I did not have the vocabulary to describe what I was witnessing. I could not speak of institutional integrity, administrative accountability, or the gap between law and its implementation. But I had begun to notice something deeper and more troubling. The Political Administration was ostensibly established to maintain order and regulate society. Yet, from what I observed and heard around me, its interference with the traditional system could sometimes produce consequences very different from those intended. I did not understand these matters in legal or constitutional terms at that age. I simply sensed that the existence of authority did not necessarily mean that authority was being properly exercised. That realization stayed with me. Growing up at the crossroads of two forms of authority, the formal authority of the State and the traditional authority of the tribe, taught me an important lesson. Authority is not sustained by an office or a title alone. Its legitimacy ultimately depends upon the confidence of the people and the manner in which it is exercised. When a formal system is imposed upon a traditional one without properly understanding its social structure, it can sometimes create tensions and loopholes that undermine the very values it seeks to protect. Decades later, when I entered the legal profession and eventually the judiciary, I spent much of my life dealing with statutes, constitutional principles, institutions, and public power. But the foundation of that journey did not begin in a courtroom. Its beginnings lay much earlier, among the rugged mountains of Darra Adam Khel, where I first began observing the complicated relationship between authority, society, morality, and human conduct. The world outside the classroom had taught me one of its most important lessons: What an institution is supposed to do and what it actually does can sometimes be two very different things. That early lesson would remain with me throughout my journey in law and justice.

Chapter 3

My Father's Vision for My Future

If I were asked to name the person who most profoundly influenced the direction of my early life, my answer would be simple: my father. I was born into circumstances that could easily have defined the boundaries of my future. Darra Adam Khel was remote, educational opportunities were limited, and the world beyond our mountains seemed distant from the lives of most children growing up there. But my father saw beyond those boundaries. At a time when education was not always regarded as a pathway to a different life, he understood its importance. He did not merely want me to go to school. He wanted me to continue my education. That distinction changed the course of my life. For many families in our area, sending a child to school was itself considered an achievement. Once a child acquired basic literacy, family responsibilities, traditional occupations and the practical demands of life often took precedence. Higher education belonged to a distant and uncertain world. My father did not see it that way. He believed that education could alter the direction of a person's life. He understood that the circumstances of one's birth did not have to become the circumstances of one's destiny. I did not fully understand the depth of that belief when I was a child. At that age, my father's insistence seemed like the ordinary insistence of a parent who wanted his son to study. It was only much later, after I had travelled far beyond the surroundings of my childhood, that I realised how farsighted his expectations had been. My father belonged to a generation whose life was largely shaped by family, tribe, tradition and the realities of the local environment. Yet he possessed a quality that was less common around us: he was willing to look beyond the world he knew. He understood that the world was changing and that education would increasingly determine the opportunities available to the next generation. His ambition for me was therefore not simply that I should become literate or obtain a respectable occupation. He wanted education to widen my horizons. He wanted me to see possibilities beyond what was immediately visible. He wanted me to believe that the mountains surrounding Darra Adam Khel were my home, but did not have to be the boundary of my aspirations. Looking back, I believe that this is one of the greatest gifts a parent can give a child: not merely an opportunity, but the confidence to believe that the opportunity exists. My father's confidence gradually became my own. As a child, the mountains of Darra Adam Khel defined my physical world. I knew their paths, their contours and their familiar surroundings. They were beautiful and deeply connected with my childhood. But beyond them lay a world I knew only through stories, books and imagination. Education slowly changed that. Books introduced me to places I had never seen. Lessons introduced me to ideas that were absent from everyday life around me. The more I studied, the more I began to realise that the world was much larger than the one visible from the mountains of my childhood. My father's insistence had given me the opportunity to discover that larger world. I gradually began to understand that education was more than a means of securing employment. It could change the way a person looked at himself and at the world around him. It could create confidence, broaden understanding and make distant possibilities seem attainable. That realisation became increasingly important as I progressed through school. My father was not a man who needed elaborate speeches to make his point. His influence was expressed