The lights are going out.

Not in the metaphorical sense of a political career hitting its expiration date—though that happened a while ago—but literally. Reports filtering out of Pakistan claim that Imran Khan, the former Prime Minister and the only man who ever made a cricket sweater look like a suit of armor, is losing his sight in an Adiala Jail cell. It’s a grim update in a saga that’s already been running on high-octane misery for two years.

Wasim Akram, the Sultan of Swing himself, couldn't stay quiet. "Heartbreaking to hear our skipper is losing his vision," he posted. It wasn't a long statement. It didn't need to be. For anyone who remembers 1992, the image of Khan—the man who saw every gap in the field, every weakness in a batsman’s stance—failing to see the walls of his own cell is a specific kind of gut-punch. It’s the kind of news that stops the scroll, even in an era where we’re desensitized to the slow-motion car crash of Pakistani politics.

But let’s get past the sentimentality.

This isn't just about a retired athlete’s failing health. It’s about the brutal hardware of the state grinding down the software of a populist movement. Khan’s political life has been defined by the digital. He’s the guy who used AI-generated speeches to address rallies from behind bars. He’s the man whose supporters weaponized TikTok and X to turn the state’s own narrative against itself. For a while, it looked like the virtual Khan was winning. You can’t jail a cloud-based entity.

Turns out, you can jail the meat-and-bones version. And the physical world has a much more effective "delete" button than any government firewall.

The friction here is the cost of the "Hybrid Regime" model. While Pakistan’s current administration spends millions on a national firewall to throttle dissent and track encrypted messages, they can’t seem to find a functional lightbulb or a decent ophthalmologist for the most famous prisoner in the country’s history. It’s a classic trade-off: high-tech surveillance paired with medieval living conditions.

The reports from Khan’s legal team and his sister, Aleema, paint a picture of deliberate neglect. They talk about "low-intensity light" and a lack of medical check-ups. The government, of course, denies it. They say he’s fine. They say he’s getting better meals than the average citizen. It’s the usual he-said, she-said, but played out in a theater where one side is in solitary confinement and the other holds the keys.

There is a dark irony in Khan losing his vision. This is a man who spent decades telling his followers "Ghabrana Nahi Hai" (don't be afraid). He sold a vision of a "New Pakistan" that was supposed to be a tech-forward, corruption-free utopia. Instead, he’s stuck in a system that’s remarkably old-school in its cruelty. You don't need sophisticated malware to break a man; you just need four walls and a lack of Vitamin D.

Akram’s reaction matters because it’s a rare break in the silence. In the current climate, speaking up for Khan is a professional gamble. The "Sultan" has enough status to survive the blowback, but his tweet serves as a reminder that the brand of Imran Khan—the "Skipper"—still carries more weight than the state would like.

We live in a time where we think technology has changed the rules of power. We thought social media could topple dictators and that digital presence could bypass physical borders. But Khan’s situation is a cold shower for the techno-optimists. You can have ten million followers and a fleet of bots, but if you can’t see the hand in front of your face because the state decided to dim the lights, the digital noise doesn't matter much.

The "Specific Friction" here is the $30 million the government reportedly spent on internet-filtering hardware while the country’s economy circles the drain. That’s the price tag of silence. It’s a lot of money to spend just to make sure the "Heartbreaking" tweets don't trend for too long.

So, Wasim Akram is sad. A lot of people are sad. But sadness doesn't fix cataracts, and it certainly doesn't open jail doors in Rawalpindi. The state has moved past the need for optics. They aren't worried about how it looks to the international community or the cricket legends of the nineties. They’re playing a longer, darker game.

If the reports are true, and the man who once held the world's gaze can no longer see the world, the message is clear. The system doesn't just want to defeat you; it wants to erase the very tools you used to perceive it.

Who needs a firewall when you can just turn off the sun?