Pakistan trembles before the courage of Baloch women activists

– By Arun Anand

Across the rugged mountains of Balochistan, a quiet revolution has taken shape — not through the barrel of a gun, but through the voices of women who refuse to be silenced. For decades, the Pakistani state has sought to crush the Baloch struggle for rights, identity, and dignity through brute force, censorship, and fear. Yet, amidst the silence imposed by the establishment, Baloch women have risen as the conscience of their people, demanding answers about the disappeared, the tortured, and the dead. Their courage has unsettled Pakistan’s power structure more deeply than any insurgency ever could.

And so, the state has turned its full machinery against them — branding them as traitors, blacklisting them, and attempting to erase them from the nation’s conscience. Pakistan’s fear of Baloch women activists is not born out of security concerns, as its propaganda machinery would have the world believe. It stems from a far more fragile truth: the fear of moral defeat. The establishment that has long ruled through the manipulation of narratives — portraying itself as a victim of terrorism and an upholder of law — cannot bear the voices that strip away this façade. Women like Dr. Sahiba Baloch, Dr. Shalini Baloch, and Samine Deen Baloch have become living examples of the state’s hypocrisy. Their activism exposes what Islamabad has spent decades denying — that the real terror in Balochistan does not come from the mountains but from the cantonments, checkpoints, and intelligence safe houses where young men vanish without a trace.

These women have turned grief into resistance. They march with photographs of missing fathers, brothers, and sons — faces faded by time but made immortal by memory. Their placards demand not privilege but the most basic human right: to know where their loved ones are. For a state built on denial, this demand is dangerous. The Pakistani establishment thrives on invisibility — the invisibility of its crimes, of its political prisoners, of its secret wars. When Baloch women pierce that invisibility, they threaten the very foundation of control that the military has built over Balochistan. The government can bomb villages, censor media, and flood social platforms with propaganda, but it cannot suppress the raw moral clarity of a mother’s cry for her missing child. To silence them, Pakistan’s establishment resorts to the language it knows best — intimidation, smear campaigns, and the weaponization of counterterrorism laws. The inclusion of prominent Baloch women on so-called “watchlists” or “anti-terror registries” is not an act of national security; it is an act of fear. When unarmed women holding peaceful demonstrations are accused of terrorism, it reveals who truly feels threatened. The state that claims to protect its citizens is terrified of citizens who speak the truth. The irony is tragic and telling — that in a country overrun by extremist groups, the military sees danger not in those who kill in the name of ideology, but in those who demand justice in the name of humanity.

The United Nations has expressed alarm over this systematic targeting of Baloch women human-rights defenders. Yet Pakistan continues its repression with impunity, shielded by the same institutions that it manipulates domestically — a judiciary that cowers before the establishment and a media landscape sterilized by fear. The disappearance of Baloch men is not a hidden secret anymore; it is an open wound. Thousands have been abducted by shadowy agencies, tortured in secret cells, and often found dumped in deserts and riverbeds. But when women take to the streets to seek accountability, they too are branded as enemies of the state. The military, unable to confront their truth, paints them as foreign agents, Western puppets, or anti-national propagandists — a tired script repeated whenever Pakistan’s moral bankruptcy is exposed. Behind this fear lies an even deeper insecurity within Pakistan’s power structure. The state was built on a fragile foundation of identity — an identity forged not through inclusion but through suppression. It cannot tolerate voices that challenge its narrative of unity, especially from those it considers peripheral and expendable. Baloch women embody a defiance that is both political and symbolic. They refuse to be confined to the role the state assigns to women — passive, silent, obedient. Their activism is not only a challenge to the military’s control but also a challenge to the patriarchal order that underpins it. When a Baloch woman speaks, she defies both the gun and the gendered silence imposed upon her.

The Pakistan Army, bloated with privilege and arrogance, cannot comprehend this form of power. It is accustomed to silencing dissent with force, not reason. Its generals are comfortable dealing with insurgents, for insurgency justifies military budgets, operations, and the mythology of national security. But women armed only with truth unsettle them in ways bullets never could. They strip away the illusions of heroism and expose the moral rot of a state that kidnaps its own citizens and calls it patriotism. The establishment’s fear of Baloch women is, therefore, the fear of losing control over the narrative — the fear that the world might finally see Pakistan not as a victim of terrorism, but as a perpetrator of systemic violence against its own people. What makes this fear even more profound is the growing international attention to the plight of Baloch activists. For years, Pakistan managed to bury these stories under the rubble of geopolitics — using its strategic importance to silence criticism. But in recent times, the testimonies of Baloch women have begun to pierce through that global indifference. Their statements before human-rights organizations and media outlets have become the cracks through which truth leaks out. Each speech, each vigil, each name they utter chips away at the edifice of impunity the establishment has built. This is why the state is desperate to label them as extremists — because it cannot bear the possibility of being judged by the world through the lens of those it has long oppressed. The persecution of women like Dr. Sahiba Baloch, Dr. Shalini Baloch, and Samine Deen Baloch is part of a broader pattern of state paranoia. These are educated women, professionals, and humanitarians — the very citizens a functioning democracy would celebrate. Yet Pakistan treats them as enemies, because in their words lies the most dangerous weapon of all: legitimacy.

The military’s war in Balochistan depends on dehumanizing the Baloch people. It thrives on portraying them as separatists, terrorists, and outlaws. When articulate, courageous women dismantle that narrative, they expose the establishment’s crimes to both domestic and international scrutiny. This is not just about silencing individuals; it is about suppressing a truth that threatens to delegitimize the entire security state. In a sense, Pakistan’s fear of Baloch women activists is the fear of its own reflection. It is a state that cannot look into the mirror of its history without seeing blood on its hands — from Dhaka to Quetta, from Sindh to the tribal belt.

Every disappeared person, every silenced journalist, every censored voice tells a story of a nation at war with its own people. The Baloch women’s movement forces Pakistan to confront that reality, and that is what terrifies it most. The establishment would rather be feared than exposed, because exposure demands accountability — something the generals have never known. But despite the repression, the movement endures. Baloch women continue to march, to document, to speak. They carry the memory of the disappeared like sacred relics, turning mourning into resistance. Each time the state targets them, it confirms their truth. Each blacklist, each abduction, each threat only amplifies their message: that no amount of violence can erase the demand for justice.