through expectation, persistence and example. He expected me to study. He expected me to continue. And, perhaps most importantly, he believed that I could. For a child, such belief can be transformative. When someone you trust believes that you are capable of going further, you begin to question the limitations that circumstances appear to place before you. Looking back, I realise that whenever my surroundings seemed to suggest that my ambitions should remain modest, my father's expectations pointed in the opposite direction. He had given me a different way of looking at my circumstances. I had not chosen the place into which I was born. But I gradually came to understand that I did not have to accept that place as the limit of what I could become. There came a time when my father's expectation ceased to be merely his expectation and became my own aspiration. I no longer wanted to continue my education simply because my father wanted me to. I had begun to want it for myself. That was an important moment. A parent can open a door, but ultimately the child must choose to walk through it. I began to walk. By the time I approached the completion of my secondary education, continuing my studies had become more than an ambition. It had become a direction. I was beginning to look beyond Darra Adam Khel. I did not yet know where that road would lead. I could not have imagined that the boy growing up among those mountains would one day enter the legal profession, serve in the judiciary and occupy constitutional office. Those possibilities were far beyond the horizon of my childhood. But the first step towards them had already been taken. It began with my father's belief in education. By 1975, I had completed my secondary education. For a young man growing up in Darra Adam Khel, reaching that stage was itself a significant achievement. But completing school brought with it a question that would shape the next chapter of my life: What next? For me, the answer was Islamia College Peshawar. Today, the decision may appear simple: after school, I would continue my education in Peshawar. But at the time, it meant something much more profound. It was the first major step away from the world in which I had been raised and into a world I knew only through imagination. Darra Adam Khel was not merely the place where I had spent my childhood. It was my first world. Its mountains, its people, its traditions and its distinctive way of life had shaped my understanding of family, community, loyalty and honour. The elders had taught me the values by which I had learned to distinguish right from wrong, while my family had instilled in me the importance of education, dignity and hard work. Those surroundings had given me my identity and my roots. Yet there comes a time in every young person's life when remaining within the familiar is no longer enough. Growth requires movement. It requires stepping beyond the boundaries of what one has always known and having the courage to enter a world that is larger and unfamiliar. That moment came for me after completing my secondary education. My father's vision for my future now required me to take the next step. He believed that education could open doors that our circumstances might otherwise keep closed. His confidence in education had gradually become a confidence within me: the belief that my future did not have to be confined by the circumstances of my birth. And so, I set out for Peshawar. I carried with me the lessons of my childhood and the values of my family. I also carried something less tangible but perhaps more important: my father's confidence that I could build a different future through education. At the time, I did not fully appreciate how deeply that confidence would influence the course of my life. Peshawar opened before me a world very different from the one I had known. Islamia College Peshawar was not simply another educational institution. It was a place associated with history, scholarship, culture and intellectual life. For a young student coming from the relatively remote environment of the tribal area, the transition was significant. Suddenly, the world seemed much larger. There were new people to meet, new ideas to encounter and new possibilities to consider. I began to discover that education was not merely about passing examinations. It could change the way one looked at society, one's own circumstances and the possibilities of one's future. The transition also taught me something about my own identity. I came to understand that moving into a wider world did not require me to abandon the world from which I had come. My roots remained important. The values I had learnt in Darra Adam Khel continued to accompany me, even as my understanding of the world expanded. The mountains had shaped my beginnings. Peshawar would shape the next stage of my education. I did not yet know where that education would eventually take me. I had no clear vision of a career in law, no expectation of becoming a judge, and certainly no thought that my journey might one day bring me into constitutional office. Those possibilities belonged to a future that was still invisible to me. At that stage, I was simply a young man who had been given an opportunity to study and was determined to make the most of it. Looking back many years later, I realise that the most consequential journeys in life do not always begin with dramatic decisions. Often, they begin quietly, with what appears at the time to be an ordinary choice. For me, the journey began with education. The decision to continue my studies in Peshawar was, in one sense, simply the natural