Lyba Laraib
(Psychologist, Human Rights Council of Pakistan)
There is a quiet ache spreading through the homes of Pakistan. It does not announce itself with sirens or headlines. It lives in the young man who wakes at noon because there is nowhere to go. It lives in the young woman who has stopped applying for jobs because hope has become too heavy to carry. It lives in the sighs of parents who watch their children’s degrees gather dust on the shelf, framed proof of promises the country could not keep.
As a psychologist at the Human Rights Council of Pakistan, I have sat across from many of these young people. They come to me not with dramatic stories, but with a hollowness that is far more difficult to treat. They describe a strange kind of grief, mourning a future they never got to live. And as a mother, I feel this grief as though it were my own.
We often speak of unemployment as an economic problem. We quote figures, debate policies, and blame governments. But behind every statistic is a heartbeat. Behind every percentage point is a person who once had dreams.
Unemployment in Pakistan is not merely a crisis of income. It is a crisis of identity. In our culture, a person’s worth is often tied to their work. When a young person cannot find employment, they do not simply lose money, they lose purpose. They lose the respect they hoped to earn. They lose the right to dream aloud. And slowly, silently, they begin to lose themselves.
The psychological consequences are profound. I have seen anxiety take root in young minds, whispering that they are not good enough. I have seen depression settle in like a long winter, freezing motivation and joy. I have seen anger at themselves, at their families, at a system that feels indifferent. And most heartbreaking of all, I have seen despair so deep that some young people begin to question whether their lives are worth living at all.
We must be honest when a nation fails its youth, it plants the seeds of its own sorrow. An idle mind is not only the devil’s workshop, it is also a breeding ground for hopelessness, addiction, and radicalisation. Young people who feel unseen and unwanted become vulnerable to anyone who offers them a sense of belonging, even if that belonging leads them down a dark path.
And let us not forget the mothers. In Pakistan, the burden of a child’s suffering falls heavily on the mother’s heart. We cook, we pray, we comfort, but we cannot manufacture jobs. We cannot turn our love into opportunity. We can only watch, and worry, and wonder what will become of our children in a land that seems to have no room for them.
But I refuse to end with despair. Because I have also seen resilience. I have seen young people start small businesses with borrowed money. I have seen them teach, volunteer, and create opportunities where none existed. I have seen them hold each other up when the world let them down. And I have seen, time and again, that the human spirit is remarkably difficult to extinguish.
Yet resilience should not be our only solution. A nation cannot survive on the backs of its young people’s suffering. We need policies that prioritise job creation, vocational training, and mental health support. We need to break the stigma around psychological care, so that seeking help is seen as strength, not shame. We need to build a society where a young person’s value is not measured solely by their employment status, but by their humanity.
Most of all, we need to listen. To the young man who wakes at noon. To the young woman who has stopped applying. To the mothers who carry silent grief. Their pain is not a weakness. It is a message. And it is time we heard it.
Because when dreams are put on hold, it is not just our youth who suffer, it is the soul of Pakistan itself.
The writer is a psychologist at the Human Rights Council of Pakistan, and a mother and wife. She writes on mental health, human rights, and the quiet struggles that shape our society.
