In a nation where memory is often curated by political power, Pakistan finds itself debating one of its most foundational figures: Dr Abdul Qadeer Khan, the nuclear scientist widely hailed as the father of the country’s atomic program. His legacy was challenged last week when Rana Sanaullah, a senior official in the ruling Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N), dismissed him as a “non-hero“, declaring that only former Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif deserved the title for authorising the country’s 1998 nuclear tests.
In Pakistan, this was more than a provocative sound bite—it was an attempt to reframe national history.
The comment ignited debate not only about Dr. Khan’s role in shaping Pakistan’s nuclear capabilities but also about the very meaning of heroism in a country where science and politics have long been locked in an uneasy embrace.
Across cultures, the concept of a hero has traditionally centred on individuals who display exceptional courage, vision, and sacrifice in service of a greater cause. In Pakistan, Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan has long been revered as such a figure. For decades, his face appeared on schoolbook covers, public murals, and newspaper pages as a symbol of national strength and scientific accomplishment. His death in 2021 brought an outpouring of grief that cut across party lines.
But in Pakistan’s polarized political climate, even national heroes are not immune from revisionism. Rana Sanaullah’s statement reflects a broader trend: the politicization of national memory, in which historical achievements are repackaged to align with contemporary partisan narratives. In this case, it appears that Dr. Khan’s heroism was downgraded not because of any new information or reassessment of his accomplishments but because he wasn’t a member of the ruling political dynasty.
Born in 1936 in Bhopal, India, and later migrating to Pakistan, Dr. Khan earned degrees in metallurgical engineering in Europe and worked in the Netherlands before returning to Pakistan in 1975. He offered his expertise to then-Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who tasked him with creating a nuclear deterrent in response to India’s 1974 nuclear test.
Dr. Khan went on to establish the Kahuta Research Laboratories, where his team developed the uranium enrichment process that became the backbone of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. Over the next two decades, Khan’s work—conducted under secrecy and global scrutiny—culminated in Pakistan’s first successful nuclear tests in May 1998.
To millions of Pakistanis, those tests were a declaration of parity with India and a statement of national sovereignty. Khan’s contribution wasn’t symbolic; it was structural. He helped build the very foundation of Pakistan’s nuclear capability.
Nawaz Sharif’s role, though no less consequential, was of a different nature. As prime minister during the Indian nuclear tests of 1998, Sharif faced intense pressure from the United States and other Western powers to refrain from a retaliatory response. The Clinton administration reportedly offered billions in aid and political incentives to persuade Pakistan to hold back. Despite this, Sharif approved the tests—a politically risky move that resonated deeply with the national mood.
For this, he deserves recognition. A political leader’s courage in the face of international coercion is noteworthy. But to claim that this decision alone makes him the sole or even primary hero of Pakistan’s nuclear saga stretches the definition of heroism to the point of distortion.
The dichotomy presented by Rana Sanaullah—between the man who built the bomb and the man who authorized its detonation—creates a false zero-sum game of national credit. Nations are built by layered contributions, not single moments. In reducing that complex narrative to a contest of political loyalty, we diminish the very ideals that should define public service and sacrifice.
There is an intellectual cost to this kind of revisionism. In a country where scientific innovation is often undervalued, undermining Dr. Khan’s legacy sends a chilling message to future generations of Pakistani scientists, engineers, and researchers: that no matter your contribution, history will remember only those who wield political power.
This is not a uniquely Pakistani problem. Around the world, the architects of innovation and change are often relegated to the footnotes of history, while those who sign the documents or cut the ribbons take the headlines. But in Pakistan—a nuclear-armed state navigating complex regional rivalries—this distortion has particularly high stakes.
If the country cannot honor its scientists without political caveats, it risks not only rewriting its past but also imperilling its future.
History offers instructive comparisons. In the United States, President Harry Truman authorized the use of atomic bombs in 1945, but it is physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer who is remembered as the “father of the atomic bomb”. In India, Prime Ministers Indira Gandhi and Atal Bihari Vajpayee approved nuclear tests, yet the lion’s share of credit for India’s nuclear program goes to scientists like Homi Bhabha and A.P.J. Abdul Kalam.
What these examples suggest is that societies capable of making a distinction between execution and expertise tend to build more inclusive and intellectually honest national narratives.
Dr. Khan’s legacy is not without blemish. In 2004, he admitted to transferring nuclear technology to Iran, North Korea, and Libya in what became one of the most serious proliferation scandals in history. Whether his confession was entirely voluntary or politically engineered remains a matter of speculation. He was placed under house arrest, but even then, remained a beloved figure for much of the public.
For some, the proliferation episode complicates his heroism. But it also highlights the dual burdens of national security and personal accountability. Khan’s fall from grace in the eyes of the state did not erase his contributions to its defense. And the complexity of his legacy only underscores the need for a nuanced approach to public memory—one that can hold contradiction without collapsing into propaganda.
The question at the heart of this debate is not just about Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan or Nawaz Sharif. It is about the kind of country Pakistan aspires to be: one that celebrates merit regardless of party affiliation or one where history is a tool of partisan convenience.
By trying to write Dr. Khan out of the story, political actors risk alienating a population that still sees him as a symbol of national dignity and scientific promise. More importantly, they risk sending a message to future nation-builders that service alone is not enough—that unless you serve under the right flag, your place in history is negotiable.
As Pakistan grapples with economic challenges, climate vulnerability, and regional instability, it needs more than political manoeuvring. It needs faith in competence, respect for expertise, and a culture that celebrates sacrifice over sycophancy.
Reclaiming Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan’s place in the nation’s memory is not about nostalgia. It’s about clarity—about recognizing that heroes are made not just by decisions but by decades of unseen labor, unwavering conviction, and the courage to carry the weight of a nation on their shoulders long before the cameras arrive.
