How Pakistan’s military is squeezing Imran Khan

In Pakistan, power rarely disappears. It retreats, recalibrates, returns and often in uniform. Since the arrest of former Prime Minister Imran Khan in 2023, the country has been witnessing not merely the prosecution of a politician but the systematic erosion of any space for political dissent. Under Army Chief Field Marshal Asim Munir, Pakistan’s military establishment appears to have embarked on a deliberate, incremental campaign to marginalize and potentially erase its most formidable civilian challenger.

The method to silence Khan has not been spectacular but rather procedural in character. From once being seen as the military’s preferred candidate to run the civilian façade of government, he remains imprisoned in Adiala jail under the shadow of the General Headquarters of Rawalpindi. Over the months that have followed since, reports of deteriorating health conditions emerged amid recurrent allegations of mistreatment including torture. While the state has expectedly denied these allegations, yet the recent reports that Khan suffering severe vision loss in his right eye after a medical procedure conducted clandestinely on January 24 night at Pakistan Institute of Medical Sciences (PIMS), have intensified concerns among supporters.

The Supreme Court appointed amicus curie, Salman Safdar who met Khan at Adiala jail, told the court that the imprisoned former prime minister had list nearly 85 per cent of eye sight in right eye. Khan’s sister Noreen Niazi accused Army Chief Asim Munir of subjecting him to “unimaginable mistreatment.”

Imran Khan, a global celebrity, a philanthropist, and former prime minister of Pakistan, has endured unimaginable mistreatment in prison under the directives of ‘Asim Law,’ now facing irreversible damage to his right eye as a direct consequence,” Noreen Niazi alleged in an X post, adding, “Why are they rejecting the supervision by Imran Khan’s personal doctors? Why are they rejecting the presence of Imran Khan’s family members? Our family is getting extremely worried. We do NOT accept any medical board they setup and control, we do NOT accept any report they manufacture! Family and personal doctors must be allowed to see Imran Khan!”

Whether these claims are fully verifiable or not, but the political message of the state seems clear: isolation is the objective. the political message is clear: isolation is the objective. Khan has been denied consistent access to family members and his personal physicians whereas his communication with party leaders remains tightly restricted. In modern authoritarian playbooks, the most effective silencing is not necessarily physical elimination but enforced irrelevance. A leader cut off from his movement slowly loses the capacity to mobilize it. And it seems Asim Munir led establishment has decided its course over Imran Khan, which is silence through isolation.

Yet Khan remains Pakistan’s most popular politician with multiple surveys by national and international continuing to place him far ahead of his rivals. For instance, a 2023 Gallup Pakistan report found that over 61 per cent of Pakistanis held a positive opinion of Imran Khan, significantly higher than his rivals. It is that enduring popularity which is precisely what makes him intolerable to the establishment. Interestingly, Khan’s relationship with the military was once considered as symbiotic. When he became prime minister in 2018, his opponents such as Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) and Pakistan People’s Party (PPP), which are currently in the good books of army establishment, alleged that that his Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaaf (PTI) benefited from military’s behind-the-scenes support during elections. While Pakistan’s generals have long shaped the country’s political order both overtly through coups and covertly through electoral engineering, Khan, at the time, appeared aligned with that system.

But alliances in Pakistan’s civil-military matrix have always been transactional with Khan’s differences with military establishment on foreign policy and governance becoming visible in late 2021 and early 2022. And when the PTI government was removed through a parliamentary no-confidence vote in April 2022, many believed that Khan’s political rivals were nudged by General Bajwa from behind the scenes to engineer his ouster. And what followed after his removal was unprecedented as Khan did not retreat into quiet opposition. He directly accused the military leadership of political manipulation, including being part of a regime change operation with support from United States. While his rallies drew massive crowds, what was precedented was how for the first time in decades, a mainstream political leader openly named generals as political actors and seeking their return to barracks.

For the military leadership that defiance crossed a red line as no one had ever questioned army even after losing wars with India or having the country axed into two in 1971 with the fall of Dhaka. With Asim Munir succeeding General Bajwa as the Army Chief in late 2022, the establishment’s response hardened. Many factors converged to supplement state’s response towards Imran Khan and his PTI. For one, as prime minister, Khan had previously removed Munir, then a Lt. Gen. rank officer, from his post as Director General of Inter-Services Intelligence, the de facto number two position in Pakistan Army, in 2018. Secondly, his government had earlier sanctioned presidential reference against then Justice Qazi Faez Isa in 2019, who by 2023 became Chief Justice of Pakistan. While personal history may not explain institutional retaliation, but in Pakistan, the institutional and personal often blur.

When Imran Khan was initially arrested from the premises of the Islamabad High Court on May 9, 2023, Pakistan witnessed unprecedented protests with people targeting military installations, including the Corps Commander’s residence in Lahore and other sensitive installations. Pakistan Army framed these violent anti-establishment protests as an assault on the state itself. A sweeping crackdown followed, extending far beyond accountability for vandalism with hundreds of civilians and PTI workers arrested and dozens tried in military courts.

Soon the establishment turned to dismantle Khan PTI with senior party leaders abducted and pressured into televised renunciations. While some left politics altogether, others defected to a new pro-establishment Istehkam-e-Pakistan Party comprising mainly former PTI affiliates. The objective appeared less about punishing lawbreakers and more about dismantling an organizational network. The second prong of the strategy was institutional. The state leveraged legal and administrative tools to weaken PTI’s ability to contest elections effectively. The election commission withdrew party’s electoral symbol, forcing its nominees to run as independents. Yet, when elections were held in February 2024, while Khan’s nominees performed strongly, the fragmented results enabled a coalition of establishment-aligned parties to form government under Shehbaz Sharif.

Khan, meanwhile, faced an avalanche of legal cases. The Toshakhana case involving state gifts resulted in conviction and imprisonment, though higher courts later suspended aspects of the verdict. Yet each time bail appeared possible in one case, new charges emerged in another. By some counts, there are over 90 cases registered against him across Pakistan, which makes it not merely prosecution but legal suffocation. State’s pattern suggests a calibrated strategy to ensure that even if one judicial avenue opens, another closes, thereby keeping defendant and the party perpetually entangled and drain political momentum.

For the military establishment, silencing Imran Khan appears about reasserting the boundaries of permissible politics and preserve Pakistan Army’s hold over the levers of state power, including foreign policy. Khan’s rhetoric threatened to redraw those lines and risked normalizing civilian supremacy in areas the army considers its own.

These developments therefore suggest that the objective of Asim Munir-led establishment does not appear to be martyring Imran Khan through outright elimination, something that could ignite uncontrollable unrest, but neutralizing him through step-by-step approach of attrition. This prison isolation with restricted access to family, doctors and party leadership, a cascade of legal cases, the attempts to fragment PTI, and the coercion of his loyalists, point to a strategy of slow political asphyxiation. While each step taken individually can be justified as “lawful” or “procedural”, but together they form a pattern designed to exhaust, delegitimize and ultimately render irrelevant Pakistan’s most popular political figure. It seems to be a method calibrated to avoid spectacle while ensuring silencing through a steady tightening of institutional pressure.