Pakistan’s fear, then, is not of women — it is of the truth they carry. It is the fear that one day the world will listen and see beyond the propaganda, beyond the manufactured narratives of security and nationalism. It is the fear of a reckoning long overdue. The establishment may control the guns, the media, and the courts, but it cannot command the conscience of a people awakening to their own oppression. Baloch women have made sure of that. Their courage has already broken the silence. And for Pakistan’s military establishment — built on secrecy, lies, and fear — that is the beginning of its greatest defeat.

Pakistan: A State at War with its Own People

Every time one looks up Pakistan on the internet, one is bombarded with news of death, destruction, and discrimination. The country, which was carved out of India in 1948, with the vision of creating a safe territory for the minorities of the subcontinent, has devolved into a place where the majority of people endure some or the other form of oppression and threats, under a state that is always on the edge of collapse. Most recently, a disturbing video of a man and woman being shot to death by a bunch of men in the Balochistan province has emerged on social media. Investigation has revealed it to be a case of so-called ‘honor killing’ ordered by a local tribal leader and executed by the woman’s brother. Such killings based on archaic notions of ‘honor’, gender-based violence, persecution of religious and ethnic minorities, civilian killings by militants, and state-orchestrated killings in the name of counter-terrorism and counter-insurgency, and more, pervade the news cycle in the country where the elites who lead the security forces are immersed in amassing political and economic capital, more than providing security to the citizens.

Although Pakistan has a long history of being both a promoter and victim of terrorism, the crisis has particularly aggravated since the August 2021 resurgence of the Taliban in neighbouring Afghanistan. As the US left the country after a 20-year-long protracted war, much of the sophisticated weaponry that it had provided for the Afghan army found itself in the hands of the Taliban and Pakistan-based militant insurgent groups, specifically the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) and Baloch Liberation Army (BLA). Overnight, these groups swelled in capacity, exacerbating the security crisis for Pakistani forces as well as civilians. The Global Terrorism Index report of 2025 placed Pakistan in the 2^nd position, noting 1,081 terrorism-related fatalities and 1,099 terrorist attacks in 2024.

In the past years, these groups have also scaled up their attacks on Pakistanis from other provinces as well as foreigners, particularly Chinese workers. In August last year, in a chilling incident, the BLA militants forced out 23 passengers from a civilian bus, checked their identity cards, and killed them after establishing that they were Punjabis. In March 2024, a suicide bombing killed 5 Chinese engineers working on a dam project in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. The rise in attacks on Chinese workers has become a sore point between Pakistan and China, threatening to jeopardize the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor.

Additionally, the Pakistani military’s response to these terrorist groups has also opened up another security threat for the people. In Balochistan, in the name of countering the long-standing insurgency, the state has routinized enforced disappearances, custodial killings, and torture, without any accountability. Although it is very difficult to ascertain the exact number of forcefully disappeared people, to get an idea of the scale of this tragedy, one can refer to the Human Rights Watch report which has recorded 8,463 cases of missing persons between 2011 and January 2024 or the Pakistan Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances (COIED) which registered 10,078 cases. A civil resistance movement led by women has also emerged in the past couple of years, demanding accountability from the state for its excesses in Balochistan. However, it has been violently quelled, with its leaders incarcerated.

Since the founding of Pakistan on religious lines, there has been a concerted effort by the state to marginalize and erase its religious minorities, most prominently Hindus, Christians, and Sikhs. Besides systemic discrimination, cultural marginalization, and destruction of places of worship, religious minorities constantly face the threat of violence, ostracization, and forced conversions. Around 20-25 Hindu girls are estimated to be kidnapped and converted in Sindh every month. The police and judiciary often exempt the perpetrators who often enjoy social influence and support for ‘scoring’ a conversion to Islam. The draconian blasphemy law is another tool with which religious and sectarian minorities (Shias and Ahmadis) are persecuted. More disturbingly, when someone weaponizes the blasphemy accusation, often the cases do not even reach the courts as the enraged public murders the accused by themselves. At least 70 people have been reportedly murdered over blasphemy accusations since 1990. This figure includes the notorious killing of the Sri Lankan Christian worker Priyantha Kumara. The discourse around the law is so charged that anyone who dares to oppose it faces the same threat of being lynched. Prominent political figures such as the former governor of Punjab Salman Taseer and former Federal Minister for Minorites Shahbaz Bhatti have been assassinated for opposing the law, and judges who either convict vigilantes or acquit the falsely accused have to flee the country to save their lives.

When it comes to women, regressive social attitudes and a decrepit administration have led to a scenario where crimes like harassment are only routine but normalized. According to a Women Safety Audit undertaken by UN Women in 2020, over 80% women reported facing harassment in public places. Women are also the overwhelming targets of so-called honour killings- the Human Rights Commission of the country registered 405 cases in 2024 alone, most of them against women. As per data by the Sustainable Social Development Organization, only one of the 32 cases reported in the Balochistan province this year has led to a conviction, pointing to the dire situation where state neglect has emboldened criminals and proliferated such a heinous crime.

Despite the terrifying picture that the above instances and analyses paint about Pakistan, it is still only scratching the surface. In a country beset with administrative disrepair, state-supported religious extremism, ethnic violence, systemic impunity, suppression of dissent, and economic crisis, one can only imagine the daily struggle for survival that people are subjected to. Pakistan urgently requires a radical overhaul of state identity, civil-military relations, and state-society relations. However, given the status quo of absolute state complacency and elite capture, the future of the citizens of the country appears distressingly grim.

Legalizing Repression: How Balochistan’s Anti-Terror Law Risks Fuelling the Fire

The Balochistan province of Pakistan represents a long-standing festering wound- one that the state, instead of healing, is bent on continually aggravating. The largest, resource-abundant, yet poorest province of the country, Balochistan has been reeling in the crossfire of a chronic armed insurgency and a disproportionate state response, in addition to systemic political and economic marginalization. Even as Pakistan was recently engaged in military confrontations with India- the most severe since the Kargil conflict of 1999, the Baloch insurgents kept intensifying their operations. Now, in the name of more effective counter-terrorism, the government has passed another legislation that threatens to worsen the situation by legitimizing state excesses in the province.