next step after school. But in another sense, it marked the first great transition of my life. I was moving from the familiar to the unknown, from a small and closely connected world into a much broader social and intellectual environment. I did not know what I would encounter along the way. I knew only that I had to move forward. Leaving one's birthplace does not mean leaving behind everything it has given you. The mountains of Darra Adam Khel remained behind me physically, but the lessons I had learnt there travelled with me. The discipline of my upbringing, the traditions of my family, the teachings of the elders and my father's insistence upon education all became part of the foundation upon which I would build my future. My father could not change the circumstances into which I had been born. What he could do was refuse to allow those circumstances to define the limits of my aspirations. He had given me something more valuable than a promise of success. He had given me permission to aspire. I did not understand the full meaning of that gift at the time. I would understand it only much later, when I looked back upon the many turns my life had taken. The road ahead was still uncertain. There would be education, examinations, friendships, disappointments, opportunities and choices that I could not yet foresee. Eventually, that road would lead me to the law and, beyond the law, to the judiciary and the responsibilities that came with it. But none of that was visible to me then. All I could see was the next step. And that next step was Peshawar.

Chapter 4

Leaving the Mountains

Every journey has a point of departure. Mine was Darra Adam Khel. I was born and raised there, among mountains, tribal traditions, family relationships and a way of life that was simple in many respects, but demanding in others. The mountains were not merely the landscape of my childhood. They were the boundaries of the world I knew. My family gave me my first lessons in responsibility, respect and relationships. The elders of the community taught me the importance of honour and social obligation. The hardships of life taught me resilience. But, perhaps most importantly, my father's insistence on education gradually made me realise that there was a world beyond the mountains. As I progressed in my education, that world began to appear before me, first through books and lessons and then through the possibility of experiencing it myself. By the time I completed my secondary education, I had begun to understand that Darra Adam Khel was the place from which I had started, but it did not have to be the boundary of my future. In 1975, the next step required me to leave. I was to go to Peshawar for further education. For a young man raised in the relatively close and familiar world of Darra Adam Khel, leaving home was more than a change of residence. I was leaving behind familiar faces, familiar paths and the mountains that had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. There was excitement in the prospect of moving forward, but there was also uncertainty. I had no clear picture of what the future held. I could not have imagined that the road I was about to take would eventually lead to the legal profession, the Bar, the Bench and public service. At that moment, I was simply a young student taking the next step in his education. My destination was Islamia College Peshawar. To me, it represented far more than a college. Coming from Darra Adam Khel, entering its historic surroundings was like stepping into a much larger world. The atmosphere was different. The buildings, classrooms, teachers and students from different parts of the province exposed me to a social and intellectual environment I had never experienced before. At home, my world had been familiar and relatively intimate. At Islamia College, that world suddenly expanded. I met students from different districts and backgrounds. I encountered new ideas and new ways of looking at life. Conversations with fellow students and interaction with teachers gradually taught me that education was not merely about passing examinations. It was also about learning to understand people, ideas and experiences beyond one's own immediate surroundings. The transition was not instantaneous. I was learning how to adjust to a new environment while carrying with me the values and experiences of the world from which I had come. And I soon realised that I did not have to choose between my roots and my horizons. The mountains had given me resilience. My family had given me values. My community had given me a sense of responsibility. Islamia College was now giving me exposure to a wider world. These experiences were not contradictory. They were becoming parts of the same person. At that stage, I had no carefully defined ambition. The legal profession was still somewhere in the future. The idea of becoming a judge was even farther away. Public service and the responsibilities that would eventually accompany it were beyond my imagination. I was simply a young man who had left his home because his father believed that education could open doors. Looking back today, I realise that one of those doors had already opened. Leaving Darra Adam Khel was not a rejection of my past. I carried my roots with me. What changed was the horizon before me. The mountains had been the physical boundaries of my childhood. Islamia College began to enlarge the boundaries of my thinking. I did not know where the road would lead. But I had taken the first step. I had left the mountains, entered a wider world, and begun a journey whose destination I could not yet see.