Pakistan’s mounting military casualties and the unequal burden of war

It is barely a month into 2026 and Pakistan, it appears, is already sliding toward a grim year ahead. In just the first month, there have been nearly a hundred security forces casualties, including a lieutenant colonel targeted while traveling in a private vehicle on January 28, besides dozens of civilians.

If this trend holds which look highly likely given increasing strength of ethnonationalist insurgency in Balochistan and Islamist militancy in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, it could turn into the deadliest years for Pakistan Army led security forces in the country.

On Jan.31, Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) launched coordinated assaults across as many as fourteen cities in Balochistan. Labelled as Operation Herof 2.0, hundreds of BLA fighters struck military and provincial government installations from provincial capital Quetta to port city Gwadar, from Turbat to Panjgur, demonstrating a level of planning and reach that Pakistan’s security planners have long insisted was impossible.

While the BLA claimed 84 security officials killed and 18 taken hostage, Pakistan Army’s DG-ISPR acknowledged the death of 17 soldiers and 31 civilians while claiming to have killed 177 BLA fighters. It has been over four days and it appear BLA seems to have entrenched its control over many areas across the cities, particularly Noshki, with Pakistan Army struggling to remove the fighters despite using indiscriminate force, including aerial attacks.

The contestation over the casualties on either side aside, this latest attack demonstrates how the insurgency in Balochistan has evolved from a peripheral “irritant” into a strategic challenge capable of overrunning state facilities and humiliating Asim Munir led Pakistan Army in real time. But this was not an isolated outburst as independent monitors have recorded as many as 87 separate insurgency incidents in January alone.

According to the Pakistan Institute of Conflict and Security Studies (PICSS), since General Asim Munir assumed command in November 2022, the army and its affiliated forces have lost 2,017 personnel, with a record 857 deaths in 2025, besides over 1100 civilian fatalities during the same period. These figures rival the darkest years of Pakistan’s counterinsurgency campaigns, yet they receive only fleeting acknowledgement in national discourse.

But what distinguishes the military casualties is not merely their number but more importantly who is dying. According to the media reports about insurgent incidents in Balochistan and militant incidents in KP, the bulk of losses are borne by the Frontier Corps (FC) and the Levies, which are paramilitary formations recruited largely from Baloch, Pashtun, Sindhi and other non-Punjabi communities. It is these units that patrol the most dangerous terrain, man remote checkpoints and therefore become the first line of responders when insurgents and militants strike.

On the other hand, the Punjabi soldiers, which dominate the officer corps and the central command structure, are far more insulated from direct combat.

Such a division of risk is not accidental but reflects the very psychology of the Pakistani state. The military remains overwhelmingly Punjabi as demonstrated by its ethnic demographics which has 70 to 75 percent Punjabis, 14–20 percent Pashtun, 5–6 per cent Sindhi, and merely 3–4 Baloch. The officer class is even more skewed in favour of Punjab with Punjabi officers commanding Frontier Corps and Levies.

While Baloch soldiers are ordered to fight Baloch insurgents and Pashtun recruits are sent to battle Pashtun militants, the arrangement guarantees local resentment. Under General Munir, this Punjabi dominated military establishment has acquired a political purpose of consolidating every lever of power of the state. Since his elevation in 2022, Pakistan has gradually transformed into military led hybrid rule through a carefully calibrated yet brazen constitutional gerrymandering which has rendered elected institutions largely irrelevant with real authority in the General Headquarters in Rawalpindi.

Balochistan beyond the “foreign hand”: Pakistan’s enduring internal crisis

-Arun Anand

On 31 January 2026, the recent coordinated attacks claimed by the Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) marked a significant escalation in the long-running insurgency in Pakistan’s Balochistan province. For the first time, coordinated operations were carried out simultaneously across twelve cities, including Quetta, Gwadar, Mastung, Noshki, Dalbandin, Kalat, Kharan, Panjgur, Pasni, Turbat, Buleda, and Kech. Both men and women actively participated—not merely as suicide bombers, but as combatants—reflecting the depth of desperation and grievances among Baloch communities. The BLA announced the launch of “Operation Herof Phase II” at the outset of the attacks, framing the coordinated assaults as part of a planned campaign targeting Pakistani security posts and Chinese infrastructure. In its statement, the group said:

“We carried out coordinated attacks across multiple cities in Balochistan, striking military, police, intelligence, and administrative installations. We neutralised over 80 enemy personnel, took 18 hostages, and destroyed more than 30 government properties. Our fighters, including members of the Majeed Brigade, advanced across various areas with mutual coordination, temporarily restricting the movement of Pakistani forces.”

Independent reports suggest total fatalities, including militants, security personnel, and civilians, may exceed 125, highlighting the intensity of the operations. The attacks caused disruptions to roads, transport, and internet and mobile services in affected areas.

Balochistan’s long struggle and Pakistan’s narrative

Almost immediately after the attacks, Pakistan once again blamed India, claiming that the violence was orchestrated and supported by foreign actors. Officials, including the military and Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi, alleged that the attackers were guided, funded, and strategically directed from outside Pakistan, framing the operations as part of a broader plan by India to destabilise Balochistan. Pakistan strategically even refers to the militants as “Fitna‑al‑Hindustan” in state narratives, presenting the attacks as externally driven.

India, however, categorically rejected Pakistan’s claims, calling them “baseless” and “frivolous.” A spokesperson from the Indian Ministry of External Affairs, Randhir Jaiswal, stated:

“Instead of parroting frivolous claims, Pakistan should focus on its own internal failings and address the longstanding local issues in Balochistan. Allegations against India are baseless and lack any credible evidence. The insurgency in Balochistan is rooted in Pakistan’s internal governance and human rights issues, not external involvement.”

This response underlines that Pakistan’s habitual blame-shifting does not address the real grievances at the heart of the insurgency, and merely masks the structural and historical issues within the province. Balochistan derives its name from the Baloch tribe—the largest ethnic group in the region. The Baloch insurgency has a long history, dating back to the very creation of Pakistan in 1948, and has seen successive cycles of resistance over decades. Resistance against the Pakistani state began soon after the incorporation of the princely state of Kalat, and successive cycles of insurgency have occurred in 1948, 1958–59, 1962–63, 1973–77, and from the early 2000s to the present.

To attribute a struggle with such continuity solely to external actors is to overlook the deeply local and historically entrenched grievances. The conflict has been sustained by systemic issues: political marginalisation, economic exploitation, demographic anxieties, and widespread human rights violations. Reports document enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, arbitrary detentions, and military operations by security forces.

