Here in Pakistan there are bustling streets and honking cars. A little boy mired in poverty skillfully tips his box of popcorn onto the ground and begins bawling. Passersby, with pity and sympathy aroused, gift him with money. “Go buy some more, little kid,” they offer. A smile emerges from the boy’s tears. This is how he earns money: He picks up the popcorn and soon drops it again. Rinse and repeat.

But such behavior is horrid in the eyes of a policeman. The man, armed with a badge, lifts his club and beats the boy. Watching blow after blow, I want to yell – stand for justice. But my aunt shushes me and says as I sit in the car. “This isn’t America, darling.”

And she’s right. But the saddest reality is that similar stories have popped up throughout the this nation. It’s easy to label such lapses as irrelevant when we’re caught in an us-versus-them attitude. But the popcorn policeman has a stage presence here, too.

He emerged when Prince George’s County police beat a celebrating student after the men’s basketball 79-72 win over Duke in 2010.

He emerged when police pepper sprayed dozens of Occupy protesters in Oakland.

He emerged when a police officer was sued on charges of allegedly killing 68-year-old Kenneth Chamberlain, a retired African-American marine who was shot dead in his own New York home after he inadvertently triggered his medical alert pendant.

The gap between our country and a land thousands of miles, dozens of drone strikes and colorful bazaars away is not so wide.

But our nation gives us privilege. Silence is one of the strongest of shackles: It’s loud, it’s heavy and painful. But it’s something truly remarkable about this country, something we do not give the value it deserves: freedom of speech. Sometimes we cherish it by defending little insults with the hashtag of freedom of speech. We have the ability to speak out because even when our hands are up, we have options.

As Robert Kennedy once said, “Every society gets the kind of criminal it deserves. What is equally true is that every community gets the kind of law enforcement it insists on.” It’s very easy to be seduced by the nit-and-grit of cases whether about racism, police quotas or inept politicians. The real challenge is acknowledging the larger context. What do we insist on?

This isn’t about a police state. This isn’t even about a nation veering toward being a police state. This is about the state of our police. Make that distinction and understand the good cop-bad cop game is everywhere. In this country, the actions of a few do not speak to the actions of the brave, controlled and heroic actions of others.

But here’s what the ticket-line is: A police car’s presence forces drivers to be accountable. We glance at the nearest speed-limit sign and adjust accordingly. What we need is the flipside: a world where the presence of an ordinary citizen forces the police to be accountable.

It’s really no coincidence the colors of the American flag and our law enforcement vehicles flash red, white and blue. They symbolically carry the weight of freedom, justice and order.

But at the same time, the approach of a neighborhood watchman signaled danger for Trayvon Martin, uncertainty for Chamberlain and skepticism for the average Joe. As upholders of the law of the land and megaphones for order and accountability, it is our responsibility to understand all the shades a police car’s flashing red and blue lights can represent. It’s our responsibility to check our rear-view mirrors constantly. I’ve seen plenty of the beauty of the red, white, and blue.

But objects, corrupt practices and hypotheticals are closer than they appear.

And when you look back, realize that doing so does not label the police as corrupt or incapable. When you glance into that rear-view mirror, you defend your car and you protect the car behind you. You define your rights and you defend our system. It goes both ways.

Fatimah Waseem is a freshman neurobiology and physiology and journalism major. She can be reached at waseem@umdbk.com.