Amid vehement opposition by legal experts, human rights groups, and civil society, the Balochistan Assembly passed the Counter-terrorism (Balochistan Amendment) Act 2025 on June 4. The legislation, which makes new inclusions into the 1997 Anti-terrorism Act, authorizes armed forces, civil armed forces, and intelligence agencies to preventively detain a person for up to three months without any charges or trial. Eliminating judicial oversight, joint investigation teams can now issue detention orders, seize property or other possessions, and conduct ideological or psychological profiling of the detainees, all on their own accord. The Act has been put in place for 6 years, after which it can be extended for a period of 2 years if the provincial government thus notifies.

Collective suppression under the garb of combating insurgency and terrorism is far from new in Balochistan. Particularly since the mid-2000s, the Pakistani state has notoriously enacted a ‘kill and dump’ policy and forged an atmosphere where the threat as well as execution of enforced disappearances, custodial torture and killings, fake encounters, and arbitrary detention is part of daily life. This month itself, Pakistan based human rights organisation, the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), in its bi-annual human rights report, revealed that 752 people were forcibly disappeared from January to June 2025, out of which 181 were later released and 25 died in custody. The report also registered 117 extrajudicial killings in the same period, with most of the victims reportedly being students and young political activists.

Even when the Act was a proposed bill in the provincial assembly, human rights groups, including Amnesty International and the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP), had staunchly opposed its passage over concerns that it would legalize state instrumentalization of enforced disappearances and arbitrary detention. After it was adopted, the HRCP condemned the “sweeping powers of preventive detention” outlined by the Act, which undermine civilian law enforcement domain by involving military personnel in the oversight boards, and contravene the country’s constitutional obligations under Article 10 (legal safeguards for those arrested or detained) as well as its commitments under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. The BYC, too, released a strongly-worded statement, decrying the Act’s “grave violation of fundamental rights, including personal liberty, due process, and protection from arbitrary detention.”

Meanwhile, Pakistani government is projecting the Act as a decisive framework against terrorist forces and something that will help end the issue of missing persons. Balochistan Chief Minister Sarfaraz Bugti described it as a milestone which, according to him, will counter the “organised conspiracy” and “false allegations against state institutions” regarding enforced disappearances. Bugti also claimed that the insurgency in the province is a “foreign intelligence agency driven war” against Pakistan, a narrative that has been parroted for a long time by the Pakistani establishment. This absolute denial and deflection by the authorities point to their utter unwillingness to acknowledge, address, and resolve the plight of the Baloch people, further alienating them and fueling the militancy.

The Baloch people are already subjected to an extremely stifled environment, wherein demands of accountability from the state are constantly misconstrued as separatism, justifying excessive crackdown and harassment. The BYC-led peaceful Baloch civil resistance movement, which has emerged as a resilient force in the past couple of years, has had to face constant vilification, disruptions, harassment, and violent crackdown by the state, with its leaders, including Mahrang Baloch, incarcerated. Rather than taking advantage of a peaceful civilian platform that works towards state accountability and political reconciliation within the federal framework, the heavy-handed response of the Pakistani state creates conditions where peaceful political activism loses relevance and the people, particularly the youth, increasingly view armed insurgency as the only alternative.

Within the context of an ever-ascending insurgency, progressively alienated people, rising attacks on CPEC workers and projects as well as Punjabi migrants, the newly passed amendment act will certainly estrange the Baloch people further. The ensuing state excesses, which will now take on a robe of legal legitimacy, will exacerbate the security crisis in the province. At a point when the Pakistani state must proactively prioritize meaningful political engagement with Baloch grievances, demonstrate accountability and willingness towards politico-economic inclusion and justice for Balochistan, it is almost a suicide run to introduce a blatantly exploitative and tyrannical legislation. By legalizing repression in a province which already represents an existential landmine, Pakistan has truly set in motion its own unravelling.

Pakistan’s Uniformed Democracy: Asim Munir’s Rise and the Civilian Surrender

In Pakistan’s fraught political landscape, where military dominance has often operated behind a veil of civilian rule if not outrightly seizing power, a new chapter is being written. Analysts and experts describe the country’s current governance framework as a ‘hybrid system’ wherein military exerts control over the civilian executive. But, instead of resisting such entrenchment in the executive affairs of Pakistan, the country’s political class is openly celebrating the system and its own active complicitly. Its latest manifestation was witnessed in the aftermath of Pakistan Army Chief General Asim Munir’s June 2025 Washington luncheon with the US President Donald Trump where he was accorded an honour typically reserved for heads of state. Defence Minister Khawaja Asif in a recent social media post on X (formerly Twitter) hailed the so-called “hybrid model” of governance as the secret to Pakistan’s recent successes.

Asif’s post was unambiguous, stating, “The revival of the economy, the defeat of India, the glorious and highly successful improvement in relations with the US” were all, according to him, made possible not by democratic governance or parliamentary mandate, but by “excellent relations between Islamabad and Rawalpindi.” This was the highest form of from the current political elite referring to not only the civilian government’s alignment with the military high command but its subservience to it.

Far from being a gaffe or one-off comment, Asif’s post was emblematic of a broader trend, which is the normalization, and even celebration, of military dominance in Pakistan’s political system under the tenure of current Chief of Army Staff.

Field Marshal Asim Munir, who assumed command of Pakistan’s powerful military in November 2022, has swiftly moved to expand the influence of military establishment far beyond traditional defence and security matters. During these years, Pakistani Army has reasserted itself as the ultimate arbiter of political legitimacy, economic policy, foreign affairs, and even media narratives, something that is not lost in the currently in Pakistani information space.

Munir’s model of control is less about martial law and more about managed democracy, which is a façade of civilian rule where real power resides in the barracks of Rawalpindi. In contrast to some of his predecessors like General Qamar Javed Bajwa and Raheel Sharif who preferred to operate in the shadows, Munir’s approach is increasingly overt. Whether through the military’s economic arm, the ever-growing surveillance state, or the selective engineering of elections and political alliances, his footprint has growingly become unmistakable.

This has been demonstrated by the much controversial 2024 general elections through brazen manipulation of the system to ensure the current government under Shehbaz Sharif takes shape. It included the use of all arms of the state, be it the election commission or judiciary, the military establishment ensured that the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaaf (PTI) party was restrained from partaking in elections and denying its nominees a unified platform to contest besides scores others imprisoned, disqualified on technicalities, or marginalized through media blackouts.