Chapter 5

Islamia College Peshawar

Leaving Darra Adam Khel in 1975 and entering Islamia College Peshawar was one of the earliest great transitions of my life. Until then, my education and social life had developed within a relatively familiar environment. My family, my community, my school and the mountains around me had constituted the world I knew. Islamia College opened the door to a much wider world. It was not simply an educational institution. It was a place of history, culture, learning and intellectual life. For a young student coming from a remote tribal community, the experience was both exciting and, at times, overwhelming. The greatest change was not physical. It was social and intellectual. I was living in the college hostel and meeting students from different parts of the province and from very different social and educational backgrounds. I encountered people whose experiences, ambitions and ways of looking at life were different from those with which I had grown up. For the first time, I was living continuously in an environment where the world seemed much larger than the one I had known. The transition was not entirely effortless. I had to adjust to a new academic environment, hostel life, new friendships and the independence that came with living away from home. The hostel became an important part of my college years. It was a place of study, conversation, friendship and recreation. Students from different backgrounds lived together, shared their experiences and, in many cases, formed friendships that lasted long after their college days had ended. I was young, enthusiastic and naturally friendly. I enjoyed the company of my classmates and hostel fellows. There was also time for the ordinary pleasures of student life. I occasionally played cricket, while table tennis became a regular part of my routine. Looking back after so many years, these activities may appear insignificant. They were not. They gave balance to academic life and created friendships and memories that remain among the happiest recollections of those years. But the most lasting lessons of my college life came not only from books, classrooms and recreation. They also came from the people whom I met and the experiences to which I was exposed. Among the teachers who influenced me, Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah occupies a special place. When I first entered Islamia College, I was conscious that I had come from a comparatively modest educational background and that I had certain deficiencies in my academic preparation. Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah was among those who recognised that these deficiencies did not necessarily define my potential. His encouragement gave me confidence at a time when I needed it. His influence, however, extended beyond the classroom. He believed that the education of a young person should not be confined to academic instruction. He introduced us to people and environments from which we could learn about life, values and character. He would sometimes take us to the gatherings of the highly respected religious scholar Maulana Muhammad Ashraf Sahib. On other occasions, he took me to the residence of Maulana Faqir Muhammad Sahib, who was a Khalifa of Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanwi Sahib. Sitting in the majlis of these renowned religious scholars was a different kind of education. I became familiar with religious values and with a way of looking at life in which faith, character, manners and responsibility were closely connected. The discussions and the atmosphere of those gatherings impressed upon us that religion was not confined to formal observance. It also shaped how a person lived, how he treated others, how he controlled himself and how he discharged his responsibilities. Those sittings taught us, through both words and example, the way and manners of living and leading a good life. Looking back, I regard this experience as an important part of my formative education. The classroom was broadening my knowledge, the hostel was broadening my social experience, and the company of these scholars was deepening my understanding of values and character. Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah therefore influenced me in more ways than I realised at the time. He encouraged my academic development, but he also exposed me to people and ideas that helped shape my understanding of how a person ought to conduct himself. Among the many friendships I made at Islamia College, one has remained particularly close to my heart. My classmate and friend, Aqal Badshah, had been born with several physical disabilities, including the absence of both hands. Yet his physical limitations never stood in the way of his academic achievements. He consistently maintained an outstanding academic record and remained among the top students throughout his educational career. He had developed a remarkable way of writing. He held the pen between his arms and, through considerable practice and determination, took notes at a speed and with a neatness that often surprised everyone around him. To us, however, his disability was never the defining feature of who he was. He was simply an exceptionally capable student and a dear friend. One day, while a teacher was dictating notes in class, I was writing somewhat slowly. The teacher noticed this and admonished me for not keeping pace with the dictation. Almost at the same time, he praised Aqal Badshah for taking notes so quickly. I could not resist making what seemed to me a perfectly logical observation. In my defence, and perhaps also to enlighten the teacher and my classmates, I replied: For a moment there was silence. Then my friend, the teacher and several of my classmates burst into laughter. The laughter was not directed at my friend's physical condition. It was the unexpected logic, and perhaps the cheekiness, of my answer that made the moment amusing. My friend himself