Numerous human rights organisations have documented these abuses over decades, highlighting the systemic nature of oppression in Balochistan. Local and regional bodies such as the Human Rights Council of Balochistan (HRCB), Voice for Baloch Missing Persons (VBMP), the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), and activists like Gulzar Dost have recorded enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, and violations of basic civil liberties. National bodies like the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) and international organisations such as Human Rights Watch (HRW) have also reported widespread violations, drawing attention to patterns of abuse, militarisation, and lack of accountability. Additionally, UN human rights mechanisms have expressed concern over disappearances, repression, and human rights infringements, calling on Pakistan to address these longstanding issues. These abuses, combined with limited access to education, healthcare, and basic infrastructure, have fueled resentment and radicalisation.

The growing involvement of women in the insurgency is particularly telling. Traditionally, women in conflict zones rarely take up arms unless social collapse and state oppression reach extreme levels. Many Baloch women have joined militant movements not out of ideology, but in response to personal loss, including the disappearance or killing of family members. This underscores the severity of state brutality and the absence of peaceful avenues for redress.

Economic exclusion and unrest

Balochistan occupies nearly 44 per cent of Pakistan’s territory and is rich in minerals, natural gas, coal, copper, gold, and strategic ports such as Gwadar. Despite this wealth, the province remains Pakistan’s poorest, with insufficient roads, hospitals, schools, electricity, and employment opportunities. Most benefits from the region’s resources flow to Punjab and the federal centre, leaving Balochistan politically and economically marginalised. This structural imbalance lies at the heart of the insurgency. The BLA’s focus on Chinese infrastructure, particularly Gwadar port under the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), highlights local resentment against projects seen as extractive and non-inclusive.

For many Baloch communities, CPEC and Gwadar are symbols of dispossession rather than development. While these projects bring heavy investment and modern infrastructure, locals report that basic needs like clean water, healthcare, education, and jobs remain largely unmet, and skilled roles are frequently given to outsiders. Coastal communities, particularly fishermen in Gwadar, feel their livelihoods have been disrupted by large-scale projects, Chinese trawlers, and strict regulations, deepening the sense of exclusion. The region has also seen increased militarisation, with checkpoints, surveillance, and restrictions on movement, creating an atmosphere of control rather than empowerment. In the eyes of many Baloch, CPEC benefits outsiders and central authorities while ignoring the real needs of the local population, fueling political grievances and, in some cases, militant resistance.

Pakistan’s habitual blaming of India for every major incident is counterproductive. Even if external actors were hypothetically involved, no foreign power could sustain an insurgency for over seven decades without internal grievances. The term “Fitna-ul-Hindustan” may serve short-term political narratives, but it obscures structural and historical realities, allowing problems to fester rather than be resolved.

Balochistan does not require more troops or scapegoating. What it urgently needs is political accommodation, through meaningful autonomy and inclusive dialogue, along with economic inclusion that ensures local communities benefit from their resources. Human rights accountability, particularly regarding enforced disappearances, is critical, as is development carried out with consent rather than imposed megaprojects. Genuine dialogue and regional diplomacy prioritising stability over blame-shifting are essential. Addressing these grievances honestly is not only crucial for Pakistan’s internal cohesion, but also for regional stability. Women fighting in the insurgency, decades-long unrest, and persistent deprivation are signals of a structural crisis, not foreign subversion. Pakistan must set its house in order, because justice, inclusion, and reform are the only sustainable solutions.

Pakistan’s liberal class has failed Dr. Mahrang Baloch

-Arun Anand

Over Eight months have passed since Dr. Mahrang Baloch, a young physician turned human rights icon, was arrested on trumped-up charges in Quetta, Balochistan. 257 days since the state threw her into jail under Pakistan’s catch-all arsenal of “anti-terrorism” and “sedition” clauses. And 37 weeks since much of Pakistan’s so-called progressive intelligentsia, which was once vocal and proud of its commitment to dissent, fell conspicuously and unforgivably silent.

The cruelty of this moment is not just in what the state has done to Dr. Mahrang and her comrades in the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC). It is in how predictable the silence of non-Baloch Pakistanis has been, including among the ever-shrinking ranks of “liberals” who still claim to champion democracy. In a country descending, quite visibly, into a military authoritarianism, or so to say an Orwellian farce, even moral outrage has become selective.

This is the joke Pakistan has become: a place where everyone knows the cases against Mahrang and her associates are a sham and yet almost no one outside Balochistan dares to say it aloud.

To understand why the establishment is so determined to crush Dr. Mahrang, it is necessary to recall the arc of her rise. The Baloch Yakjehti Committee was never just another protest collective. Founded in 2018 by Dr. Mahrang along with Sammi Deen Baloch and Beebow Baloch, the BYC emerged as a rare, grassroots Baloch women-led peaceful movement. Its central goal was exactly the issue the Pakistani state has most wanted to keep hidden: the unending human rights violations by its military, especially enforced disappearances and custodial killings.

For decades, Baloch families, mostly women and children, marched in circles demanding to know where their sons, brothers, and fathers are. What the BYC did was to put names, faces, stories, and grieving families at the centre of a national conversation that Pakistan’s military dominated establishment always wanted to suppress.

Its gradually became the primary platform to voice the grievances against the militaristic policy of Pakistan towards the province. The watershed moment came in late 2023, after the custodial killing of 20-year-old Balach Marri Baloch, abducted by plain-clothes Counter Terrorism Department officials. The BYC-led march, largely comprising women carrying photos of relatives who vanished, travelled from Kech in Turbat to Islamabad, seeking accountability and an end to military excesses. It exposed the brutality of the security apparatus to a mainstream audience, and for the first time in years, the state’s narrative on Balochistan began to crack.

The state responded as expected: with repression. But the more it tried to silence the BYC, the more the movement grew. In July 2024, the BYC convened the Baloch Raji Muchi (Baloch National Grand Jirga) in Gwadar. it aimed at exposing Islamabad’s imperial policies in Balochistan from resource exploitation to demographic engineering to routine extrajudicial killings. Despite highway blockades and internet shutdowns, hundreds reached the venue. For the state, it became apparent that BYC was not merely a fringe group but one with mass appeal.

For Pakistan’s deep state, particularly an increasingly entrenched military under Army Chief Asim Munir, such defiance from the country’s most dispossessed province was intolerable.

And so, on 22 March 2025, Pakistani state finally arrested Dr. Mahrang during a peaceful sit-in demanding the release of the brother of Bebarg Zehri, one of the BYC’s central organisers, abducted two days earlier on 20 March. She was charged under anti-terrorism statutes of Maintenance of Public Order besides sedition. Others who were arrested included BYC Central Organizers Bebarg Zehri and Beebow Baloch, Shah Jee Sibghat Ullah, Gulzadi Baloch, among others. Sammi Deen Baloch, herself the daughter of a disappeared man, was detained and later released.

Human rights organizations have called the charges farcical, the arrests punitive, the crackdown an unmistakable escalation of the military’s doctrine of enforced silence. But silence is now Pakistan’s national reflex.

To be fair, a small handful of prominent voices such as London-based novelist Mohammed Hanif and academic Ayesha Siddiqa, besides Harris Khalique, of Human Rrights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) spoke out. But beyond this, Pakistan’s progressive class, journalists, civil society networks, and ‘liberal’ commentators have largely looked away. In fact, media played aided the state in labelling Mahrang and her BYC members as secessionists.

