A fifteen-year-old boy runs desperately through a residential street. Behind him comes a car, driven by an adult who, only days earlier, had been entrusted with teaching him a useful trade. The boy looks for an escape, but the vehicle closes in. Within moments, his body is struck and thrown against the gate of a house. He dies before the future he was trying to build has even begun. This is not a scene from a fictional tragedy but the disturbing incident recorded on CCTV cameras in Multan on October 19, 2026. The boy was Waseem Abbas, an orphan from Muzaffargarh. The man accused of causing his death has been identified as electrical contractor Tauqeer Nazir. Beyond the immediate horror lies a question that should trouble every parent, teacher, employer and public official in Pakistan: what kind of society allows a vulnerable child to become so powerless that even leaving an uncomfortable workplace can put his life in danger?
The circumstances emerging from the police investigation paint a profoundly disturbing picture. Waseem had been sent from an orphanage to learn electrical work under Nazir, who reportedly employed or trained several dozen boys. According to police, a disagreement occurred, and Waseem left the workplace. Nazir allegedly pursued him, initially on foot and later in a car accompanied by another man, Amjad Ali. The vehicle struck Waseem near a residential gate, inflicting fatal injuries. CCTV footage showing the pursuit has intensified public outrage. Police arrested Nazir, seized the vehicle and registered a murder case. Nazir, however, claims that he was attempting to stop the boy when his vehicle skidded, resulting in an unintended collision. The alleged intention behind the impact remains subject to criminal investigation and judicial determination. Whatever the eventual legal findings, the circumstances demand a broader examination of the unequal relationships that govern the lives of disadvantaged children.
Waseem's personal story makes the incident especially heartbreaking. His father died when he was young, and he was placed in an orphanage. His grandfather, Ghulam Shabbir, has explained that the decision was motivated by a desire to secure the boy's education and prevent him from remaining illiterate. Waseem was reportedly studying in the ninth grade. His placement with the electrical contractor was intended to provide him with practical skills alongside his schooling. A grandfather's hope that his grandson would become educated, independent and capable of earning a respectable livelihood was hardly an unreasonable ambition. It represented the modest dream of countless Pakistani families struggling to overcome poverty. Yet that dream ended in a street where a frightened teenager was allegedly pursued by the adult responsible for his training.
The tragedy exposes a deeply rooted culture of authority in which some employers confuse professional supervision with personal domination. In workshops, markets, garages, restaurants and construction sites across Pakistan, young apprentices frequently occupy the lowest position in informal workplace hierarchies. They may be expected to perform exhausting tasks, tolerate abusive language, accept punishment or work without clearly defined hours. This does not describe every employer; countless craftsmen and technicians train young people conscientiously and treat them with genuine affection. Nevertheless, where informal apprenticeship operates without adequate regulation, the absence of accountability creates opportunities for exploitation. The employer who provides training may gradually become an unquestionable authority, while the apprentice learns that obedience matters more than safety or dignity.
Such relationships are particularly dangerous when poverty enters the equation. A child from a financially secure family can often leave an unsuitable training arrangement and return to the protection of parents. A disadvantaged child may have no comparable choice. His food, accommodation, educational prospects and future employment may depend upon the decisions of adults over whom he has little influence. Poverty thus becomes more than an economic condition; it becomes a limitation on personal freedom. The weaker person's dependence can be transformed into a source of power for someone else. Waseem's death should therefore encourage discussion not only about criminal violence but also about the everyday practices through which economic inequality becomes social subordination.
The measure of a civilised society is not the elegance of its laws, the grandeur of its buildings or the sophistication of its technology. It is the degree of protection it extends to those who possess the least power.
We frequently speak about child labour as though it were merely a question of minimum working age or household income. In reality, it is connected with educational inequality, weak social protection, inadequate employment opportunities for adults and the widespread assumption that children from poor families must begin earning early. Many parents and guardians view vocational training as an alternative to an uncertain academic future. Their concerns are understandable in a country where formal education does not guarantee employment. However, the solution cannot be to place children in unregulated environments where they may be exposed to intimidation, hazardous equipment or violence. A meaningful apprenticeship should complement education and develop skills under competent supervision. It must never become an arrangement in which a child loses the freedom to refuse dangerous or degrading treatment.
As a physicist and teacher who spent decades in university education, I find the technical dimension of Waseem's apprenticeship particularly significant. Electrical work demands scientific understanding, disciplined procedures and strict attention to safety. Electricity is indispensable to modern life, but negligence can make it deadly. Students learning electrical trades should receive systematic instruction in insulation, earthing, protective equipment, safe handling of tools and the identification of hazards. More importantly, their instructors must understand that professional competence includes ethical responsibility. An electrician who knows how to install a complex system but cannot respect the dignity of an apprentice has not understood the broader meaning of education. Technical knowledge without humane conduct is an incomplete achievement.