laughed along with us. It became one of those small classroom incidents that remain in one's memory long after the textbooks, examinations and lectures have been forgotten. Looking back, however, I remember that incident with more than simple amusement. Aqal Badshah's life was itself a lesson. He never allowed the absence of hands to become an excuse for surrendering to circumstances. He simply found another way to do what others considered ordinary and performed it with remarkable competence. His determination was not dramatic. He did not constantly draw attention to his difficulties. He simply got on with his life. That quiet determination impressed me. It taught me something that I would appreciate much more fully in later life: circumstances may limit our choices, but they do not necessarily determine our response to them. His subsequent career confirmed what we had already seen in him as students. He went on to serve in several prestigious positions, including as Deputy Commissioner and Ombudsman of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. His achievements were a continuation of the qualities we had witnessed during our college days: intelligence, determination, adaptability and character. I have often thought of him in later years. There are people who teach us through lectures and books. And there are people who teach us simply through the way they live. Aqal Badshah was one of the latter. For me, he remains not merely a cherished classmate and lifelong friend, but an enduring example of how determination, intellect and character can rise above physical limitations. My experience at Islamia College gradually taught me that education was not confined to lectures, textbooks and examinations. The College brought together young people with different backgrounds, interests and ambitions. Conversations with fellow students exposed me to ideas and experiences that I had not previously encountered. I began to understand that education also meant learning how to interact with people who were different from oneself. Coming from a traditional community, I carried with me habits and assumptions formed during childhood. I gradually learned to move comfortably among people from different backgrounds and to listen to views that were unfamiliar to me. This process of adjustment was itself an important part of my education. I had entered Islamia College carrying the world of Darra Adam Khel within me. I did not need to abandon that world. I needed to understand how to carry its good qualities into a larger one. The discipline of my upbringing, the importance attached to honour and relationships, the resilience developed through hardship and, above all, my father's insistence upon education became strengths that I carried into my new environment. The religious gatherings to which Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah introduced me added another dimension to this development. They strengthened my appreciation of faith, character, humility and proper conduct. Islamia College did not ask me to forget where I came from. It taught me how to move beyond it without losing it. And that was perhaps one of the most important lessons of my college years. By the time I had settled into college life, I had begun to realise that education was changing me in ways that I had not anticipated when I left Darra Adam Khel. The young student who had arrived from the mountains was gradually acquiring a broader outlook, greater confidence and a deeper understanding of the values by which he wished to live. That process of discovery would continue in the years ahead. When I entered Islamia College Peshawar in 1975, I knew that I had entered a world very different from the one I had known. I had come from Darra Adam Khel. I carried with me the values, habits and experiences of a tribal community, but I was also conscious that many of my new classmates had enjoyed educational opportunities that had not been available to me. At first, that difference was difficult to ignore. I knew that I had some catching up to do. But Islamia College gradually taught me one of the most important lessons of my life: A person's starting point does not necessarily determine his destination. The classroom was only one part of my education at Islamia College. Much of what I learned happened outside it. The hostel introduced me to students from different backgrounds and different parts of the province. Conversations continued long after classes had ended. Friendships developed over meals, games and ordinary hostel life. Cricket and table tennis provided their own lessons in competition, companionship and, occasionally, disappointment. I began to discover that people could grow up in very different circumstances and yet share many of the same hopes and ambitions. I learned to listen. I learned that the same issue could look completely different from another person's point of view. Most importantly, I began to understand that difference did not necessarily mean distance. My earlier life had taught me the importance of family, community, resilience and responsibility. Islamia College did not take those values away from me. Instead, it placed them in a much wider world. Among the teachers who influenced me, Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah occupies a special place in my memory. His influence extended beyond the classroom. He encouraged learning, but he also impressed upon us the importance of character and conduct. I did not realise at the time how deeply those lessons would remain with me. My academic journey at the College was not without difficulty. I knew where I had started, and I knew that some of my classmates had come with stronger educational foundations. There were moments when that difference could have become a source of discouragement. Instead, it became a challenge. With the encouragement of my teachers and sustained effort, I gradually caught up. And somewhere along the way, I discovered