Nevertheless, what makes this moment particularly alarming is not just the military’s overreach and dominance over civilian executive, but the political class’s enthusiastic submission to it. Instead of resisting authoritarian drift, Pakistan’s major political parties, led by ruling Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N), along with Pakistan People’s Party (PPP), have largely embraced it for seeking favour with the military brass in the hopes of electoral blessings or protection from legal troubles.

As such, once symbols of democratic resistance, the silence of these political parties on issues of censorship, enforced disappearances, political victimization, and military trials of civilians speaks volumes. They are increasingly toeing the establishment’s line and facilitating its power grab by enabling legislative amendments. Under this arrangement, Pakistan Military (Army, Air Force and Navy) Acts have been amended to increase powers of the armed forces along with increasing the tenures of service chiefs, besides 26^th constitutional amendment to undermine the country’s judiciary by tweaking the judicial appointments procedure and weaking the powers of Chief Justice of Pakistan.

The most revealing indicator of this alliance is the mainstreaming of “hybrid regime”, once a derided term used by analysts and civil society to describe the country’s militarized democracy. It is now worn as a badge of honour by ruling politicians, as Khwaja Asif’s adoration highlights. That a sitting defence minister could proudly glorify military dominance over civilian executive, without fear of political backlash, signals how far democratic norms have eroded. It also glosses over the fact that Pakistan all kinds of ills, ranging from economic woes, security unravelling, and political instability, are all because of the very military establishment’s Machiavellian overreach beyond their constitutional mandate.

Under Asim Munir’s command, the military has expanded its grip on key civilian institutions, including the judiciary, the Election Commission, the media, and even elements of the economic policy machinery. It can be safely argued that this so-called “hybrid model” is little more than a euphemism for authoritarianism in civilian clothes as Pakistani judiciary is being either co-opted or cowed into silence, while journalists face harassment, detention, or worse for merely questioning the prevailing order. In such a system, the military does not need to seize power as it already exercises it, via the institutions it controls.

For decades, Pakistan has oscillated between overt military dictatorships and fragile democratic transitions. Each time democracy has been restored, there was hope, however faint, that the balance of power might tilt in favour of civilian supremacy. Under Field Marshal Munir, that hope appears to be vanishing fast. What distinguishes the present era is not just the military’s ambition, but the political elite’s abdication of responsibility.

By cheerleading military dominance, political leaders are not just compromising democratic norms, they are legitimizing authoritarianism. And in doing so, they are narrowing the space for dissent, weakening civilian institutions, and undermining public trust in electoral processes, which are all basic indicators of a democracy.

The consequences are profound. Pakistan’s economy, already struggling under the weight of inflation, debt, and a collapsing rupee, cannot recover without institutional accountability. Foreign policy, especially relations with neighbours like India and Afghanistan, requires democratic consensus, not militarized doctrine. And internal security, increasingly threatened by extremism and separatism, as evidenced by raging Baloch insurgency and Islamist extremism, cannot be addressed through brute force alone.

For Pakistan to reclaim its democratic identity, it must begin with a clear-eyed recognition of where it stands today. The so-called hybrid system is not a strength, but a symptom of institutional decay. Political leaders must stop outsourcing legitimacy to the military and instead invest in rebuilding the public’s faith in democratic governance.

Asim Munir’s consolidation of power may serve the short-term interests of a few, but it comes at the cost of Pakistan’s democratic soul. If left unchallenged, the current trajectory will lead not to national revival, but to a more entrenched and unaccountable authoritarianism. And history has shown, time and again, that such regimes do not end in glory, but in collapse.

Pakistan’s Real Power Centre: Asim Munir’s Military Rule in Civilians’ Clothing

As Field Marshal Asim Munir wrapped up yet another high-profile visit to China this time, Pakistan’s indispensable “iron brother”, it carries an explicit message for both domestic and external audiences that Pakistan’s top general is not just the chief of army staff. He is the country’s de facto head of state, foreign minister, and economic strategist rolled into one uniformed figure.

From Beijing to Washington, Asim Munir has emerged as Pakistan’s most visible face on the international stage. In a telling departure from past norms, where foreign policy and diplomacy were handled by civilian leaders, Munir now routinely engages heads of state and top ministers of the world’s major powers. In June, he was received in Washington with a protocol typically reserved for presidents, wherein he was hosted for a formal luncheon by President Donald Trump. His July 25 visit to Beijing was similarly instructive. He met with China’s Vice President Han Zheng, Foreign Minister Wang Yi, and the top brass of the People’s Liberation Army, covering everything from regional security to the future of the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), as per the statement issued by Pakistan Army’s Inter-Services Public Relations (ISPR).

This outreach to Washington and Beijing, Pakistan’s most significant external “allies”, seems to have effectively supplanted the civilian government of Shehbaz Sharif in both style and substance. In both capitals, Munir is treated as the true interlocutor, highlighting how far Pakistan’s military has overreached into domains traditionally managed by elected representatives.

Asim Munir’s aggressive diplomacy abroad is only one facet of a broader power consolidation at home that has pushed Pakistan into what can only be described as a military-led “hybrid authoritarianism”. Behind the civilian façade, the military establishment has pulled all institutional levers to dominate the judiciary, the economy, and the legislative process.

A glaring example is the military’s grabbing of vast tracts of agricultural land in Punjab and Sindh under the guise of “national development” in 2023. Under Munir’s watch, thousands of acres of government land have been allotted to serving and retired officers for agricultural purposes, all in the name of so-called food security of the country. This wholesale land grab, facilitated by pliant bureaucracies and rubber-stamp judicial processes, is in addition to over 12 million acres of land already in the possession of armed forces.

Meanwhile, the economic crisis that grips Pakistan has not spared the foreign exchange reserves, yet the military’s own financial apparatus remains untouched. The military-run business conglomerates, run under Fauji Foundation, Shaheen Foundation, Bahria Foundation and Army Welfare Trust (AWT), continue to thrive tax-free and without government oversight.

At the same time, there has been a steep rise in the government defence budgetary allocations, with a 20 per cent hike in 2025, as announced in June. This has come even as social sectors like health and education face severe cuts in their annual allocations, all in the name of austerity.

All of this is made possible by legal tweaks and constitutional manipulation. Laws such as Pakistan Army Act and the Official Secrets Act have been weaponized through amendments to stifle dissent. This has allowed the government to try hundreds of civilians, including opposition activists and journalists, by military courts in the aftermath of May 9, 2023, violent anti-government protests.