The circumstances of Waseem's death also challenge the way society understands charity. Supporting an orphan is regarded as an act of great moral and religious merit, particularly in a culture where compassion for vulnerable children is repeatedly emphasised. Yet charitable intentions must be accompanied by professional standards. Providing shelter and education is commendable, but safeguarding requires more than goodwill. Orphanages should conduct background checks on external trainers, document placements, maintain regular contact with apprentices and provide confidential channels for reporting mistreatment. Children must know that they can request a change of placement without fear of punishment or losing institutional support. Charity should restore autonomy and dignity, not replace parental dependence with institutional dependence.
The identification of Tauqeer Nazir and the registration of a murder case represent necessary steps towards legal accountability. Yet public anger must not replace evidence. Investigators should examine the original CCTV recordings, the vehicle's mechanical condition, the collision site, forensic findings and witness testimony. They must establish what occurred before Waseem began running, whether threats or physical abuse preceded his escape, and whether the impact resulted from deliberate action or reckless driving. The suspect's claim that the car skidded must be tested against objective evidence. Amjad Ali's alleged involvement should be independently established. The law must determine individual criminal responsibility without allowing either public pressure or influential connections to distort the process.
Reports that lawyers assaulted Nazir during a court appearance introduce a separate concern. Understandable outrage over a child's death cannot justify physical attacks upon a suspect. The justice system must protect the rights of the accused while pursuing justice for the victim. When members of the legal profession allegedly participate in violence, public confidence in the rule of law is undermined. A fair trial is not a favour granted to an accused person; it is an essential requirement for establishing responsibility through lawful evidence. Pakistan does not need another spectacle of instant punishment. It needs a thorough investigation, effective prosecution and an independent judicial determination.
Our collective behaviour after such tragedies follows a familiar pattern. For several days, the incident dominates public discussion. Politicians issue statements, television channels organise debates, and social media users demand severe punishment. Gradually, attention shifts to another crisis. The victim's name remains in old news reports, while the institutional weaknesses that contributed to the tragedy continue largely unchanged. This cycle of outrage followed by forgetfulness is one of the most damaging features of our public life. The true measure of concern is not how intensely society reacts during the first forty-eight hours, but whether it remains committed to accountability after the headlines disappear.
Waseem's death also exposes the unequal value assigned to human suffering. When a tragedy strikes an influential or prosperous family, the victim often has access to legal representation, media attention and powerful social networks. Poor families may struggle to obtain even basic information about investigations. An orphan occupies a still more vulnerable position. His death must never be treated as less significant because he lacked financial resources or influential relatives. Equality before the law requires that the weakest citizen receive the same seriousness of investigation and protection as the strongest. Anything less converts justice into another privilege of class.
The responsibility also extends to parents, teachers, religious leaders, professional associations and community organisations. We must reconsider the language used to describe obedience, discipline and authority. A child who questions an instruction is not necessarily disobedient. An apprentice who wishes to leave a workplace is not committing an offence. An employee who reports abuse is not betraying an employer. Respect cannot be cultivated through humiliation, and discipline cannot be established through fear. The legitimacy of authority depends upon the responsibility with which it is exercised, particularly over those unable to defend themselves.
In a country where religion occupies an important place in public life, the moral dimension of this incident deserves reflection. Compassion towards orphans is repeatedly emphasised in Islamic teaching. Yet religious values acquire practical meaning only when they influence everyday relationships. Feeding an orphan while denying him dignity would represent a profound contradiction. Celebrating charity while ignoring exploitation would reduce morality to ceremony. The real test of compassion is not how generously society praises the vulnerable, but how carefully it protects them when they are beyond public attention.
Perhaps the most painful aspect of Waseem's story is the simplicity of what he wanted. He was not demanding wealth, political influence or special treatment. He was a schoolboy learning a trade, apparently uncomfortable with his circumstances and seeking to leave. Whether his fear arose from mistreatment, a workplace disagreement or other factors remains to be conclusively established. Yet no explanation can diminish the importance of his right to safety. A child's attempt to walk away should never end in a fatal pursuit.
Waseem was buried in his ancestral area of Muzaffargarh, leaving behind a grandfather who had hoped to see him educated and independent. The contrast between that modest hope and the circumstances of his death is almost unbearable. His story reminds us that behind every discussion of social development are actual human beings whose futures depend upon the decisions of others. To speak of national progress while disregarding their vulnerability is to misunderstand the purpose of development itself. It would be easy to conclude by demanding punishment for the accused. Certainly, accountability is essential, and those found legally responsible must face the consequences prescribed by law. But punishment alone will not address the deeper questions. Who monitors children in informal apprenticeships? Who listens when a child expresses fear? Who verifies the suitability of employers selected by welfare institutions? Who protects children whose families lack the resources to intervene? And why do we repeatedly discover institutional weaknesses only after an irreversible tragedy?
A fifteen-year-old boy should have been carrying schoolbooks, learning a trade and preparing for adulthood. Instead, his final moments became evidence in a murder investigation. The question is no longer simply who caused Waseem Abbas's death, but whether our society possesses the courage to confront the conditions that made such a tragedy possible. Justice for Waseem must therefore mean more than a verdict. It must mean that the next frightened child has somewhere safe to go, someone willing to listen, and a society determined to protect him before it is too late.