something that has remained with me throughout my life: Ability is not always something we are born with. It can also be developed through effort. A weak beginning does not have to remain a weak ending. A deficiency can be overcome. An opportunity, if taken seriously, can change the course of a person's life. Slowly, I stopped looking at my educational disadvantages as limitations. I began to see them as challenges that could be met. The greatest change was not in my academic record. It was in my mind. I began to believe that I could compete with those who had started with greater advantages. And I learned another lesson: Before a person can cross the limits imposed by his circumstances, he must first believe that those limits can be crossed. Islamia College was not simply another institution where I went to obtain an education. It had a history. It had traditions. It had produced generations of students who had gone on to serve in different professions and different walks of public life. As a young student, I did not fully understand the significance of being part of that tradition. I was simply trying to make the most of the opportunity that had come my way. Yet the College slowly changed my understanding of education. Education was not merely about obtaining a degree. Nor was it simply a means of securing employment. It was about enlarging one's understanding of the world. It was about developing the confidence to enter unfamiliar surroundings. And, ultimately, it was about preparing oneself to contribute something to society. That understanding would become increasingly important as my life progressed. There is one memory of Islamia College that I have always cherished. Many years after I had left the College, Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah, who was then serving as its Principal, gave me a commendation certificate. By that time, much of my professional journey had already unfolded. I had studied law. I had entered the profession. I had joined the judiciary. Yet when I read those words, I was no longer looking at myself as a judge or a lawyer. For a moment, I was once again the young student who had arrived at Islamia College from Darra Adam Khel. The certificate stated: I have preserved those words carefully. Not because they praise me, but because of what they represent. They brought together two points in my life that were separated by many years. At one end was the young man who had entered the College with educational deficiencies. At the other was the person who had gone on to study law and enter the judiciary. The certificate came from the very institution where that transformation had begun. That made the recognition particularly meaningful. With the passage of time, I have come to appreciate another truth: We sometimes discover the importance of a place in our lives only after we have travelled far enough away from it to look back. When I look back at my years at Islamia College, I do not remember only examinations and academic results. I remember people. I remember teachers who encouraged me. I remember classmates and hostel fellows who became friends. I remember conversations, laughter and youthful ambitions. I remember cricket and table tennis. I remember Aqal Badshah and the quiet determination with which he faced circumstances that might have defeated others. I remember the gatherings of religious scholars to which Professor Musarrat Hussain Shah introduced me. Those gatherings exposed me to discussions about faith, character and proper conduct and left impressions that remained with me. These memories are important to me because they remind me that education is never confined to books. Some of life's most enduring lessons are learned from people. Some are learned through friendship. Some through hardship. And some through simply observing how others live their lives. As my years at Islamia College drew towards their end, another question began to occupy my mind: What would I do with the education I had received? I was increasingly attracted towards law. I did not know then how central law would eventually become to my life. I could not have imagined that the road ahead would take me from the classroom to the Bar, from the Bar to the Bench, and eventually into different areas of public service. At that age, the future was still largely unknown. But one thing had become clear to me. I had been given an opportunity. I wanted to make full use of it. My father had brought me out of Darra Adam Khel. My family had given me values. My community had given me a sense of belonging. My teachers had encouraged me to learn. My encounters with religious scholars had strengthened my understanding of faith and conduct. And Islamia College had opened a much wider window onto the world. I had entered the College with a limited understanding of what lay beyond the world I had known. I was leaving it with the confidence to explore that world. My next destination was Khyber Law College, University of Peshawar. There I would move from general education to the formal study of law. Looking back today, I realise that the transition was not as sudden as it might appear. The questions that had quietly interested me since childhood were still there. Questions about authority. Questions about responsibility. Questions about fairness. Questions about the difference between what ought to happen and what actually happens. At Khyber Law College, those questions would acquire a new language. That language would be the language of law. But before becoming a lawyer, I was simply a young man discovering what education could do to a person's life. I had entered Islamia College as a student seeking an education. I left with broader horizons, lasting friendships and a growing sense of purpose. I had not yet found my destination. But I had begun to understand my direction. And sometimes, perhaps, that is how a journey really begins. The next chapter of my life would begin with law.