The reason is as old as Pakistan itself: when the state targets Baloch activists, most Pakistanis convince themselves that this is someone else’s problem. That the Baloch live too far away, that the disappearances are exaggerated, that security considerations justify exceptional measures. Even the Pakistanis who rally for Palestine, who write poetic elegies for democracy, suddenly find nuance when the victims are Baloch. It is nothing but hypocrisy of the highest order.

That selective empathy has given the military a free pass to dismantle what little democratic space remains. It is no coincidence that Pakistan is undergoing its worst authoritarian slide in decades: a re-engineered judiciary, censorship of the press, mass trials of political activists, and the sidelining of dissenting voices from Baloch rights organizers to opposition politicians under the guise of national stability. Therefore, the silence is not passive but an enabling one.

Dr. Mahrang’s imprisonment is thus more than a legal case. It is a moral indictment of what Pakistan has become. Eight months and one week in jail, without due process, for leading peaceful marches asking a simple question: “Where are our loved ones?” If a state cannot tolerate even that question, is there any legitimacy whatsoever left in it?

It seems that the Pakistan’s rulers believe that imprisoning the BYC leadership will extinguish the movement. But they seem to be overlooking the fact that it emerged from the shared trauma of over seven thousand families whose sons were taken in the dead of the night and the light of the day. It grew because the state’s violence is structural, not episodic.

The cruel joke is not that Pakistan’s establishment behaves with impunity. That much has long been known. The cruel joke is that the country’s liberal progressive class, which once claimed to represent conscience, has become too timid to speak when conscience demands nothing more radical than stating facts everyone already knows.

Everyone knows the charges against Dr. Mahrang are a farce. Everyone knows why she was arrested. Everyone knows what the military fears most: not terrorism, not foreign conspiracies, but the possibility that ordinary Pakistanis might finally look at Balochistan and see citizens, not a security threat.

The tragedy is not only that Pakistan is drifting into authoritarianism. It is that so many who should know better have chosen silence as the price of comfort.

Is Pakistan’s military preparing for something unthinkable: Execution of Imran Khan?

-Arun Anand

For months, there have been speculations about Imran Khan’s fate behind the high walls of Adiala Jail in the garrison town of Rawalpindi where he remains imprisoned since 2023. But the question took a darker turn when the military establishment abruptly shifted its rhetoric as well as actions. After keeping Khan incommunicado for weeks by denying even routine family visitations, the Army has now begun portraying him as a security threat of unprecedented scale.

On December 5, in a sharply worded press conference, Director General of the Inter-Services Public Relations (DG ISPR) Lt. Gen. Ahmed Sharif Chaudhry delivered something far more political than any uniformed official should be comfortable pronouncing: he accused the former prime minister of being a “matter of national security,” a “delusional” leader working in “deep collusion” with foreign actors.

For an institution whose leadership has spent decades insisting on its political neutrality, not that there appeared any given their actions, this was something extraordinary. The Army did not merely criticize a political figure, but declared Imran Khan a national security threat. It is difficult to read such language as anything other than a preparation to shape public opinion before the state contemplates something irreversible. Pakistan’s military spokesmen have long been prone to sweeping condemnations of adversaries, but the intensity, timing, and vocabulary now being deployed against prime minister feels ominously different.

The accusation that Mr. Khan wrote to the International Monetary Fund urging it to halt financial engagement with Pakistan, the insinuation that he encouraged “civil disobedience” and non-payment of electricity bills, and, most seriously, the claim that he directed supporters to “target” the Army’s leadership constitute a narrative engineered to portray him not simply as a political rival, but an existential enemy of the state. What is striking is not whether Army’s allegations against Khan are objectively provable given Pakistanis know well that truth has rarely constrained the military’s political ambitions, but rather why the establishment feels compelled to publicly build a case right now. The last time something like this happened was under Gen. Ziaul Haq against Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and everyone knows how that turned into.

Part of the answer lies in timing. Pakistan is no longer simply managing dissent; it is reordering the very architecture of the state. As the military centralizes power, constitutional checks have been amputated one amendment at a time. Judicial independence has been hollowed out. Other political parties, often willing accomplices, have little incentive to resist. In such an environment, the figure who refuses to bow becomes not merely inconvenient but intolerable.

To understand why the military felt the need to drop even the pretence of impartiality, one must look at the dramatic transformation underway within Pakistan’s political and constitutional architecture. Under Army Chief Field Marshal Asim Munir, the military has embarked on the most ambitious power consolidation project in decades in the last three years. What began after the May 9, 2023 protests with the expansion of military courts to try civilians has now morphed into a full-blown restructuring of the state itself. The 26th Constitutional Amendment (October 2024) extended the tenures of the service chiefs across the Army, Navy, and Air Force, eliminating uncertainty around leadership renewal and enhancing institutional continuity in the Army’s favour. But it was the 27th Amendment, passed in November 2025, that fundamentally reconfigured Pakistan’s civil–military equation. It abolished the Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee, replaced it with the position of Chief of Defence Forces, to be concurrently held by the Army Chief, and effectively subordinated the other services under one office. In a nuclear-armed state with a history of military rule, that consolidation is not merely bureaucratic; it is structural.

Simultaneously, the judiciary, which for long was touted as a democratic bulwark against creeping political entrenchment of the military has been reshaped. First, its governance mechanisms were refashioned (26^th Amendment). Then, Supreme Court powers were diluted by the recent creation of a Federal Constitutional Court (27^th Amendment). This is not mere influence. It is systemic absorption.

Despite these transformations, one obstacle has stubbornly endured: Imran Khan. He remains, by most accounts, the most popular political figure in Pakistan. His party, which has been repressed, splintered, and blocked electorally, still retains vast grassroots following. For a military trying to secure lifetime authority, a leader with mass legitimacy is a direct threat.

Other political parties have chosen a more convenient path. Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz and Pakistan People’s Party, historically adversaries of military dominance, have now become facilitators of constitutional engineering, trading democratic principle for short-term political advantage. Their acquiescence clears the path for the Army. Only Mr. Khan and his Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) stands outside this arrangement.

Which brings us back to the recent press conference. By designating Mr. Khan a national security threat, the military is not merely attacking his reputation; rather, it is constructing a moral and political foundation upon which the state could justify extreme measures, including the possibility of execution. Such rhetoric helps contain public outrage before it erupts. It tells citizens that the state is acting reluctantly, compelled by a danger that only it fully understands. Because, in countries with fragile institutions like Pakistan, executions are rarely announced but prepared through such manoeuvrings.

For decades, Pakistan’s generals have governed from behind a curtain of denial when not in power through direct coup d’états. They intervened, but insisted they were not intervening. They shaped governments but claimed they were merely “facilitating democracy.” Now, that performance has ended. The uniform seems to be stepping onto the political stage without disguise.

