The announcement that Fitch Ratings has upgraded Pakistan’s long-term foreign and local currency credit rating from CCC+ to B-, while also revising its economic outlook from “negative” to “stable”, might bring a flicker of relief to policymakers in Islamabad. The finance ministry, no doubt, will find room to celebrate. In the world of spreadsheets and financial diplomacy, this is no small achievement. But in the alleyways of Karachi, the fields of rural Punjab, or the congested markets of Quetta, the applause is barely audible. For millions of Pakistanis battling inflation, unemployment, and shrinking incomes, such credit rating shifts feel painfully abstract—like a song playing in a distant room, promising comfort but delivering none. Fitch’s decision is rooted in optimism. The agency points to signs of fiscal discipline, narrowing deficits, and the government’s ongoing reform commitments.
According to their outlook, the fiscal deficit is expected to come down to 6% by June, with further improvement to 5% in the medium term, from the 7% recorded in the fiscal year 2024. These are hopeful figures, indeed. On paper, they represent progress. But in a country where macroeconomic numbers rarely touch the lives of ordinary people, one must ask: progress for whom? Pakistan’s economic story has long been one of contradictions. Headlines trumpet rising foreign exchange reserves and successful negotiations with lenders, while households sink further into economic despair. Petrol prices fluctuate, food becomes unaffordable, and youth scan job portals that promise everything but deliver nothing. This dissonance—between what is written in reports and what is lived in reality—has never been more stark. The real crisis Pakistan faces is not only about balance sheets.
It is about fairness. It is about trust. Time and again, Pakistan has shown that while it can improve its numbers to court international institutions, it struggles to channel those improvements into something that feels meaningful for its people. The reason for this is not lack of intelligence or skill. It is a deep-rooted problem of political will and structural inequality. Reforms, even when designed with the best intentions, end up serving a small elite that has long treated the country’s economy as its personal playground. The rules of the game are simple: profits are private, losses are public, and benefits always land where power already resides. One need only recall the solar panel import boom during the caretaker government under the PDM alliance. On the surface, it was hailed as a positive step—clean energy, future planning, green economy.
But peel back the layers, and a more troubling pattern emerges. The permissions, subsidies, and policy windows were not crafted to help struggling households or mid-sized businesses grappling with erratic power supplies. Instead, the true beneficiaries were a tiny cluster of well-informed investors and politically connected businessmen. They knew exactly when to buy, when to sell, and where to stake their claims. In another country, such patterns might lead to legal inquiries or at least robust public scrutiny. In Pakistan, they are absorbed quietly into the country’s economic folklore—as if corruption is not a crime but a clever tactic. This is why the Fitch upgrade, though technically positive, rings hollow for many. It will no doubt find its way into PowerPoint presentations at donor meetings. Ministers will refer to it during televised interviews. It might even make its way into speeches at investment summits.
But for the man who drives a rickshaw 12 hours a day to bring home barely enough to pay school fees, or for the woman who skips meals so her children can eat, these upgrades offer nothing but silence. A better credit rating doesn’t bring down the price of daal. It doesn’t guarantee electricity that stays on long enough for children to finish homework. It doesn’t create jobs for graduates brimming with potential and burdened with hopelessness. Pakistan’s economic woes are not accidental—they are embedded in its governance culture. The system is not broken; it is working exactly as it was designed to. It rewards loyalty over merit, secrecy over transparency, and short-term political gains over long-term social equity. Until this design is dismantled and rebuilt with justice at its core, no rating—no matter how upgraded—can make the country truly stable. Stability is not a graph trending upwards; it is a mother who no longer has to choose between medicine and food.
It is a farmer who doesn’t have to beg for a fair crop price. It is a young person who can dream of a future without packing bags for a foreign land. True progress must reflect itself in these human terms, not just in financial metrics. The Fitch upgrade is a reminder of what is possible, but also of how far we still have to go. It shows that with some effort and alignment, the books can be balanced. But it also underscores how disconnected our economy has become from our people. Until economic policy is driven by inclusion rather than exclusion, by justice rather than privilege, ratings will remain just that—ratings. They may win us international approval, but they will not earn us the trust of our own people. Pakistan has the talent, the resources, and the resilience to rise. But it will only do so when economic progress is no longer measured solely by what the world thinks, but by what the people feel. Until then, every upgrade will be met not with celebration, but with a quiet, weary sigh.
