Tyranny of the meritocratic class

In recent years, public discourse in Pakistan has turned its ire toward the country’s elites. In a recent podcast, economist Dr Kaiser Bengali bluntly called them out.

Months earlier, former finance minister Dr Miftah Ismail criticised the dominance of the so-called Aitchison – Hasan Abdal ruling class – a powerful symbol of entrenched privilege. Many believe this critique of the elite is new. But history tells a different story.

Before independence in 1947, it was the imperial colonialists who dominated the Indian subcontinent. In the 1960s, it was the ‘22 families’ who controlled most of the economy. By the 1970s, Pakistan’s capitalist class and industrialists were deemed powerful enough to be nationalised. The faces of power may have changed over time, but the core concern remained the same: a small elite shaping the fate of millions.

Yet one powerful and increasingly influential class has managed to avoid serious critique: the professional, educated, salaried class – or what sociologist Hamza Alavi termed the ‘salariat’. This group, originally composed of bureaucrats and civil servants in colonial India, saw the creation of Pakistan as a means to protect and advance its own interests.

In the early decades of the new state, the salariat dominated the civil service and state institutions. Over time, it evolved – absorbing technocrats, corporate professionals, foreign-educated returnees and policy specialists. Today, this class defines itself not only by its access to salaried employment, but by its claim to merit, rationality and global relevance.

Pakistan’s elite is no longer defined by land, lineage or industry alone. A new class of degree-holding, English-speaking professionals increasingly dominates our discourse – claiming moral and intellectual superiority. But is this new elite any more inclusive or accountable than those who came before? In this essay, I argue that without humility and rootedness, even ‘merit’ can become tyranny.

Between 2000 and 2025, Pakistan produced nearly four times as many university graduates as it did in the entire period from 1947 to 2000. This rapid expansion of higher education – particularly modeled on Western curricula – has created a new class of citizens: technocrats, bureaucrats, corporate professionals and foreign-educated returnees who increasingly define themselves by their educational achievements and career credentials.

This modern incarnation of the salariat, now armed not just with degrees but also international exposure and corporate grooming, presents itself as post-ideological and efficiency-driven. But it often acts with the same exclusionary instincts: gatekeeping power through language (English), culture (Western norms) and access (networks). In doing so, it reproduces class boundaries under the guise of merit.

This class tends to see itself as the rational and rightful steward of Pakistan’s future. It often dismisses traditional political forces – rural landlords, tribal elders, religious leaders – as relics of the past. The assumption is clear: those without formal education or international exposure are unfit to lead or even speak for the nation.

But this belief in the supremacy of merit – narrowly defined by degrees, fluency in English and alignment with global capitalist norms – has consequences. It fosters cultural and moral arrogance, where those who have not achieved success through academic or corporate routes are seen as lazy, undeserving or corrupt.

Take the perception of the agricultural sector. The dominant view in elite circles is that landowners evade taxes and exploit the system. Yet this ignores the deep regulation and structural limits placed on agriculture – from pricing and purchasing restrictions to export bans. Unlike service sector professionals, farmers do not enjoy the same freedom to set prices, explore markets or reinvest profits.

Similarly, the political class, especially in rural and peri-urban Pakistan, is often caricatured as corrupt and nepotistic. But these elected representatives, however flawed, are often far more grounded in their communities than distant professionals who speak the language of policy but remain detached from the realities on the ground.

The danger of this meritocratic bias was never more visible than during the height of the War on Terror. As the military moved into the tribal areas with disproportionate force, entire classes of Khans, Maliks and tribal elders – long-standing pillars of local governance – were swept aside. These were not always ideal or democratic institutions, but they represented continuity, identity, and social cohesion.

The educated elite may not have orchestrated this erasure, but many in that class cheered it on. For them, it was a necessary cleansing – a price worth paying to replace ‘primitive’ governance with centralised control and enlightened rule. Even when it meant airstrikes, displacement and the unraveling of centuries-old traditions, the justification was that it would modernize the country.

This mindset, that tradition is an obstacle and violence in the name of progress is acceptable, reflects the darker side of unchecked belief in one’s own virtue. It dehumanises those outside the elite bubble and ignores the complexity of Pakistan’s social fabric.

This is not a call to abandon excellence or education. But it is a call for humility. Success is rarely the result of individual brilliance alone. It rests on networks, family support, historical advantages and sheer luck. And leadership, especially in a diverse country like Pakistan, requires more than credentials. It requires empathy, rootedness and the ability to bridge worlds, not divide them.

Pakistan’s social contract cannot be rebuilt by simply handing over power to a new class convinced of its moral and intellectual superiority. It must be rebuilt by including those who have been sidelined – not just the traditional elites, but also the working classes, farmers, teachers, small traders and religious scholars who make up the moral core of this country.

We need institutions that reduce the distance between classes, a media narrative that respects tradition without romanticising it, and an education system that produces not just technocrats but citizens – capable of dialogue, not just diagnosis.

The real tyranny isn’t merit itself. It’s the refusal to acknowledge that others, too, matter – even if they don’t speak the language of power.

I say this not as an outsider looking in, but as someone firmly within this meritocratic class. I have benefited from elite education and professional privilege. I have walked through the same boardrooms, institutions, and policy circles that define modern ‘success’.

But precisely because I stand within this class, I believe we must hold ourselves to account. Humility, not hubris, is what this moment – and this country – demands.

The writer is executive director of Gallup Pakistan and holds a Masters degree from the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), London.