Chapter 6

Khyber Law College, Peshawar

By the time I left Islamia College, I had changed in ways I did not fully appreciate at the time. I had entered as a young student conscious of the educational disadvantages with which I had begun. I left with greater confidence, a wider outlook and, perhaps most importantly, the belief that I could move beyond the boundaries of the world in which I had grown up. But where should I go next? The answer gradually became clear. Law. I was drawn towards the study of law, although I could not then have imagined how completely it would eventually shape my life. The idea did not come from a carefully prepared career plan. It began rather casually, through people I happened to meet. During my years at Islamia College, some law students used to visit our hostel. They were from the tribal areas and came to meet their villagers who were studying there. Their visits were ordinary social occasions, but for me they became unexpectedly important. I would listen to them talking about their studies at law college, the cases they encountered, the courts they visited and the work lawyers did. There was something fascinating about the way they spoke. They seemed to move between two worlds. They understood the concerns of their villagers, yet they were also learning the language of courts, statutes and legal rights. Their conversations gave me my first real glimpse of law, not simply as a subject of study, but as a profession through which a person could serve people from his own community. I became increasingly interested. Perhaps it was because I came from the same environment. Perhaps it was because I had grown up seeing disputes, elders, customs and community decisions from close quarters. Or perhaps it was simply the curiosity of a young student wondering what direction his life might take. Whatever the reason, those informal encounters planted an idea in my mind: Why not law? The thought gradually became a decision. From Islamia College, I moved to Khyber Law College, University of Peshawar, to pursue my LL.B. It was a natural progression, but it also felt like entering a new world. At Islamia College, I had learned to look beyond my immediate surroundings. At Khyber Law College, I began learning to examine the world through the language of law. Words, reasoning, interpretation and argument were no longer merely matters of intellectual interest. They were becoming the tools of a profession I had not yet fully understood. But before law became serious business, I was still a young student. And young law students have a peculiar habit. They argue about everything. If there was a rule, we wanted to know why. If there was a staircase, we wanted to know why it was built that way. If there was an arrangement we did not like, we immediately began constructing an argument against it. And if there was no argument available, we were quite capable of inventing one. Looking back, some of my happiest memories of Khyber Law College come from precisely that period when serious legal education and youthful mischief existed side by side. Khyber Law College was distinctive even before one entered its classrooms. The building itself seemed determined to announce what it was. It was designed in the shape of the word “LAW.” For a law student, that was difficult to ignore. The architecture later became the subject of an article I wrote during my LL.B. studies, appropriately titled “Law College.” I decided to write about the College itself, its building, classrooms, rules and arrangements. But I approached the subject not as an architect or administrator. I approached it as a young law student who had discovered the dangerous pleasure of applying legal reasoning to almost everything around him. I began with the building. I observed that a good architect did not make the same mistake twice, and perhaps that explained why this was the only building I had seen designed in the shape of the word “LAW.” I then considered how anyone could properly appreciate the achievement. From the ground, one could see only part of it. So, with the confidence of a student who had never been asked to pay for the solution, I suggested that anyone wishing to see the entire design might need to own or hire a helicopter. It was, of course, an entirely impractical suggestion. But practicality was not the point. We were young. The College was our world, and we had begun to find amusement in examining its smallest details. The classrooms offered another opportunity. The seats were arranged in a raked formation, with each successive row slightly higher than the one before it. The practical purpose was obvious. Students sitting at the back could see the lecturer and the board without obstruction. But I could not resist looking at the arrangement from another angle. The higher the students sat, I observed, the more