Zia’s Voice and the Empty Chair of Leadership
1 September 2025 “I first wrote this short story in 1994, when it was published in my college journal. Today, I have reimagined it for our present moment — not as nostalgia, but as a challenge. My hope is that it stirs voters to question themselves, and in doing so, sparks the debate our nation desperately needs.” The night was heavy, his cell rattling like a cage in the belly of a storm-tossed ship. Outside, the nation itself was in turmoil, waves of uncertainty crashing from every side. Zia lay awake on the hard floor, bracing as though lashed to the deck, unsure if dawn would bring freedom or death. And then, at last, sleep pulled him under, and the dream began. He was back in 1971, on the run, ragged and hollow-eyed, his men starving, rifles empty, the enemy closing in. It felt like an endless voyage without sail or compass, no land in sight. Through the night he stumbled until he came upon a pond glimmering like moonlit water. A boy sat there, dipping his legs into the ripples. At...