The significance of this shift should not be underestimated. When a military stops pretending, it stops needing permission. When it openly criminalizes popular political leaders, it removes the final brake on its power. Pakistan is now at that precipice. And the most alarming part of the Army’s latest messaging is how carefully choreographed it seems: foreign collusion, national betrayal, internal threat, economic sabotage. These are not random allegations. They are elements of a legal and psychological template historically used to eliminate political enemies. As such, this campaign against Mr. Khan is no spontaneous outburst. It is calculated, sequential, and increasingly extreme. It aims not only to discredit him, but to normalize the idea that removing him, through legal pretexts or through execution, will be a matter of national necessity.

Pakistanis have seen this logic before, and they know where it leads. The difference is that today, the military is not acting in the shadows but speaking in the language of open justification. That should terrify anyone who still believes Pakistan’s future lies in civilian rule. The Army may not yet have decided what it will ultimately do with Imran Khan. But one thing is clear that it is preparing the public emotionally, politically, and morally for a step it once would have feared to take. And if that step comes, no one will be able to say they were not warned.

Thick Face-Black Heart Doctrine: Decoding Asim Munir’s Grip On Pakistan

-Arun Anand

Every country has moments when a single figure, through temperament as much as circumstance, shifts the balance of its political order. In Pakistan today, that figure is Field Marshal Asim Munir. Analysts often describe his rise in familiar language, discipline, institutional confidence, and careful preparation.

But this doesn’t quite capture the way he has consolidated authority or the psychology behind those moves. A better way to make sense of his imprint is to look at him through the Thick Face-Black Heart lens, a framework from Chinese strategic thought that highlights a person’s ability to absorb humiliation without blinking and to impose their will without sentimental hesitation. It is not a flattering theory, but it is an accurate one for a leader who has altered Pakistan’s political landscape with a mix of silence and severity.

Munir’s career did not follow the trajectory of a man destined for sweeping power. His years in military intelligence, including the short-lived tenure as DG ISI, exposed him to the brutal currents of Pakistan’s political machinery. When he was removed abruptly and with enough public visibility to sting, it seemed like one of those episodes that cut promising careers in half. Yet he responded with a peculiar stillness. He did not leak stories to the press, did not cultivate a faction to avenge the slight, and did not attempt a public rehabilitation campaign. He simply stayed put, watched, and waited. That kind of emotional discipline is rare in Pakistan’s power circles, where bruised egos often leave trails of chaos.

Munir’s ability to absorb that injury and carry on without outward bitterness said more about him than any official posting ever could. He has nurtured this kind of attitude since his early days in the Pakistan Army, as during a staff course at that time, (Major) Munir was given the title of ‘deceiver’ by his course-mate officers.

When he re-emerged in positions of influence, first as Corps Commander then as Quartermaster General, it became clear that he saw institutions not as ladders to climb but as structures to study. He built loyalty by being reliable, not charming; precise, not theatrical. By the time he became Army Chief, he had internalised a lesson that many powerful men learn late and painfully: you survive by showing as little of yourself as possible. That instinct for opacity, for silence as a form of strength, is the “thick face” part of his psychology. It allowed him to weather political storms without leaving fingerprints.

After taking command, however, a different side of him surfaced. This was the colder, unsentimental edge that the “black heart” portion of the theory describes. The handling of the May 9 unrest revealed it most clearly. An institution that usually protects its own was suddenly willing to sacrifice high-ranking officers; one serving lieutenant general was removed, several major generals and brigadiers faced proceedings, and the message travelled quickly through the ranks: ambiguity was no longer acceptable.

Loyalty would not be inferred; it would be demonstrated. No chief in recent memory had gone after his own officer corps with such quiet precision. There was no bluster, no televised fury. Just action, executed without sentiment. This internal consolidation flowed naturally into political centralisation. Intelligence coordination became tighter, and the usual patchwork of informal channels between senior officers and political elites began to close. Pakistan’s power structure has historically tolerated multiple “centres of gravity” within the military—commander-level networks, intelligence cliques, and backchannel negotiators. Munir dismantled that arrangement without announcing it. Everything began to tilt toward GHQ, and more specifically, toward his office.

The political realm, already fragile, bent even faster. PTI’s disintegration did not occur by accident or due to political incompetence alone. It happened through a systematic squeeze: mass arrests, cases under terrorism laws, long sentences, and a media environment in which the country’s most popular political figure could vanish from the screen for months. The state had used pressure before, but this time it felt different. There was a seriousness to it, a determination to eliminate not just the party’s leadership but the party’s very presence in public life.

This shift had a profound effect on the older parties as well. PML(N) and PPP, both seasoned in the art of negotiating with the establishment, slowly realised that the usual bargaining space no longer existed. Their agreement to constitutional changes that weakened the judiciary, formalised the military’s upper hand, and paved the way for a Chief of Defence Forces position told its own story. They were no longer negotiating with the military; they were adjusting themselves to an institutional reality shaped entirely by it. Munir did not cajole them into compliance; he simply created a structure in which their compliance became the path of least resistance.

The legal remodelling that accompanied this political shift was just as significant. The old hybrid order worked because of its messiness, courts sometimes pushed back, parliament sometimes resisted, and the military exerted influence without admitting it. Munir’s approach was to strip away the ambiguity. Judicial oversight over key decisions was narrowed. Constitutional interpretation was rerouted toward structures less likely to confront the military’s strategic interests. Even the symbolic principle that the largest bloc in parliament should form the government collapsed under this new logic. The 2024 elections did not merely produce a strange mandate; they produced a political arrangement in which electoral strength had meaning only if it aligned with the establishment’s preferences.

Control over information completed the picture. Channels were taken off air, journalists were pressured, and digital spaces were targeted through bans and intimidation. Pakistan has always had red lines around the military, but these lines have become wider and more sharply enforced. Critique did not disappear entirely, but it was pushed into the margins, away from the audiences that once relied on it to make sense of the state’s direction. The informational space became curated rather than contested.

Taken together, these shifts reveal something beyond conventional military dominance. They signal the end of the hybrid model itself. Pakistan still performs the rituals of democracy, elections, speeches in parliament, and televised interviews, but these rituals now operate inside a cage whose walls have been reinforced. The space for dissent, negotiation, or institutional self-assertion has shrunk so dramatically that the form of democracy remains while its content drains away.

This transformation carries a deeper cost for the state. A political order built around one office, however disciplined its occupant, becomes structurally fragile. Civilian institutions lose both capability and confidence when sidelined for too long. Courts that cannot arbitrate major questions eventually lose public authority. Political parties that survive on borrowed space lose the ability to channel public frustration. A press that cannot interrogate power loses its purpose.

Munir’s rise, methodical as it was, has created a system that depends heavily on his ability to maintain control. It may produce temporary calm, but it does so by weakening the very institutions that give states longevity. The paradox of his authority is that its solidity makes the system around him brittle. Once power concentrates to such an extent, it becomes harder, not easier, for the state to adapt when the circumstances change or when leadership eventually passes on.