Moreover, Asim Munir has furthered the strategic parachuting of military officers in the civilian institutions like Water and Power Development Authority (WAPDA) and National Database and Registration Agency (NADRA), among dozens of others. Such encroachment in civilian affairs ensures that the military establishment influences every lever of the country’s governance structure. This increasing opacity and unchecked power have real-world consequences.

Perhaps the most damning indictment of Asim Munir’s tenure is not just the scope of his ambition, it is the cost at which it has come. Munir may go down in history as the army chief who has lost hundreds of soldiers to insurgent attacks in merely two years of his tenure. From Balochistan to the tribal hinterland of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK), Pakistani troops have come under relentless assault from a rejuvenated insurgency, especially by groups like Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) and Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP). In June, over a dozen soldiers were killed in a single attack in North Waziristan, with TTP claiming responsibility. The environment in Pakistan has been made such that no one dares to raise the questions over why the army was caught so off guard as the answer lies in the misplaced priorities of its leadership. As such, intelligence failures and overstretched resources diverted toward political engineering have left the national security more and more vulnerable.

Munir’s focus has clearly shifted from commanding the army to controlling the country. His preoccupation with political micromanagement, from managing elections, orchestrating defections, and installing compliant judges, has allowed militant groups to regroup and strike with impunity.

The consequences of this military overreach are not abstract. Pakistan today finds itself mired in economic stagnation, political instability, and social repression. The elected government of Shehbaz Sharif of Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) serves little purpose beyond legitimizing decisions made in Rawalpindi. Even the civilian cabinet has admitted, as evidenced by Defence Minister Khwaja Asif’s recent statements, that policy decisions are taken in consultation with the military establishment.

This is not new in Pakistan, where the military has always been a shadow power. But under Asim Munir, the shadow has become the spotlight. Unlike his predecessors like General Qamar Bajwa, who preferred to rule from behind the scenes, Field Marshal Munir appears unashamed of his centrality. He has no qualms about attending investment conferences, briefing envoys, or commenting on fiscal policy, which are all duties that fall well outside the remit of a military officer.

This overt control is compounded by an ecosystem of surveillance, censorship, and intimidation. Herein media channels have been taken off air for airing dissenting views, with scores of journalists arrested or forced into exile in the last two years.

Asim Munir’s Pakistan is one where the constitution is interpreted through camouflage, where democracy is performed but not practiced, and where the price of questioning the army is, quite literally, one’s freedom. The military establishment’s institutional interests have expanded from national defense to national domination, and Munir is their most visible symbol. The erosion of civil institutions, the suppression of dissent, and the neglect of core military duties are not just signs of overreach, but that of a rot.

And as Pakistan’s soldiers continue to fall in the country’s hinterlands of Balochistan and KPK while their chief chases diplomatic photo-ops, the question must be asked: Who really rules Pakistan? And for how long can a country survive when its generals stop guarding the borders and start governing the state?

Balochistan’s Bloodletting Exposes a Failing State

In Balochistan, Pakistan’s largest yet most marginalized province, a grim pattern has become all too familiar wherein buses are stopped, passengers segregated, and innocent civilians. The victims are often chosen based on ethnicity or government association before being executed in cold blood. On July 10, 2025, nine such passengers were killed by suspected Baloch insurgents in the Zhob and Loralai districts of Balochistan. It was initially claimed by Baloch Liberation Front (BLF), one of the oldest insurgent groups in Balochistan. It may be noted that several Baloch separatist outfits have escalated their insurgent campaign against the Pakistani state in recent years.

This attack is just one in a series of chilling episodes that have rocked the country’s fragile internal security landscape. It is merely three months from the hijacking of the Jaffar Express train by Baloch insurgents, which was seen as a blow to the military-led security establishment. It not only as an operational embarrassment for the Pakistani military but also as a stark reminder the state is not in control, at least not here. Because, here the Baloch insurgents struck not just at state infrastructure, but also at the very mythology of control cultivated by Pakistan’s powerful military over decades, signally Pakistan slipping back into a state of internal chaos.

These incidents point to an uncomfortable truth that the security in Pakistan is unravelling with the country’s periphery, particularly Balochistan, bearing its brunt.

According to a July 12 report by the Pakistan Institute for Conflict and Security Studies (PICSS), between July 4 and 10 alone, there were at least 27 instances of insurgent or militant violence, which led to 24 fatalities and more than three dozen injuries. It further highlighted that although the violence was widespread across the country, a disproportionately high number of violent incidents took place in Balochistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK), two areas that have long been neglected by the federal government and have endured Pakistan’s militarized governance for decades.

These two provinces have emerged as significant security challenges for the military establishment. Take the case of Balochistan. This resource-rich but with historical experience of continued political disenfranchisement has been simmering with resentment for decades. That resentment, once localized and fragmented, has in recent years transformed into a more coordinated and high-profile insurgency. Armed Baloch groups led by Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) have increasingly targeted not just state security installations and personnel and civilians presumed to be working for the state (collaborators)but also Chinese nationals working on infrastructure projects.

For much of its post-colonial existence, Pakistan has treated Balochistan with a mixture of indifference and coercion. Although the province constitutes nearly 44% of the country’s landmass and holds vast reserves of natural gas, coal, and minerals, it remains the least developed and most underrepresented region in national politics.

Protest in Balochistan as people demand justice amid rising terror

This neglect is not accidental but a structural. It is rooted in how Islamabad’s successive military dominated governments have viewed Balochistan through a narrow security lens. Instead of investing on integrating the local population into national political or economic frameworks, this militarized governance structure has a history of building garrisons and intelligence networks to rule the province with an Iron fist. As such, social sectors like education remain abysmal and infrastructure underdeveloped with scare avenues of employment for the locals. Such an approach has result in a deepening alienation, especially among the Baloch youth, many of whom now see insurgency not as extremism but as resistance. For many of them, the Pakistani state behaves in an imperialistic manner, interested in extracting provincial resources, while silencing local dissent.

