I GREW up in a Lahore very different from the grey expanse it has now become. Back then, it was a sleepier city but a very green one. The main boulevard in Gulberg was a long road with a wide and very green belt in the centre that ran from the Jail Road-Sherpao intersection all the way to Liberty market. The road on both sides of this green expanse was smallish and not that busy. But as the city grew, a decision was made to broaden the road and reduce the green belt, in order to accommodate the traffic . Since then, concrete has swallowed up most of the green. And the traffic continues to be a nightmare. The roads are wide and there are limited spots for U-turns or crossings but the traffic is far from manageable. Those who are forced to walk have to dash across between fast-moving cars and motorcycles. It is hard to think of any place in Lahore where the traffic is less chaotic, despite the flyovers and underpasses that have mushroomed all over the city, replacing the greenery in many cases. The canal, which once was the preferred spot for those who wanted to go for a ‘long drive’, is now a noisy, chaotic place, despite a series of underpasses. There was a time a drive next to the canal could be a relaxing affair as the city ended close to where Johar Town is. When an aunt of mine moved near Thokar Niaz Beg, it seemed so far away that a trip to her place was planned with as much fanfare as a day trip out of town. By now, of course, the city has spread far beyond what then seemed to be nowhere land. The city has become much bigger, swallowing areas around it and the people travelling in and out and through the city have also increased; but decades later, no one seems to realise that widening roads and installing flyovers doesn’t lead to a smooth traffic flow. In fact, more and bigger roads mean more cars and motorcycles. In the process, the sleepy green city of my childhood and youth has become ugly and concrete-ridden. For people such as myself who left Lahore some years ago, finding one’s way is at times impossible. Readers may be wondering what the point of this trip down memory lane is. There is a point. I was reminded of the disappearance of the city of my childhood because of the debate raging in Islamabad where trees have been cut down in what is said to be large numbers and in more than one location. For once, so intense and consistent was the criticism that the government was forced to pay attention. Islamabad’s greenery is being replaced by big roads, flyovers and underpasses. The authorities, which range from climate change to interior to CDA, insist that only paper mulberry trees (the cause of allergies) were cut down and that each tree will be replaced by three saplings — as if a fully grown tree which is removed today can be adequately replaced by three saplings, which may or may not survive. The larger context is not about how these trees were cut down but the mindset of what constitutes development and work across our political landscape. Since the 1990s, the political obsession is with building roads, broadening them, installing flyovers — a version of Dubai or Midwestern US. However, in the decades since, the world has moved on to a different version of urban living but as with our politics, we are stuck in a world and a vision that no longer works. And so, ‘development’ continues to be pushed. In Islamabad, the greenery is being replaced by big roads, flyovers and underpasses with little thought for their need or their capacity to manage traffic. If it seems there is a crossing where there is a wait and queues due to traffic lights, the ‘solution’ is to build an interchange or flyovers. No one realises that the wider roads in Lahore will eventually prove insufficient. Slowly, the greenery will give way to more concrete till the city is unrecognisable to those who grew up in it decades ago. And with the challenge of climate change, more roads and cars with less green cover is really a case of pouring oil on fire. At one level the problem is not just about outdated notions. They are also vanity projects for our ruling elite. In Islamabad, for instance, at one level the rapidity with which construction takes place is about ‘Shehbaz speed’ in competition with ‘Mohsin speed’. If the former built one in record time, during his previous stint, taking over land belonging to a university, the current interior minister has to be faster and more efficient. He is now busy transforming the city and who can stop him? Education, land rights, city character, the discomfort of the poor who are forced to be pedestrians, are all irrelevant issues. With this approach, is there any surprise that CDA officials went ahead and chopped down trees ruthlessly in different parts of the city? At one place it was to build a road to a new DHA phase; at another it was to help allergy patients. Who will ask questions about who profited from the wood, or the road to yet another housing society? In this environment, very few. Accountability has no role in this age of authoritarianism. And some years from now, when the air in Islamabad is as toxic as in Lahore, and the skies just as grey as the concrete covering the city, everyone will wring their hands, and blame the richer countries for climate change. Most of those who laid down this concrete in the shape of roads and housing societies (and profited from it) will be living in lands elsewhere. The writer is a journalist. Published in Dawn, January 13th, 2026