What Pakistan confronts now is not simply the dominance of one field marshal, but the slow hollowing-out of democratic life. The façade is still there, but the architecture behind it has shifted. Munir embodies the psychology of survival and imposition central to the Thick Face-Black Heart theory. Through patience and severity, he has remade the political order. But in doing so, he has also made the state more dependent on command than on consensus. That dependence may be the most dangerous legacy of all.

Despite domestic turmoil, Pakistan’s Gen-Z chose to stay off streets; here is why

When waves of youth-led unrest swept across South Asia after Sri Lanka’s uprising in 2022, analysts began to ask which country would be next. While Bangladesh followed the suit in 2024 leading to Sheikh Hasina’s exit and most recently Nepal, many wondered whether it will arrive in Pakistan which ticked every box that fuels such movements: economic collapse in parts, high youth unemployment, cronyism, and a political class that many young people see as tone-deaf.

Yet, unlike Kathmandu, Dhaka or Colombo, Karachi and Lahore did not become the epicentres of mass, ideologically diffuse youth uprisings. The answer to Pakistan’s current insulation from such a rupture lies not in popular contentment but in a set of deliberate institutional, legal, and narrative controls that have blunted the emergence of a nationwide, cross-cutting youth movement.

In case of Pakistan, it all boils down to the state’s most powerful actor: the Pakistan Army. The institution’s unprecedented response to May 9, 2023, violence after former Prime Minister Imran Khan’s arrest made clear that any mass movement threatening the army’s prerogatives would be met with force and lawfare. In the weeks and months that followed, hundreds of civilians accused of taking part in the unrest were tried by military courts. By signalling that protest could carry the risk of military prosecution, the establishment transformed the costs of visible mobilization for would-be demonstrators.

But coercion alone does not explain the lack of a Gen Z wave. The military-dominated state establishment has shored up its actions with a legal and rhetorical infrastructure that normalises repression. As has been demonstrated in the last few years, pliant civilian governments like Shehbaz Sharif’s and a compliant judiciary conferred legality on the state’s repressive measures such as sanctifying military trials of civilians or amending constitutional provisions to further empower the establishment. Those measures do more than punish by creating an atmosphere of fear and unpredictability. Young people who might otherwise risk a night on the streets calculate not only the immediate danger of police or paramilitary response, but the prospect of prolonged detention, disqualification from public life, or long legal battles.

Parallel to legal tools is the information control that has acted as a central plank of the establishment’s strategy. Whenever protests erupt in peripheral provinces of Balochistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa predominantly over Pakistan Army’s human rights violations, such protests are often framed as the work of foreign-backed secessionists or direct foreign hands. That securitized framing strips popular grievances of their political valence and paints them as existential threats to national unity. In practice, branding a local protest “anti-state” or “sponsored” is used to delegitimize sympathy from the broader public, making it far harder for disparate movements to coalesce into a national youth narrative. The rise and proscribing of movements by Pashtun Tahafuz Movement (PTM) and Baloch Yekjehiti Committees (BYC) show how Pakistani media framing, often echoing official lines, reinforces the divide between “patriotic” majorities and “dangerous” minorities.

Targetted media campaigns have not just been employed in the restive provinces. After the no-confidence motion that ousted Imran Khan’s government in 2022, for example, street mobilisation by the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) demonstrated how quickly the public discourse was polarized. And when May 9 anti-establishment protests against Khan’s arrest saw the sanctity of the military fortresses breached for the first time ever, the state-aligned media quickly presented protesters as partisan, violent, or manipulated by foreign backed actors. Such a characterisation is employed to keep young citizens viewing politics through the prism of party loyalties, ethnic identity, or regional grievance rather than shared economic and civic concerns that cut across such lines.

Economic desperation, however, remains a dormant accelerant. It is not that in this age of information and unprecedented access to social media technologies Pakistan’s young demographic are not aware of stagnant opportunity, rising living costs, and the politics of patronage. What has kept them off the streets is not indifference but fragmentation. Herein, the long cultivated and institutionalized provincial, ethnic and sectarian cleavages work as dampers on the kind of cross-class, cross-regional solidarities that have powered Gen Z uprisings elsewhere in the region. Until youth can imagine a politics that transcends these divisions, protest energy tends to boil over locally and then dissipate.

So, the question arises what would it take for Pakistan’s Gen-Z to break the shackles of current status quo? The foremost answer lies in the creation of a shared political vocabulary that could link bread-and-butter economic grievances to common governance failures, rather than reducing dissent to ethnic or partisan labels. The youth need to see beyond the ethnic and sectarian identities and through the façade of the agendas of current political elite. The recent Gen-Z waves across South Asia show that when youth movements craft a shared language of rights and justice, they can force rapid political concessions. But for such realisation, they ought to avoid being swallowed by existing cleavages.

It is important to note the asymmetry here: the state does not need to be omnipotent to prevent a Gen-Z uprising; it only needs to be better at dividing and dissuading than youth movements are at unifying. Pakistan’s both formal and informal institutions have operated precisely along those lines. They have made it costly to imagine a nationwide movement and profitable, for the moment, to keep politics provincial and securitized. For many young Pakistanis, an act of national solidarity means choosing sides in a polarized landscape where the risks of losing are existential.

That is not to say the powder keg cannot ignite. Economic shocks, a dramatic political miscalculation, or a new generation of conscious young political minds who can tell a cross-communal story of grievance and hope could change the calculus quickly. But for now, Pakistani establishment’s latest respite from a Gen-Z uprising is a function of strategy as much as suppression. This includes a combination of military deterrence, legal architecture, media framing, and the deliberate maintenance of social fissures. If the most connected and potentially volatile cohort of young demographics of the country are to convert frustration into sustained collective action, they will have to imagine a politics that can outmaneuver the state’s oldest playbook: divide, delegitimise, and dominate.

The question for military-dominated Pakistani establishment’s future is not whether its young are angry, which they are anyway, but whether they can learn to be strategic, patient, and cross-communal enough to build a movement that it cannot simply criminalize, fragment, or outbid. Until that happens, the streets will remain dangerous ground that too many are unwilling to risk alone.

Why is Pakistan bombing its own people?

Pakistan is a state that is killing its own people. In October, Pakistani state carried out attacks in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, where at least 23 civilians, including women and children, were killed.

The Pakistani Airforce bombed residential homes in Tirah Valley;  four houses were obliterated in the attack, leaving families buried under rubble. While the military has refused to acknowledge responsibility, local officials have confirmed that the assault was carried out under the pretext of striking Taliban hideouts. In reality, it was innocent civilians who paid the price.

Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf leader Iqbal Afridi has accused the army of launching “an attack on unarmed civilians,” making it clear that this was not crossfire, but a deliberate strike. This is not the first time Khyber Pakhtunkhwa has been forced to bleed for Islamabad’s wars. The region has been turned into a battlefield for decades, starting with Pakistan’s decision in 1979 to use the tribal belt as a staging ground for anti-Soviet jihad.