While Balochistan remains the epicentre of anti-state violence, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, especially its tribal hinterland, continues to be affected by heightened Islamist militancy. The reconstitution of Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) and the regrouping of splinter jihadist factions have brought fresh violence to the region, including blowback militancy from groups once patronised by the military establishment. For instance, on June 28, at least 13 Pakistan army soldiers killed and a dozen others injured in a car bombing attack by TTP in North Waziristan district. While Islamabad has attempted to engage Pakistan Taliban, in what many described as mainstreaming process, it has failed to reign in the group which has upped its ante.

Pakistan’s worsening internal security is rooted in a doctrinal failure of Pakistan’s most powerful institution: the military. For decades, the Pakistan Army has acted as the ultimate arbiter of national stability. It has been the kingmaker in Islamabad, directed foreign policy, and controlled internal security operations.

But its strategic approach has often leaned heavily on tactical repression and short-term deals with militant proxies, many of whom have eventually turned rogue. Rather than pursuing an inclusive governance regime in the peripheries, the military often resorts to “shock and awe” operations, arbitrary detentions, and enforced disappearances, a feature of its (mis)conduct in Balochistan. This may have bought the military some time through temporary lulls in violence, it really has not shifted the root causes of unrest, which are political disenfranchisement, ethnic exclusion, and socioeconomic neglect.

Moreover, the Army has gotten dirtier with time and politics, and in so doing has reduced its legitimacy at least in part. Its role in propping up so-called hybrid regimes in Islamabad is one example. It is no longer seen as an independent force for good; it is considered a player on the bad side.

It is not merely a security failure that Pakistan is suffering today, rather it is a breakdown of the very social contract, if at all there existed one for the peripheries. When sections of the population feel excluded from political processes, denied economic opportunity, and in fact singled out by the very state that should protect them, insurgency begins to seem not merely possible, but inevitable.

Pakistani rulers would do better for the country by acknowledging what is happening across Balochistan and KPK cannot be vanquished through military operations. Nor can it be whitewashed by official narratives of “external sabotage” or “foreign conspiracies,” something that has become a too convenient tool lately to place all blame neighbouring countries. This unrest goes deeper and is symptomatic of a systemic failure to create an inclusive, equitable, and truly federal state.

Unfolding circumstances demand that Pakistan’s military-dominated establishment and political elite, introspect on the policy approach towards these provinces. Their persistence to govern by coercion while neglecting regional empowerment will only push the crisis deeper. If one may argue, the semblance of control is fast disappearing, and the fires of dissent will stoke ever higher.

Pakistan stands at a crossroads. The surge in violence, especially in historically restive provinces like Balochistan and KPK, is symptomatic of a far deeper institutional rot. It is alarming that the very regions of the state that the current regime is attempting to quell are slipping further into chaos, not by virtue of a lack of power or firepower, but rather the absence of any serious political vision.

Pakistani rulers would do better by grasping the fact that real security cannot be built over “fear, exclusion, or propaganda”. They cannot speak of security unless it is grounded in justice, fairness, representation, and dignity of all citizens, irrespective of ethnicity, language, religion or region. Unless and until those holding power in Islamabad and Rawalpindi understand this, the question will not be how Pakistan restores security, but whether it can prevent the complete unravelling of its internal cohesion.

Balochistan Under Siege: Decades of Occupation and Resistance

Balochistan, the largest and most resource-abundant province of Pakistan, continues to face persistent unrest—an occupied territory enduring a systematic campaign of military dominance, economic exploitation, and cultural suppression. Since its forcible annexation by Pakistan in March 1948, Balochistan has experienced repeated uprisings, each met with severe state-led repression. Despite enduring decades of marginalisation, the Baloch people’s call for self-determination remains undiminished. The origins of this enduring conflict lie in the coerced incorporation of the Baloch princely state of Kalat into Pakistan. On 15 August 1947, Kalat proclaimed its independence, and its elected parliament subsequently voted against joining Pakistan. Nevertheless, under military duress, the Khan of Kalat was compelled to sign an instrument of accession in March 1948. This act, widely viewed as illegitimate, sparked the first of five major Baloch rebellions—occurring in 1948, 1958, 1962, 1973, and the most protracted uprising, which began in 2004 and persists to this day.

Balochistan constitutes 44% of Pakistan’s total land area, yet it remains the most underdeveloped region in the country. Although the province accounts for 36% of Pakistan’s natural gas production, a mere 10% of its residents have access to piped gas. Sui, where natural gas was first discovered in 1952, ironically still lacks basic amenities such as electricity and clean drinking water. According to the Pakistan Economic Survey 2024–25, Balochistan’s literacy rate is a mere 42.01%, markedly lower than Punjab’s 66.25%. Despite its wealth in minerals, fossil fuels, and a strategically vital coastline, its inhabitants remain among the most impoverished in the nation. These disparities are not coincidental—they are structurally imposed. The China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), a $62 billion infrastructure initiative, has exacerbated the economic subjugation of Balochistan. Gwadar Port, the flagship project of CPEC, has effectively become a Chinese-dominated zone from which the indigenous Baloch have been displaced. Traditional fishing communities have been denied access to ancestral coastal areas, while development zones enclosed by fencing, constant paramilitary presence, and checkpoints have proliferated—vastly outnumbering educational and healthcare facilities. Rather than fostering development, Gwadar has transformed into a heavily securitised zone.

Although Pakistan presents CPEC as a transformative initiative, it has instead become a focal point of resistance. Widespread protests erupted in 2024 and continued into early 2025, driven by grievances related to displacement, joblessness, and denial of fundamental rights. The state’s response was marked by repression. In July 2024, peaceful protestors in Gwadar were subjected to violence and arbitrary detention, while internet services were suspended. Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International denounced the use of excessive force and unlawful detentions. The situation further deteriorated in 2024–2025 with a sharp rise in enforced disappearances. Pakistan’s own Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances (COIED) has acknowledged that more than 10,000 individuals have disappeared since 2011—2,752 of whom are from Balochistan. Amnesty International’s January 2024 report documented an additional 379 cases in that year alone. Abductions carried out by intelligence agencies and paramilitary forces have become a systematic means of stifling dissent.

