LAST week, I was invited to join a panel discussion chaired by the BBC’s Mishal Husain to raise funds for The Citizens’ Foundation. The event actually centred round Anatol Lieven’s new book, Pakistan: A Hard Country, and after the author’s brief talk, there was an extended question and answer session. Lieven explained the origin of his book’s subtitle: on two separate occasions, Pakistanis he interviewed during the course of his extended visits used the phrase to explain the everyday violence we have all become so used to. In one conversation with a senior police officer in Karachi, the expression cropped up as an explanation for the extra-judicial killings of brutal criminals and terrorists who are routinely let off by our courts.

Over the last year, I have read or skimmed through a lot of literature on Pakistan while researching my own book. Lieven’s is the one I would most strongly recommend to anyone wishing to learn about Pakistan. Since he was a foreign correspondent in the Eighties, the author has travelled extensively in the country, and has spoken to a wide cross-section of Pakistanis. But more than most observers, he has dissected their words, separating reality from the kind of hyperbole we Pakistanis are prone to.

Thus, the nationalists he meets in Sindh and Balochistan are not given a free ride in this book: Lieven analyses their claims, and takes a hard, objective look at the feudal and tribal systems that are as much to blame for the shocking lack of development in both provinces as federal neglect. The book is shot through with sharp insights and flashes of mordant wit that make it a pleasure to read.

Detractors who assert that Lieven is pro-army have not read his arguments carefully. What he says is that given Pakistan’s manifold difficulties, the army is the glue that is holding the country together. And he concludes by saying that if the Americans put so much pressure on the army that it cracks and causes some of the officer corps to mutiny, it might lead to a national meltdown. But importantly, Lieven makes a strong case why Pakistan is not a failed state, giving many examples of the kinship networks that bind Pakistani society together.

Thus, Lieven’s book is a useful antidote for the reams of doom-and-gloom that has been the staple fare of the Western media for some time now. In his talk, the author also mentioned the strong charitable impulse that blunted some of the harshest effects of poverty. Indeed, Pakistan has one of the highest ratios of money donated to charity in the world.

During the discussion that followed, many members of the (mostly desi) audience expressed their frustration and anger over Pakistan being singled out for constant criticism. One guest alluded darkly to a possible American conspiracy when he demanded to know why the voice recording from the black box contained in the Hercules transport plane that carried Zia to his death had not been released. Actually, the brief exchange between the pilot, his co-pilot and traffic control has been in the public domain for years.

One lady wanted to know why the state doesn’t respond more effectively to disasters. This, according to her, gives extremists legitimacy and popularity because they are the first ones to reach calamity-hit areas. I pointed out that radicalisation actually took place in our TV studios and classrooms. So if we wanted to eliminate extremism, we would need political will and a national consensus.

The last question came from my old friend, Moni Mohsin, the well-known writer. She asked why every time something bad happened in Pakistan, we always blamed the Americans. Anatol Lieven held his head in exasperation over this attitude, so I volunteered an explanation: basically, we blame the Americans because if we convince ourselves that a superpower is responsible for our woes, then we don’t have to put in the hard work necessary to sort out our problems.

When the session ended, a few young people said they had come because they had seen my name on the programme. Slightly flattered, I was also pleased I had been able to do my bit for a splendid cause. In a short film shown before the talk, we were told TCF is providing an excellent education to over a hundred thousand boys and girls in cities and towns across Pakistan.

What is also most impressive is the network of keen overseas volunteers the Foundation has been able to attract to raise funds to support its activities. As usual, Mishal Husain conducted the event crisply and charmingly.

I bumped into her a few days later at the annual Pakistan Society dinner at Lincoln’s Inn. Celebrating its 60th anniversary, the Society has played an important role in bringing together Brits interested in Pakistan, and Pakistanis who have made the UK their home. The venue for this annual event is the Inn where Mohammed Ali Jinnah was called to the Bar, and its splendid hall is full of portraits and paintings.

The two chief guests were William Hague, the British foreign secretary, and Senator Raza Rabbani, the Pakistani minister for provincial coordination. Both are polished speakers, but Rabbani was particularly impressive as he spoke for around 20 minutes without notes. The thrust of his speech was the 18th amendment to the Pakistani constitution, not something most Brits are aware of, or interested in.

When we Pakistanis are abroad, we often make the mistake of believing that the rest of the world is observing our country’s every twist and turn very closely. Sadly, this is just not true. Most people just wish Pakistan, with all its problems, would get its act together; and if it can’t, they believe the world would be a better place if it were to just disappear.I chatted with a couple of Pakistanis on my table who are deeply concerned about what’s happening in their homeland. This just goes to prove that while you can take a Pakistani out of Pakistan, you can’t take Pakistan out of a Pakistani, no matter where he or she is.