Funded by billions of US and Saudi dollars and guided by the ISI, militant groups were trained and sheltered in the same mountains that are now being bombed. When the Soviets withdrew in 1988, these groups did not dissolve; they entrenched themselves deeper. Following the US invasion of Afghanistan in 2001, waves of fighters crossed into Pakistan, bringing instability and bloodshed. By the late 2000s, the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan had formed, headquartered in precisely the same districts now devastated by airstrikes. Islamabad claims these operations are meant to fight terrorism, but the evidence shows otherwise.

Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have repeatedly documented how Pakistan’s campaigns in the tribal belt rely on indiscriminate bombardment, extrajudicial killings, and collective punishment. In 2009, the military’s offensive in South Waziristan displaced over half a million people. In 2014, the so-called Operation Zarb-e-Azb uprooted nearly a million more. In both cases, airstrikes leveled entire villages. The Bureau of Investigative Journalism, tracking drone strikes and Pakistani air raids, has estimated that thousands of civilians—including women and children—were killed in Pakistan’s tribal belt between 2004 and 2018 alone. Yet official records often describe these deaths simply as “terrorist casualties,” erasing the reality of who was actually killed.

The humanitarian toll is staggering. More than three million people from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and the former Federally Administered Tribal Areas have been displaced since the early 2000s. Camps remain overcrowded, underfunded, and neglected, with families living without basic healthcare, schooling, or clean water. Entire generations of Pashtun children are growing up under the shadow of fighter jets and drones. For them, the Pakistani flag does not symbolize protection but fear. Every bombing plants deeper resentment, feeding the very militancy Islamabad claims to be fighting. Studies by conflict-monitoring groups confirm that civilian killings by state forces correlate with higher rates of insurgent recruitment.

Put simply, Pakistan is manufacturing the enemies it then claims to battle. The silence from Islamabad is perhaps the most damning evidence of impunity. After the Tirah Valley strike, no government minister stepped forward with an explanation. No inquiry was announced. No reparations were promised to families who had lost their homes and loved ones.

This pattern is consistent: when the Pakistan Air Force bombed villages in North Waziristan in 2014, killing scores of civilians, no independent investigation followed. When artillery fire hit refugee camps in Kurram Agency in 2008, Islamabad dismissed reports as “enemy propaganda”. Each massacre disappears from public record, erased by the military’s tight control of media narratives. The ethnic dimension cannot be ignored. Most victims of these operations are Pashtuns, a community that has long been treated as second-class within Pakistan.

The Pashtun Tahafuz Movement (PTM) has consistently raised its voice against extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, and indiscriminate airstrikes, but its leaders are harassed, arrested, and silenced. The military’s branding of entire Pashtun populations as “terrorist sympathizers” has created a system where civilian lives are seen as expendable. When bombs fall on Pashtun villages, Islamabad’s ruling elite in Lahore and Islamabad barely notice. What makes this even more hypocritical is Pakistan’s double game with militancy. For decades, Islamabad sheltered groups like the Afghan Taliban and the Haqqani Network, providing them safe havens while cracking down on local Pashtuns under the banner of counter-terrorism. Even today, international analysts point out that Pakistan differentiates between “good Taliban,” who serve its strategic goals, and “bad Taliban,” who challenge its authority.

This cynical distinction means that the full weight of military power is directed not against insurgents but against civilians caught in the middle. The result is what we saw in Tirah Valley: dead women, dead children, and a government that pretends nothing happened. The cost of Pakistan’s militarized policies is not limited to its borders. Every time Islamabad bombs its own civilians, it destabilizes the wider region. Refugees flee into Afghanistan, straining already fragile systems there. Cross-border violence escalates, feeding cycles of retribution. International jihadist networks use these massacres as propaganda, pointing to them as proof of state brutality.

Pakistan’s actions, instead of containing militancy, export it across South and Central Asia. International silence only deepens the tragedy. Western governments that routinely criticize human rights violations in other countries remain muted when Islamabad bombs its own villages. Pakistan markets itself as an indispensable ally in the “war on terror,” but the reality is darker. This is the same state that nurtured militant networks for strategic depth, the same military that sheltered the Afghan Taliban leadership, and the same intelligence apparatus that played a double game for decades. Today, it justifies civilian massacres under the cover of counterterrorism while demanding international aid and legitimacy.

The 23 killed in Tirah Valley are not collateral damage. They are the latest victims of a system that views its own people as targets. From Waziristan to Swat, from Bajaur to Khyber, the pattern is the same: bomb first, deny responsibility, and move on without accountability. The cycle will continue until Pakistan dismantles its militarised policies, ends indiscriminate air campaigns, and begins treating the people of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa as citizens instead of enemies. The families who lost everything in a single airstrike do not need more empty rhetoric about security. They need justice, acknowledgement, and the right to live without fear of their own army. And until that happens, the truth remains stark and unavoidable: Pakistan is a state that is killing its own people.

–IANS

The Massive Rise In Enforced Disappearances Deepens Balochistan’s Crisis

– Arun Anand

A pall of gloom has descended over Balochistan with a massive rise in ‘enforced disappearances’ in recent days. There is a stunned silence in the region that emanates not from peace, but fear. A silence that carries the weight of missing names, of mothers who stand outside district offices clutching faded photographs, of fathers who scan every passing face hoping for a glimpse of their sons.

In the last week alone, around fifteen more people have vanished in separate incidents across multiple districts in this restless province. Fifteen lives erased from the map without explanation, without record, without justice. The number may sound small to those far away, but to the families it is an unbearable universe of pain.This is not new. Enforced disappearances have long haunted Balochistan like a shadow that refuses to fade. It is a pattern that repeats itself with grim precision—someone is picked up in daylight or snatched at night, witnesses are warned into silence, and official statements claim ignorance. There are no arrests to challenge in court, no charges to defend, no bodies to bury. Only waiting. Endless waiting.

Every disappearance leaves a crater in the fabric of a family. Mothers turn into campaigners, fathers into mourners, children into strangers in their own homes. In the narrow streets of Turbat, Gwadar, Panjgur, and Quetta, walls bear posters of the disappeared, printed in black and white, their eyes forever open, staring into a justice system that never looks back. Each poster is an accusation and a prayer at once.

The people of Balochistan have learnt that memory itself can be an act of resistance. And yet the numbers keep growing. Data from the province paints a horrifying picture. In the first half of 2024 alone, 306 cases of enforced disappearances were documented. Of these, 104 individuals were released, four found dead, and at least 198 remained missing by mid-year. The majority of perpetrators were reported to be the paramilitary front of the state, the Frontier Corps, followed by the CTD and intelligence agencies.

By the end of the year, the Human Rights Council of Balochistan (HRCB) found that 830 cases had been recorded for the full year 2024 — 829 of the disappeared were male and only one female. Out of them, 257 were released, 27 were later found dead, 793 were first-time victims, 30 had previously disappeared and been re-abducted, and seven people had disappeared three times. The profession or occupation of 565 victims remained unknown; among the identified cases were 132 students, 28 labourers, 23 drivers, 10 shopkeepers, and others including teachers, doctors, farmers, journalists, and activists.

