By Imtiaz Hussain
The transfers and postings of civil servants in Sindh have long been treated as a kind of background noise to provincial politics — a routine so entrenched that few pause to question its cost. Yet behind every notification quietly issued by the Services and General Administration Department lies a story of influence, pressure and insecurity that has shaped governance in the province for decades. In Sindh, the administrative map has never been drawn by merit alone. For generations, the movement of commissioners, deputy commissioners and police officers has been dictated not by performance or public need, but by the political clout of local powerbrokers.
The tradition is so embedded in the political culture that it appears almost ceremonial: the posting of officials becomes an act of patronage, a reaffirmation of hierarchy, a reminder of who truly holds authority in a district. Senior police officials, including SSPs and SPs, and even station house officers, are routinely appointed with the blessing — or the insistence — of those who dominate the local landscape. For officers who arrive in a district without the prior endorsement of these personalities, the job becomes a trial. Some face pressure, some face isolation, and many simply endure a relentless stream of obstacles that can drain whatever motivation they brought with them.
A posting seen as neutral or merit-based becomes a burden the moment it threatens established interests. In several cases, officers are abruptly transferred as punishment for refusing to bend to political demands, or for failing to protect the interests of powerful patrons. Civil servants often describe their careers not in terms of achievement or service, but in terms of survival — a constant anxiety over where they will be sent next and why. If this dynamic were confined to whispers in bureaucracy, perhaps it would have been easier to dismiss. However, it is sustained in full public view. The Sindh government’s notifications of transfers and postings pour out with such regularity that they almost resemble a conveyor belt.
Media reports repeatedly show that deputy commissioners and district police chiefs are moved in and out within months, sometimes weeks, often without explanation. Continuity becomes impossible; accountability becomes irrelevant. Khairpur district offers a particularly stark illustration of this longstanding pattern. The district is home to more than one influential political faction within the ruling Pakistan People’s Party, and over time an unwritten “power-sharing formula” has quietly taken root. According to officials familiar with the arrangement, the formula lays out which political house approves which appointment.
Historically, the Jillani House — associated with Syed Qaim Ali Shah and Dr Nafisa Shah — exerted control over DC postings, while Wassan House — linked to Manzoor Wassan and Nawab Ali Wassan — influenced the selection of SSPs. It was an arrangement that everyone appeared to understand, even if no one acknowledged it formally. This week, Khairpur again witnessed the simultaneous transfer of its deputy commissioner and senior superintendent of police — the third such reshuffle in recent memory. Ahmed Fayyaz Hussain Rahoojo and Hassan Sardar Niazi were removed from their posts, replaced by Altaf Ahmed Chachar as DC and Dr Samiullah Soomro as SSP.
The reshuffle, insiders suggested, reflected adjustments to the political equation, with postings now reportedly taking place under the watch of PPP MPA Sheraz Shoukat Rajper. As always, the public explanation was routine; the political choreography behind it was anything but. Such practices are often defended as part and parcel of government service. But politically driven transfers carry a quiet but profound cost. They undermine the independence of the civil service, weaken public confidence in institutions and create an environment where officers hesitate before taking any decision that might displease the wrong quarter. Governance becomes hostage to competing interests, rather than guided by a commitment to public welfare.
In the end, it is ordinary citizens — those seeking basic services, timely intervention or even simple administrative clarity — who suffer the consequences of this constant churn. Civil servants are expected, at least in principle, to uphold ethical standards that form the backbone of public administration: integrity, neutrality, merit, transparency and courtesy. Yet these expectations sit uneasily beside a system that rarely protects officers who try to embody them. How can a civil servant enforce the law impartially when their posting depends on people who often stand to gain from selective enforcement? How can they maintain neutrality when their very presence in a district is seen as a political signal?
(The writer is a senior journalist, writer, and analyst, highlighting social issues, can be reached at news@metro-morning.com)
