Mired in violence and corruption, Pakistan has become known as "the world's most dangerous country." It's a dubious distinction, partly earned by the silence of its citizens.

Last week I travelled to Qatar (in the Gulf region of the Middle East), which is only one hour away by plane from Pakistan. My sister in Karachi offered to send me a ticket to visit her (which is what I normally do) but for the first time in 20 years I refused, offering her a lame excuse. The truth is I didn’t want to go. Although I’m fully aware of the crisis facing my native land right now, I didn’t want to face the incessant diatribes about conspiracy theories and the “enemy” causing death and destruction in Pakistan.

Everywhere we turn in media, Pakistan is in the news as the “most dangerous country” in the world today. My refusal to go back has little to do with fear, but much more with despair about what we’ve let happen to my country.

For the past month, I’ve tried to hide my pain and disappointment by refusing to discuss Pakistan. That refusal came to an end last week, because of two events. First, my niece in Islamabad sent me a quatrain written by famous secular Pakistani poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz who was exiled from his homeland for warning Pakistanis that there was a crisis looming based on extremism and egotism. As my niece set off with a truckload of supplies for the ravaged valley of Swat, she also reminded me that just because I’m thousands of miles away from my land of birth, it doesn’t absolve me of the responsibility for reaching out in compassion for those made homeless by the current crisis. Adding to this feeling of despair, I read this headline in the Toronto Star: “Canada eyes arms sales to Pakistan."

These two seemingly unrelated items woke me up with a start. This feeling of impending doom is not new. It’s been recorded in my articles and book as something waiting to happen. While I'm not surprised, the fact that disaster has really struck our homeland and that there's no resolution in sight instills a very distressful feeling.

While busy pointing fingers at everyone else, many of us tend to ignore the fingers pointed at us. This, I believe, lies at the heart of Pakistan’s current crisis. We Pakistanis have lost (or perhaps never had) a sense of pride in our nationhood. The result is a battle for secession by separate provinces and a majority of Muslims wanting to identify as Arab while denying our Indian heritage. Some of us (like me and my family) ran away from the crisis rather than face it head on and work for change. Thirty years ago, when extremism was creeping into Pakistan, instead of standing up to shout, “Not in my name you don’t," we left. Today I find that the people have no will left. Surely millions of Pakistanis could have stood up against corruption, extremism, and bad governance.

The Canadian government wants to lift the embargo on arms to Pakistan. This is a dangerous move. Surely they’re not so naïve as to think they are going to negotiate with someone who is not corrupt. Are they going to deal with Asif Zardari while he lines his coffers with cash; or are they going to deal with the Taliban so the latter can arm themselves better and burn some more girls' schools? Perhaps they think the Pakistan army is without blame. Let me remind them again: The Pakistan army and I.S.I. (Inter Services Intelligence) are responsible for the militant movement in Pakistan. A decade ago, some of us expatriate Pakistanis urged the Canadian government to give aid to Pakistan incumbent upon education for women and with hard accountability as to where the funds go. Today we’re repeating ourselves. At the same time, we urge Pakistanis everywhere, including those in Pakistan, to speak out and take action against atrocities targeted at minorities, ethnic groups, women, and activists.

As Faiz Ahmed Faiz wrote many decades ago:

Speak, while your lips are free, this brief hour is long enough, before the death of body and tongue: Speak, 'cause the truth is not dead yet, Speak, speak, whatever you must speak.