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his is a tribute through a bouquet of memories for my brother Professor Dr Anis Alam, who was born on October 20, 1944, and died on August 12, 2024. He was a professor of Theoretical Physics, Philosopher, and Educationist. He wrote numerous papers on physics, science and education policies in national and international journals. He lived his life acting on the belief that knowledge should be used for creating equality, justice and peace.
Seemeen’s voice trembled as she asked, “Where is Anis Alam? He was here just minutes ago. He is not answering my calls. Can you call him?” The words hung in the air like unanswered questions. I wondered… had he vanished when the fire in his pen dimmed and his essays on science, education, imperialism, social change, equality and justice stopped flowing? Or had he died with Pakistan’s labour movement?
Anis Alam (1944-2024) was not just a brother to me, but also a mentor who taught me to question everything, even the ground beneath my feet, and told me that nothing is permanent except change. He introduced me to the magic of books and the mysteries of life and universe.
When at age 24, he had returned from England with a PhD in theoretical physics, the entire neighborhood had buzzed with pride. Laddoos were distributed, hands shaken and bodies embraced. He was the golden child of the family, who had studied under Professor Abdus Salam, the Nobel laureate. Salam had told him to wait for a position at Quaid-i-Azam University, but Anis Alam was impatient—not for prestige, but for change, and had joined Punjab University where he could be closer to the students and play his part in support of democracy and social justice.
Pakistan in the 1960s and ’70s was a battlefield of ideas. Military dictators fell, labour unions rose and students were fired up by the poetry of Faiz and Habib Jalib, Sibte Hasan’s Musa say Marx Tak, and Hamza Alvi’s thesis of overdeveloped state. Dr Feroz, Ejaz Ahmed and Eqbal Ahmed, among other intellectuals, stirred the socio-economic discourse. Publications like Musawat, ViewPoint and Al-Fatah sought to promote democracy in Pakistan. Anis Alam, a physicist, wrote about science not as a neutral force, but as a weapon for defiance.
His summers were spent at the Abdus Salam International Centre for Theoretical Physics in Trieste, where many scientists from the Global South gathered. Back home, his activism cost him dearly. Promotion to full professorship eluded him for years despite meeting all the requirements.
He wrote about how under colonialism science had been a control tool. In his paper, Science and Imperialism (1978), he wrot about how Western science had dismissed indigenous knowledge and how the British had mapped India not to understand it, but to rule it. He argued that under capitalism science was not about truth, but about power.
Anis Alam didn’t just lecture—he transformed people. His students gathered at his home, debating the hypocrisy of a system that called itself modern and fair while clinging to feudalism and injustice. The question kept coming back: what to change and how? His interactions with students and intellectuals raised suspicion and he was summoned by the police. We walked into the thana, expecting the worst. The officer in charge was polite, offered chai, then left us with a register from which he had been reading. Anis Alam flipped the pages and we found a report accusing him of hosting a “loud party with dancing and intoxicated guests.”
Anis Alam didn’t just lecture—he transformed people. His students gathered at his home, debating the hypocrisy of a system that called itself modern and fair while clinging to feudalism and injustice.
Before letting us go, the officer warned him to stop the gatherings. Once outside, I asked if he was in trouble. Anis Alam laughed. “Breaking boundaries,” he said, “is part of learning and testing the limits of the system. Sometimes, a little rebellion is necessary—even if it’s just a drink.” I think of that moment today. Will a professor today be treated with the same respect and his indiscretion ignored? Or are those days behind us?
I remember a schoolteacher from Hashtnagar, who spoke at a conference where I also met Major Ishaq, Afzal Bangush and Imtiaz Alam from Mazdoor Kisan Party. The schoolteacher had fought for land rights for peasants, but said his greatest rebellion was teaching his daughters—and some other village girls—to read. “If we fight for equality,” he said, “how can we deny it to our own daughters?” Slowly, he noticed that his wife had started taking interest in his work and become more caring. The teacher continued, “I think we understand each other better. There is something different between us, which I cannot articulate well, maybe love.” He laughed nervously.
Anis Alam turned to me, eyes alight. “This is how change happens. When people fight for justice, they don’t just change the world—they change themselves.”
Anis Alam was never shy of being a materialist philosopher. He explained, “It just means acknowledging that the world exists independent of our minds. We, humans, can study it and change it—but only if we’re honest about how power shapes knowledge.” He wrote a critique of positivism in natural sciences. He saw the importance of philosophy and noted in a book review, “If Pakistan has to advance as a prosperous industrial society, philosophy will have to be cultivated with care. It should be developed as a discipline independent of religion…The subject of philosophy ought to be taught and practiced like any other academic discipline; like physics, economics, sociology or law.”
He traced modern science to colonialism, saying that it wasn’t just about discovery, but about domination. His analyses tracked the history of science development in developing countries for serving the interest of colonial power and subsequently serving capitalism and neoliberal policies. His message was clear - science without justice was just another tool for domination.
He advocated that science should be promoted and practiced for the service of the common people and that governments, especially in developing countries, needed to create education systems to promote critical thinking and problem-solving, incentivizing scientists to work on local problems and avoiding the brain drain.
Anis Alam once told me that he became emotional while presenting an overview of history of science teaching in Pakistan at a meeting of scientists. His voice cracked when he said “the situation is dismal. Science teaching and learning were not considered ways of understanding the external world and using the knowledge to bring in improvement. These were regarded as means of getting jobs.” “I am supposed to be logical and cool-headed,” he said.
I interjected that some people will regard him as passionate about his work and its implications. Then I recalled sharing our father’s medical tests, indicating his impending death. Anis Alam’s reaction was, “No, he will live.” My scientist big brother, after all, was human.
Anis Alam had ethical objections to developing nuclear weapons. Using the example of how the arms race bankrupted the Soviet Union and affected its national security despite having nuclear arms, he advocated that Pakistan should use its scarce resources to build its human resources through a better education system and infrastructure for water, sanitation, roads, electricity, industry. He concluded, “the country’s precarious economic situation and dismal infrastructure of science and technology can guarantee neither a viable nuclear capability, nor a sound basis for national security.”
He was a staunch advocate of peace between Pakistan and India and worked with IA Rahman in organising dialogues between peace activists in both countries.
Anis Alam was part of a vanishing breed of people—the scholar-activist, the physicist who wrote Urdu pamphlets, the teacher who believed that education should liberate, not enslave. Today, as Pakistan grapples with manufactured ignorance, we need voices like his more than ever.
The progressive writers’ movement —featuring the likes of Sajjad Zaheer, Faiz, Manto, Premchand, Kirshan Chandar, Saher and Ismat Chughtai—once started a fire in the dark. Anis Alam carried that torch.
Seemeen’s tears were not just for a missing husband. They were also for the books that remained unwritten, the students who will go unmentored, the change that remained unfinished.
Anis Alam may have gone, but his questions remain:
- Who controls knowledge? Who benefits from that control?
- Are we marching towards a more just and equitable world?
The answers lie not in nostalgia, but in resistance. Anis Alam was always optimistic about future and sought inspiration from ordinary people’s struggle for better lives. Let that inspiration guide us too.
Dr Anwer Aqil is a freelance contributor. He can be reached at anwer_aqilhotmail.com