When Ego Meets Immovable Reality: A Parable for Pakistan
It was a dark and stormy night — quite literally.
We had been at sea for days. Two mighty battleships, cutting through crashing waves and wrestling the temper of the sea, assigned to a training squadron. I was on the lead ship, standing watch on the bridge. The wind howled like a restless spirit and the sea foam sprayed the windows in angry bursts. Nightfall came creeping in, bringing with it fog — thick, eerie, and unpredictable.
Visibility was terrible. You couldn’t see more than a few hundred meters ahead. The kind of night that makes even experienced sailors nervous. That’s why the captain, a seasoned officer known for his commanding presence, decided to remain on the bridge. Just in case.
Then it happened.
A lookout on the wing of the bridge called out, “Light, bearing on the starboard bow!”
I froze. Everyone did. A light in such conditions meant one thing — another ship.
The captain’s voice was sharp. “Is it steady or moving astern?”
The lookout replied, “Steady, Captain.”
Steady meant danger. Deadly danger. If the bearing of another vessel doesn’t change, it means you’re headed straight for each other — on a collision course.
Without wasting a second, the captain turned to the signalman. “Send this message: We are on a collision course. Advise you change course 20 degrees.”
We waited. Seconds ticked by. Then came the reply, calm and cold:
“Advisable for you to change course 20 degrees.”
You could almost feel the temperature drop on the bridge.
The captain clenched his jaw. “Send: I’m a captain. Change course 20 degrees.”
The reply came quick, unbothered, almost cheeky:
“I’m a seaman second class. You had better change course 20 degrees.”
Oof. You don’t say that to a battleship captain.
Steam could’ve erupted from the captain’s ears. He barked, red-faced, “Send: I’m a battleship! CHANGE COURSE 20 DEGREES!”
And then… came the final reply. Calm. Simple. Final.
“I’m a lighthouse.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Every soul on the bridge turned pale. No one needed orders. We changed course immediately.
It’s funny how life delivers lessons when you least expect them — often, wrapped in fog and flashing lights.
We thought we were immovable. Indestructible. The biggest fish in the sea. But even the biggest ship becomes foolish if it ignores a rock. Or a lighthouse.
This isn’t just a naval tale — it’s a metaphor.
And now… let me pull back the curtain.
Can you guess who the captain of the battleship was?
And the name of that stubborn seaman standing firm at the lighthouse?
Captain of the battleship: General Asim Munir
Seaman at the lighthouse: Imran Khan
Yes, you read that right.
This story isn’t really about ships. It’s about power, ego, and the blinding fog of authority. It’s about a moment where brute force met immovable principle. Where a uniform full of stars met a humble man with a torch — and the man with the torch refused to move.
It’s a parable for Pakistan.
In our country, we’ve had countless battleships — generals with medals, politicians with bank balances, bureaucrats with big offices. They’ve demanded others change course, bow down, shift directions. And when they didn’t get their way, they yelled louder, “I’m a battleship!”
But sometimes… a lighthouse stands firm.
And here’s the deeper, more troubling question that echoes in my mind:
Has anyone among our generals, or our so-called political elite, ever read The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by Stephen Covey?
Because if they had, they’d know — being “proactive” isn’t about barking orders from the bridge. It’s about humility. Listening. Understanding that you’re not the center of the universe.
Habit #5 from Covey’s book says: “Seek first to understand, then to be understood.” Imagine how different Pakistan would look if our leaders practiced even one of these habits.
Instead, they chase the illusion of power, oblivious to the lighthouses warning them of disaster ahead. They mistake immovability for strength, when sometimes… it’s just arrogance.
So here’s my question to you, dear reader:
Are you on a battleship? Or are you the lighthouse?
And more importantly…
Are you willing to change course?
Let me know in the comments.
This story is for every Pakistani who believes that wisdom isn’t about how loud you shout, but how clearly you see through the fog.
Here are some alternate titles I could think of for this blog:
- “I’m a Battleship!” — And the Quiet Reply That Changed Everything
- The Captain, the Lighthouse, and a Collision Course with Truth
- A Signal in the Fog: What the Army, Politicians, and Lighthouses Can Teach Us
- Imran Khan, Asim Munir, and the Night the Sea Spoke Louder Than Power
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