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E belonged to a breed of statesman that has almost died out – one that demonstrated loyalty without theatrics, noise without spectacle and loyalty without public service. With the death of Iftab Shaban Murani in Karachi on November 1, Pakistan has not only lost a former Chief Minister of Sindh and a former Chief Minister of Defense and one of the last custodians of an old, stable political mood.
Born in Shekarpur, Mirani entered politics when the PPP was still rebuilding itself after the execution of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Democratic space had to be contested, not assumed. He was among the young Sindhi leaders who stood by Benazir Bhutto during her initial confrontation with the establishment, long before parliament, the cabinet office or federal electricity were available. Over the decades that followed, he would become one of the party’s most trusted veterans — a man who spoke little, worked quietly and never confused visibility with influence.
In 1990, Mirani briefly served as the Chief Minister of Sindh, stepping into the role during a period of intense political polarization and strained relations between Karachi and Islamabad. Those who remember the moment say that his greatest achievement was not legislative change, but stability – the ability to hold the provincial system together while others pulled away. He ruled not like a firebrand, but like a table stable.
Three years later, Benazir Bhutto inducted him into the federal cabinet as Defense Minister, a position he held from 1993 to 1996. It was a time when civilian rule was constantly negotiating its limits with military power. This role demanded discretion rather than display. Syed Naveed Qamar, who worked closely with him during this period, says “Mirani was one of the very few people who understood the difference between holding office and holding a system together – she never personalized power and she never tried to play hero with institutions.” This was, in many ways, his political ethos.
He repeatedly returned to the National Assembly from Upper Sindh, where his constituency work was in irrigation channels, district hospitals, road links and local administrative outreach. His politics were designed not for talk shows but for tehsil offices, union councils and jiyala gatherings under a tree. “Mirani never forgot that the power of the PPP came from the workers, not from the television studios – he remained among the people even when he held the highest offices,” said Nasir Khohru, who watched him over the course of four decades.
Mirani’s silence was not temporary. This was the method. He believed that politics was built over years, not cycles. This influence is reduced when your phone is answered even after you leave the office. He did not pursue the politics of disruption, but the politics of tenure.
Mirani was also one of the few remaining figures who had worked with both Benazir Bhutto and the current party leadership, making her a bridge between the two eras. President Asif Ali Zardari called him “a sincere and loyal leader whose services to democracy, federation and public welfare will be remembered with great honour.” Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif paid tribute to him as “a seasoned political leader and senior parliamentarian whose contribution will never be forgotten.” Sindh Assembly Speaker Syed Owais Qadir Shah described him as “one of the most prepared and committed members ever to enter the House.”
But the tributes are from those who came with him – the old guard. Syed Khalsaed Shah, who shared the National Assembly benches with him for decades, called him “a man who never sought power, yet power trusted him.” Three-time former chief minister Qaim Ali Shah, a political contemporary from the same generation, said Mirani’s death “seems like the closing of a room we all sat in once—a room of patience, loyalty and mutual respect.”
The voices of young PPPs also recognized the generation gap. Shazia Mary described Mirani as “representative of a political culture that we may never see again – where punishment was not the slogan, but lived.” Senator Raza Rabbani, who reflects on his constitutional role, said he “represents the continuity of charisma. The kind of democratic stability that rarely makes headlines, but without which institutions collapse.”
Mirani’s silence was not temporary. This was the method. He believed that politics was built in years, not cycles – that influence was earned when your phone was still answered after you left office. He did not pursue the politics of disruption, but the politics of tenure. Even those who are rarely seen alongside him in the private calls for public memorabilia, cautious interventions and the kind of personal loyalties that end elections.
For many in Sindh, his greatest legacy is not a single bill or speech, but the consistency of his presence – the man from Shekarpur who stood by the party in exile and in power ‘who dealt with federation without surrendering the province’s dignity’. And who never treated workers as collaborators, not as tools.
His death is not just the end of a political life, but the end of a political type: the unsolicited arbiter, the trusted negotiator, the office holder who mattered no longer needed. Now in a political culture driven by speed, noise and profile, Mirani’s absence will be felt most in places where stability resides.
He leaves behind a family, a party, a district and a generation that saw in him something less than rare – a leader who carried weight without demanding attention and who chose service over spectacle. At a time when politics is increasingly transactional, her life is a reminder that endurance, loyalty and humility still matter.
The author is an award-winning investigative journalist and editor-in-chief of Scope, a digital platform. This can be reached at x @hassannaqvi5