One of the most harrowing incidents occurred in July 2024, when Hayat Sabzal Baloch was abducted in Turbat; his mutilated body was discovered in February 2025, discarded without dignity. In January 2025, a 15-year-old student, Anas Ahmed, was forcibly disappeared in Karachi. These instances reflect a broader systemic pattern in which the state metes out collective punishment by targeting children, youth, and activists. The abductions of Baloch women have also escalated. On 27 May 2025, 24-year-old Mahjabeen Baloch was taken from Quetta Civil Hospital by plainclothes security personnel. Her only offence was the organisation of peaceful student demonstrations. She now joins a growing list of women subjected to enforced disappearance—signalling a disturbing evolution in Pakistan’s counterinsurgency tactics.

Protests have persisted despite widespread repression. In March 2025, nationwide demonstrations erupted following a BLA-orchestrated hijacking of the Jaffar Express in the Bolan Pass, resulting in 64 fatalities, including 18 soldiers and 33 militants. In response, Pakistani forces launched “Operation Green Bolan.” Although the state proclaimed success, numerous civilians were either killed or forcibly disappeared. The victims’ families organised sit-ins in Quetta, demanding the return of their missing relatives. Their peaceful appeals were met with rubber bullets and mass detentions. Central to this nonviolent resistance is Mahrang Baloch, a young physician and human rights advocate. As the founder of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), she has emerged as the voice of thousands of families of the disappeared. In March 2025, she was arrested and imprisoned in Hudda Jail—the same prison where her father was once held before his disappearance. Despite being denied a fair trial or presentation of evidence; she continues to draw international attention. TIME magazine named her among its TIME100 Next list in 2025. PEN Norway, UN Working Groups, and Malala Yousafzai have all called for her release. Her words, “To demand justice is not terrorism,” have become a defining slogan.

Nevertheless, the state continues to criminalise dissent. Peaceful demonstrators are branded as terrorists; journalists reporting on enforced disappearances face harassment; and human rights advocates are accused of advancing foreign agendas. Pakistan’s official discourse dismisses all Baloch grievances as “Indian-backed separatism,” overlooking decades of systemic violence and legitimate political aspirations. Violence in the region is not solely perpetuated by the state—militancy has also escalated. In August 2024, the Baloch Liberation Army’s Operation Herof resulted in the deaths of 14 security personnel and over 60 civilians in a coordinated assault. In November 2024, a suicide bombing at Quetta Railway Station killed 32 people. The BLA claimed responsibility, citing the attack as retaliation for state atrocities. These recurring cycles of violence and reprisal have increasingly radicalised the socio-political environment, severely narrowing the space for peaceful resolution.

Compounding the anguish, prominent figures such as national racer Tariq Baloch were assassinated in May 2025. Activists have described it as a “kill-and-dump” operation—where individuals are executed by state agents and their bodies discarded to serve as a deterrent. Domestic media frequently fall silent under state pressure, while international journalists are denied access. This sustained information blackout has rendered Balochistan one of the most poorly reported conflict zones globally. Cultural repression further deepens this siege. The Balochi language is scarcely taught in schools, while textbooks systematically omit Baloch history and identity. Cultural figures such as Professor Saba Dashtiyari, a staunch advocate for linguistic and cultural rights, have been assassinated. Today, artists and poets continue their work either in exile or in secrecy, preserving the spirit of resistance through music, literature, and oral storytelling.

Balochistan’s demographic landscape is also being intentionally reshaped. A process of settler colonialism is underway, with non-Baloch communities incentivised to settle in strategic districts. Electoral boundaries are manipulated to dilute indigenous political influence, resulting in further marginalisation and disenfranchisement. Nevertheless, the Baloch people persist in their resistance. From guerrilla fighters in the rugged mountains to student demonstrators in urban centres, and activists within the diaspora in Europe and North America, the will to defy remains resolute. Each martyr’s funeral becomes a site of protest. Every name of the disappeared is transformed into a slogan. Each expression of resistance—be it a poem, mural, or sit-in—resonates across generations with undiminished force.

Pakistan’s GDP increased by 2.5% in 2024 and is forecasted to grow by 2.6% in 2025, according to the Ministry of Finance. Yet this economic growth has failed to benefit Balochistan in any meaningful way. While Pakistan’s per capita income stands at $1,824, Balochistan’s figure remains significantly lower, with widespread unemployment and malnutrition. In the 2023–24 provincial budget, Rs 750 billion was allocated, yet sectors such as health, education, and infrastructure remain severely neglected. Funds earmarked for “security” rarely reach the public. The global community remains largely indifferent. No United Nations fact-finding mission has ever visited Balochistan. Western nations, including the United States and China, continue to prioritise strategic relations with Pakistan over addressing human rights concerns. Although international organisations publish reports, diplomatic pressure remains negligible. The conflict receives scant media coverage, surfacing only when violence reaches major cities.

Balochistan is not merely a tale of insurgency—it is the narrative of a nation resisting erasure. A people denied the right to live with dignity continue to choose defiance. The state may resort to killing, abduction, and censorship—but it cannot extinguish the resolve of a people who steadfastly remember their history, uphold their identity, and dream of freedom. The assault on Balochistan transcends military action—it is an existential struggle. Yet in the face of oppression, a young woman imprisoned, a mother clutching a photograph of her missing son, and a protestor inscribing slogans on a wall all convey a unified message: We exist. We resist. And we shall not be silenced.

The General’s Republic: How Pakistan’s Military Hijacked the State

Pakistan’s political landscape has long been orchestrated not by its elected representatives but by the opaque influence of its military elite, whose grip on the nation’s trajectory grows ever more evident with each successive episode. The recent visit of Pakistan’s Army Chief, General Asim Munir, to the United States—noticeably unaccompanied by the Prime Minister—serves as a striking indication of how far civilian authority has been marginalised. If this were not a sufficiently telling sign, Pakistan’s peculiar nomination of Donald Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize further underscores the surreal and unaccountable hybrid regime now presiding over this nuclear-armed state. In this unfolding drama, it is not the democratic will but the triad of Allah, America, and the Army that dictates Pakistan’s fate—a trinity that has empowered its generals with unrestrained influence while exacting profound costs from the very nation they claim to defend. It is widely acknowledged that Pakistan’s military has long exercised disproportionate influence over foreign affairs, national security, and internal governance. Yet General Munir’s solo diplomatic foray in Washington, absent the country’s elected leader, signifies something even more disquieting: the total institutional marginalisation of civilian leadership. In a functioning democracy, the Prime Minister serves as head of government, the principal figure in bilateral diplomacy, and the voice of the citizenry on the global stage. Munir’s lone presence was not simply symbolic—it conveyed an unequivocal message to both the international community and Pakistan’s own populace: the Army is the central agent of the state; the Prime Minister is merely ceremonial.

