The Punjab government has declared a staggering $20,000 admission fee for the children of overseas Pakistanis. Are overseas Pakistanis becoming the next billionaires to be featured in Forbes, or is it just a greedy decision to use the children as walking ATMs?
“My child is studying Medicine.” A ubiquitous phrase to earn respect in milliseconds. Used by tens of thousands of families every year to gain social standing, achieve financial stability, and flaunt in front of relatives, “Doctory” is a pill we cannot avoid, especially in the Pakistani context.
If history is any guide, government decisions in Pakistan rarely miss a chance to benefit those in charge, and this policy seems to fit right in. When the word “foreign” is mentioned, an assumption follows: overseas Pakistanis live luxurious lives and have money to burn. That ignores a reality: remittances are one of the critical pillars of Pakistan’s economy, as Prime Minister Shahbaz Sharif put it, “Overseas Pakistanis who are bringing valuable foreign exchange worth billions of dollars to Pakistan are our assets.” Framed as a Robin Hood narrative, taking from the rich and giving to the local poor, the policy appears reasonable at a glance. But are they truly assets, or are they targets whose children are being used as collateral? It reads like a textbook case of political hypocrisy.
Wanting to kill the “golden goose?”
First, to puncture the myth of overseas Pakistanis as tech billionaires or oil tycoons, it helps to remember who actually sends money home: taxi drivers in New York, nurses in London, and construction workers in the Emirates. Many are overqualified for the jobs they hold abroad, yet they send remittances so their families can live better lives. Sending children back to Pakistan to study medicine is often a financial and emotional choice, a way to reconnect with roots while pursuing a noble and trusted profession. A $20,000 entry fee, before tuition and living expenses, throws up a stop sign. It signals that citizens who have worked abroad and continued to contribute to the economy are being asked to pay a penalty for their service.
Imagine a nurse in London who works double shifts to pay for her child’s tuition, or a small-shop owner in Dubai who keeps two ledgers, one for daily routine and one for his children’s future, or the countless men and women who take jobs far below their qualifications because living costs and visa regimes leave them no choice. Their life choices are not luxuries, but compromises. When sacrifices of these people are questioned, it sends a damaging message: we want your money, but we do not want you to benefit from it in the most human way possible, by educating your children at home.
Overseas Pakistanis are not merely sources of funds; they are our informal ambassadors, potential investors, and the bridge to the global knowledge economy
Second, and more importantly, this policy is short-sighted. It chases a quick cash boost at the expense of lasting trust and investment. Overseas Pakistanis are not merely sources of funds; they are our informal ambassadors, potential investors, and the bridge to the global knowledge economy. For many parents abroad, every remittance is not just money; it represents sacrifice, distance, and the hope of giving their children opportunities they themselves never had. Policies that alienate them risk weakening both emotional ties and the economic backbone that sustains the country. Public reactions to calls for boycotting foreign-currency remittances show how sensitive this issue is. As Ahmed Kabeer, a labourer in Riyadh, put it, “Sending money back to Pakistan was not a matter of political preference but a necessity.”
Now imagine how most people can afford to pay a whopping $20,000 admission fee for a medical degree when average incomes for many households range from $1,000 to $3,500 per month. This policy screams something louder: it separates the overseas from the locals. The fee structure effectively turns parents’ contributions to the national exchequer into a liability for their children’s education. It’s a tacit way of saying some Pakistanis are more Pakistani than others.
The Pakistan Medical and Dental Council (PMDC) itself has repeatedly emphasised the need to create a conducive environment for medical professionals. A senior PMDC official recently argued that “our national objective must be to enhance our human resources in healthcare, not create financial barriers that push our own talent towards other countries.” The Punjab government’s policy contradicts that strategic goal. It is a boomerang: in pursuit of dollars, it risks accelerating the very brain drain we claim to oppose.
What makes this particularly painful is that there are well-worn, commonsense alternatives that would preserve revenue without alienating an entire constituency. Fee waivers for economically vulnerable diaspora families, sliding-scale charges tied to income, scholarship schemes for high-merit applicants from abroad, or phased-payment options could raise funds while signalling respect. Even simpler administrative changes, for example, transparent criteria for who counts as “overseas”, or clear appeals procedures, would reduce panic and restore faith.
Pakistan is desperate to attract talent, not repel it. Building a nation is not a simple task. It requires goodwill, not greed. The government must offer a warm embrace to its diaspora, not a knife in the ribs. This is not merely about reversing one bad policy; it is about choosing what kind of country we want to be. Do we want to welcome our children home, or charge them at the door? The first step is clear: tear down this $20,000 wall and roll out the welcome mat.