literally they could look down upon their teachers. It was only a student's joke. But perhaps it also reflected something we were beginning to learn. We were no longer simply accepting things as they were. We were observing them, questioning them and looking for another way of interpreting them. That habit would prove useful in law. Then there was the Accountant's Office. It was situated on the first floor and connected to the ground floor by steep, zigzag stairs. Students had to climb those stairs whenever they needed to pay tuition fees, fines or other charges. To a young student, this naturally raised an important question: Why was the Accountant upstairs? I supplied my own answer. Perhaps the architect had deliberately placed the Accountant there for his protection. Imagine a student receiving a bill he considered unfair. He would begin climbing the stairs full of determination, ready to challenge the Accountant. But after negotiating the steep and winding staircase, he might finally reach the office short of breath, and perhaps short of the enthusiasm required for a serious argument about the bill. By then, he might simply pay and go home. It was nothing more than youthful humour. But that staircase was part of our daily lives, and therefore naturally became part of my article. The common rooms also attracted my attention. There were separate common rooms for male and female students, while female students additionally had a table tennis facility. As a young male student, I considered this arrangement from the perspective most convenient to me. I described it, humorously, as a kind of “gender discrimination” against the male students. I certainly did not intend it as serious criticism. It was simply the sort of argument that amused young students: take an ordinary arrangement, give it a legal label and see where the argument leads. We were learning law, but we were also learning how lawyers think. The College rules provided perhaps the best opportunity of all. We were frequently reminded that absence for six consecutive days could result in rustication. To an ordinary student, the message was straightforward: do not remain absent for six consecutive days. To a law student, however, nothing is ever quite that straightforward. I began examining the wording. The rule referred specifically to six consecutive days. So, with the mischievous literalism of a young law student, I asked: What if a student remained absent for seven days? Would an absence extending beyond six days necessarily fall within a provision expressed specifically in terms of six? If one were determined to test the proposition, perhaps the safest course was not to stop at six days at all. Why take the risk of six when seven might be the better legal strategy? It was, of course, a joke. I was not recommending seven days' absence to my fellow students. But the exercise revealed something more serious beneath the humour. We were beginning to discover one of the central attractions of legal reasoning: Words matter. A single phrase can raise questions about meaning, scope and interpretation. A provision that appears perfectly clear at first reading can become surprisingly interesting when someone starts examining its exact wording. The Six Day Rule therefore became more than a joke for me. Without realising it, I was beginning to develop a habit that would remain with me throughout my professional life: Read carefully. Question the language. Examine the possible meanings. Test the argument. My article was never intended to be a serious criticism of the College, its architecture or its administration. It was simply the work of a young law student who had discovered that almost anything could become an argument. A staircase could become a question of security. A seating arrangement could become a question of hierarchy. A table tennis facility could become a case of “gender discrimination.” And a six day attendance rule could become an exercise in statutory interpretation. Looking back now, I smile at the innocence of that period. We were young enough to turn ordinary college life into legal controversy and serious enough to enjoy doing it. Yet beneath the humour was something important. Khyber Law College was teaching me to observe, question, analyse and argue. Those habits would eventually become far more than exercises in student amusement. They would become part of my professional life. I had entered Khyber Law College to learn the law. I did not yet know that the law would eventually become the central language through which I would understand my profession, my responsibilities and, in many ways, my life. I was still at the beginning of that journey. There were friendships to form, experiences to live through, lessons to learn and, as I would discover later, decisions that would quietly determine the direction of my life.