The distorted rationale was further exposed through the bewildering act of nominating Donald Trump—a figure whose presidency was marked by disorder and polarisation—for the Nobel Peace Prize. Even by Pakistan’s frequently opaque and labyrinthine political norms, this gesture was confounding. Yet, when interpreted through the prism of military realpolitik, a grim logic emerges. Trump symbolises a yearning for transactional diplomacy, authoritarian leadership, and covert negotiations that bypass democratic structures. Pakistan’s military, which has long prospered through bilateral engagements that marginalise civilian leadership, perceives in Trump an ideal counterpart—someone who engages directly with generals rather than governments.

The nomination has little to do with peace or diplomacy. It is, rather, a calculated overture—a political courtship extended from Rawalpindi to Mar-a-Lago. More telling, however, is how these developments reflect the underlying architecture of Pakistan’s political framework. The Defence Minister, Khawaja Asif, recently extolled the so-called “hybrid system”—a euphemism for the military-civilian power dynamic that is far from equitable. In his own remarks, he commended this Frankenstein construct as a viable model, laying bare the tragic paradox wherein elected representatives not only accept their diminishing relevance but actively endorse it. One might expect such a structure to be imposed upon reluctant politicians. Yet, as a pointed tweet observed: “It’s not that the civilians have ceded space… it’s that they have cheered on their own marginalisation.” The betrayal extends beyond institutional decay—it is a moral failure, a surrender of democratic integrity.

The tweet strikes at the heart of Pakistan’s political malaise. In any healthy democracy, military overreach is met with civilian resistance, protest, and defiance. In Pakistan, however, civilians have often extended the ladder. The PML-N, PPP, and even the once-principled PTI have each, at different junctures, prioritised immediate political advantage by siding with the military rather than upholding long-term democratic norms. This complicity has eroded civilian authority, normalised coups without the need for tanks, and fostered a political class more concerned with navigating the corridors of power than exercising meaningful governance. A more recent tweet—“Allah, America and Army have always been the dominant forces in Pakistani politics. While the generals have amassed power and wealth as a ‘front-line state’, the nation has borne grievous losses. The Trump-Asim Munir meeting marks the death knell of civilian rule.”—resembles a final elegy for Pakistan’s democratic ambitions. It reveals the core paradox within the country’s strategic posture. Since the Cold War, Pakistan’s military has exploited its geopolitical location and strategic value to amass significant political power and attract foreign assistance. The United States, in search of a dependable South Asian partner, repeatedly chose generals over institutions. This enduring gamble, played across decades, has enriched the military while leaving the nation depleted—economically, politically, and morally.

The so-called front-line state designation evolved into a euphemism for enduring dependency. Pakistan’s military exchanged national sovereignty for security-related funding, yet these financial inflows rarely benefited the wider population. Infrastructure deteriorated, education was marginalised, and healthcare systems collapsed. Meanwhile, the General Headquarters in Rawalpindi thrived—expanding housing schemes, corporate ventures, and even political entities. The consequences of this Faustian pact were not borne by the generals, but by civilians—deprived of agency, stifled in dissent, and reduced to passive observers of their own governance. Within this context, General Asim Munir’s meeting with Donald Trump transcends a mere diplomatic engagement; it starkly underscores the fact that Pakistan’s military is now independently conducting foreign relations, free from parliamentary scrutiny or public accountability. This is evocative of a state within a state—except the inner state no longer feels compelled to operate in the shadows. It strides openly into the White House, delivers public statements, nominates foreign leaders for peace prizes, and orchestrates the installation, management, and removal of civilian administrations at will. And all of this occurs with the silent consent—at times, the enthusiastic endorsement—of those it has systematically rendered powerless.

Perhaps most damning is the near-total absence of public indignation. Pakistanis have become so habituated to military dominance that even the most overt manifestations of authoritarianism provoke little more than indifference. A quiet fatalism pervades the national psyche—a collective resignation to the belief that the Army will govern, irrespective of constitutional order. Consequently, when a Defence Minister extols a hybrid regime, or an Army Chief assumes the diplomatic stage in Washington without the Prime Minister, it scarcely raises eyebrows. The boundary between the abnormal and the accepted has long since dissolved. Yet this trajectory is ultimately untenable. The military’s growing consolidation of authority is not merely politically corrosive—it is strategically perilous. No nation can endure indefinitely under the dominion of its own armed forces. The systematic erosion of civilian institutions, the ritualised subjugation of elected officials, and the economic prioritisation of military interests do not constitute a formula for national resilience. Rather, they serve as indicators of institutional decay. Pakistan’s gravest threat is not foreign—it is domestic: the entrenched militarism that refuses to recede, and a civilian leadership unwilling to resist.

While the generals may believe that another endorsement from Washington or the rise of another transactional figure like Trump will cement their dominance, history is not so easily deceived. Every short-term alliance with a foreign benefactor carries a long-term price. American backing is never perpetual. Its interests do not reflect the aspirations of Pakistan’s people, but rather its own shifting geopolitical priorities. When those priorities change—as they inevitably do—the military risks being left with a nation bereft of legitimacy, lacking public confidence, and increasingly marginalised on the world stage. It is not yet too late to change direction. But for such a course correction, Pakistan’s civilian leadership must rediscover its resolve. It must cease applauding its own subjugation. It must confront an inconvenient truth: a state governed by generals is no democracy, and a citizenry living in fear is not free. Civilian leaders must challenge the myth that the military is the country’s only functional institution and commit instead to building the strength and credibility of civilian governance. Most importantly, they must reject the illusion that the Army and the people are one and the same. They are not. One is meant to serve the other—and so it must.

The Trump-Asim Munir episode may, in retrospect, be seen as a defining moment—not because it altered the status quo, but because it laid it bare. It exposed a civilian government so enfeebled that it stood by mutely as its authority was overtaken on foreign soil. It exposed a military so emboldened that it no longer sees the need to maintain even the façade of democratic legitimacy. And it exposed a political class so deeply complicit in its own disempowerment that it has come to regard marginalisation as a form of merit. This is not a hybrid arrangement. It is a hostage scenario. And, tragically, Pakistan is fast exhausting its time to mount a rescue.