Islamabad Court Orders PESCO to Pay for Nine-Year-Old Girl Who Lost Both Hands to Electric Shock

The Islamabad High Court's ruling was announced on an autumn morning, but its echoes reached a small village in Pir Qila, Charsadda district, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. There, in July 2026, a nine-year-old girl named Lubaba lost both hands after a fallen power line came down in the area where she lived. Four years later, the question the court had to answer was no longer who let the wire fall, but who must bear responsibility for the rest of a child's life. Justice Azam Khan, in his ruling, dismissed the appeal of the Peshawar Electric Supply Company (PESCO) — Pakistan's state-owned power distribution utility. With this decision, the court upheld the direction that PESCO must pay for medical assessment, prosthetic limbs, treatment and rehabilitation for Lubaba. If domestic facilities cannot meet her needs, the company must consider treatment abroad. This is a civil liability, established through several tiers of Pakistan's state apparatus. To understand the weight of the ruling, one must trace the three-tier chain that led to it. On 24 October 2026, the Federal Ombudsman — a statutory grievance-redressal body — ordered PESCO to compensate Lubaba's family. The President's Office then issued a directive requiring the company to provide treatment, and it was this directive that PESCO challenged on appeal. When the Islamabad High Court dismissed the appeal, it reaffirmed that the presidential directive was valid and in force. The striking point lies in how the court defined responsibility. It stressed that power distribution companies have a duty to supply electricity, and must also protect human life and meet safety requirements. This is a duty-of-care principle — a legal standard that can be invoked in many similar cases, not confined to one family. When an entity holds essential infrastructure, power comes with responsibility, and that responsibility cannot be limited to collecting a monthly bill. For its part, PESCO argued it was not the primary party at fault. More notably, during proceedings the company admitted the accident area had numerous illegal connections. That argument, viewed from another angle, opens a larger question: if illegal connections are so widespread, who is supposed to detect and stop them? Invoking the existence of illegal lines to reduce liability inadvertently concedes a gap in the safety management of the very entity operating the grid. The legal chain also reveals a complex procedural history. The complaint was initially upheld, but the findings were later withdrawn on review, before the presidential order restored the compensation obligation. This shows the question of responsibility passed through repeated disputes. The court ultimately siding with the child is both a legal victory and a signal about how the state prioritises the interests of the most vulnerable. On another level, the case reflects a broader problem of electrical-infrastructure safety across parts of Pakistan. Illegal connections, degraded wiring and poor maintenance are not isolated incidents. When such failures occur, the victims are often poor residents living in areas with limited access to the formal grid. Lubaba is one such case, and the price she paid — her hands — is irreversible. Seen more widely, similar lawsuits in many countries follow a familiar pattern: infrastructure operators deny responsibility until a tribunal forces them to accept it. The difference lies in whether the system has enough independent layers of oversight to carry a case to the end. Lubaba's case passed through three tiers — ombudsman, president, and court — and that is what makes it a notable precedent rather than a brief news item that fades away. Financially, the report discloses no specific compensation figure. That silence is meaningful: this is a story about responsibility and precedent, not about numbers. What matters is that the obligation may stretch over many years, because rehabilitation for a child who lost both hands will continue as she grows, including periodic replacement of prosthetics. This is not a one-off payment, but a long-term commitment. One point deserves candour: if utilities are only compelled to act after a tragic accident, that approach is reactive. A ruling can resolve Lubaba's case, but it does not automatically close the safety gaps that persist in the system. The real value of the case is that it sets a standard: essential infrastructure must carry a proactive duty to protect people, rather than merely reacting to consequences. For Justice Azam Khan, directing that Lubaba be assessed at the Armed Forces Institute of Rehabilitation Medicine (AFIRM) in Rawalpindi was a concrete enforcement step. Moving from a paper ruling to real action is the hardest part, because between the court's decision and a child actually receiving prosthetic hands lies a long road. Still, the court's dismissal of the appeal has closed one door to evading responsibility. This brings us back to the core question. A society is judged by how it treats its most vulnerable, more than by what it declares. The nine-year-old girl in Charsadda had no voice in the courtrooms, no private lawyer, and no power to force a state corporation to listen. But through three tiers — ombudsman, president, and court — that voice was represented. Lubaba's story does not end with the ruling. It still depends on whether PESCO actually complies, and on whether areas that have seen similar accidents are reviewed to prevent the next tragedy. The Islamabad High Court's ruling is a foothold, but a foothold only matters when someone stands on it.