And the horrors have continued into 2025. In January, 107 enforced disappearances were documented across 14 districts; Kech alone accounted for 30 of the missing, followed by other districts like Awaran and Panjgur. Eight extrajudicial killings were also recorded that month. In March 2025, the HRCB documented 151 enforced disappearances and 80 killings; only 56 of the disappeared have resurfaced, one was transferred to jail, and 94 remained unaccounted for. The district of Kalat led with 38 disappearances, Quetta and Gwadar followed. In February 2025, 144 disappearances and 46 killings were reported; of the abducted, 41 were released, 102 remained missing, and one was killed. These monthly figures are not anomalies — they speak to a systemic campaign of fear and control.

The Dump Truck Doctrine: Pakistan’s Strategy of Disruption that Keeps Terror Alive in South Asia

– Arun Anand

Pakistan’s leaders, both political and military, have long relied on self-serving metaphors to shape the domestic sociopolitical sphere and frame their country’s place in the broader region. Often delivered with a dramaturgical embellishment, these analogies do more than reflect insecurity or national mythmaking. They reveal a deeper strategic mindset in which Pakistan sees value in disruption, leverage through instability, and the cultivation of terrorism as a tool of statecraft.

The latest examples come from Pakistan’s powerful military establishment, which has historically dominated the country’s political and security architecture. It started with Pakistan Army Chief Asim Munir’s interaction with expatriates in Florida, United States, in August this year, wherein he deployed a comparison that captured headlines for its brazenness. “India is a shining Mercedes coming on a highway like a Ferrari,” he said. “But we are a dump truck full of gravel. If the truck hits the car, who is going to be the loser?”

On its surface, such remarks appeared to emphasize resilience: that Pakistan as a lumbering truck may not be glamorous, but it can endure any difficulty and overcome any obstacle. Yet the real significance of this ironical analogy lies elsewhere. It implies that Pakistan retains the capability as well as readiness to cause strategic disruption, even at great cost to itself, and in doing so shape regional outcomes. The metaphor glorifies collision as an equalizer. It suggests that while India surges economically and diplomatically, Pakistan’s relevance lies in its ability to destabilize.

A parallel metaphor that is being increasingly used by the country’s political and military elite describes Pakistan as a “railway engine”, that is portrays it on a slow, traditional, yet persistent mode of progress. The image is meant to frame Pakistan as foundational to South Asian stability, chugging along in contrast to India’s sleek modernization. Implicit in this imagery is the claim that the region’s momentum, direction, and safety can still be both set and derailed by Pakistan’s choices.

Such analogies may seem rhetorical to common masses and yet contain within them a longstanding doctrine of purposeful disruption that Pakistan has employed in the last several decades. It is based on its decades-old strategic worldview wherein it has consistently valorized confrontation, framing India as an existential threat, and more domestically more significant objective of positioning proxy-terrorism as a legitimate extension of state power.

Such a propagandistic rhetoric has found currency amidst Asim Munir’s sweeping consolidation of authority through constitutional amendments to expanded control over the judiciary, nuclear command, and internal security. This narrative push is designed to reinforce his martial narrative that Pakistan may be economically battered, politically unstable, and diplomatically isolated, but it remains capable of inflicting damage that forces global attention.

As such, while Pakistan’s establishment may dress its messaging in fresh metaphors, the underlying doctrine has barely evolved. Since the 26/11 attacks by ISI supported Lashkar-e-Toiba terrorists in Mumbai, there has been little substantive reckoning within Pakistan about the use of terrorist groups as strategic assets. If anything, the rhetoric of state officials in the years since reveals continuity, not change.

It should be noted that there has been consensus within Pakistani establishment, as exposed by the statements from senior retired generals, political leaders, and religious ideologues, who often reiterate that proxy terrorism can be a “force multiplier” against India. Such an argument has been repeatedly framed as asymmetric necessity given that since Pakistan cannot match New Delhi conventionally, so it must leverage “non-state actors” to disrupt India’s rise even as its own economy falters. It explains why and how terrorist groups like LeT and Jaish-e-Mohammed have been normalized within the socio-political discourse of the country by portraying terrorists as instruments of pressure than what they are: terrorists.

This mindset is reflected not only in Pakistan’s reluctance to prosecute figures like Hafiz Saeed or Masood Azhar, but also in its sustained tolerance of groups that openly espouse cross-border terrorism sold as so-called jihad. And the danger of such rhetoric is not abstract as it has recurrently translated into violence that has spilled far beyond India’s borders. Be it 26/11 attacks of 2008 in India or the 9/11 attacks in the United States in 2001, these showcased how such a mentality that the Pakistani establishment patronises can have devastating human costs.

Just as the 9/11 attacks targeted symbols of American openness and global leadership which the world forever, 26/11 targeted India’s cosmopolitan identity to sow internal discord and disrupt its global economic rise. Therefore, should Pakistan’s leadership continue to present disruption as strategic leverage, as they are doing currently, the risk of mass-casualty attacks would remain unacceptably high.

Seen from such a lens, Asim Munir’s use of analogies like ‘dump truck’ or the ‘railway engine’ are not harmless political theatre. It is a reflection of a national mindset of a country of mismanaged economy, which is unable to compete with rising India in any domain, sees strategic relevance in the threat of sabotage. It is a worldview that sees regional equilibrium not in growth or cooperation but in managed instability maintained through terrorist proxies. And that worldview does not confine risk to South Asia, which is why Pakistan’s analogies matter.

In such a scenario, while India cannot afford any complacency, it makes it implicit on the international community to acknowledge that South Asian terrorism, especially when linked to state sponsorship like Pakistan’s role, poses a threat transcending national borders.

Nevertheless, two lessons stand out. Firstly, there needs to be greater transnational intelligence synergy at the international level. For instance, given that countries like India, the United States, the EU, Israel, Southeast Asian partners, and Gulf states, have a shared interest in tackling terrorism, they would need to bolster real-time intelligence exchange, establish joint tracking of financing networks, and coordinated monitoring of extremist propaganda.

Secondly, diplomatic isolation of terror-sponsoring frameworks is no longer optional. The world must explicitly differentiate between Pakistan as a nation and Pakistan’s security apparatus as a destabilizing actor and shape policy accordingly. This is because civilian government is a façade in that country as it is overwhelmingly dominated by the military establishment.

Therefore, the “dump truck” and “railway engine” analogies may have been meant to project endurance, but they expose a darker truth of Pakistan’s military leadership’s outdated belief that regional power can be exercised through disruption and not development. Unless such a mindset is confronted at political, diplomatic, and strategic levels, the international community should rest assured that its risks will not be borne by India alone.

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.

Bleeding Borders and Broken Masks: Pakistan Army’s Desperate Dance with Terror

The fading aftermath of a lost battle continues to smoulder quietly, and for Pakistan’s armed forces—particularly its beleaguered army under its current Chief—these remnants represent not resilience, but a lingering, unhealed wound. This wound was inflicted by the overwhelming setback suffered during India’s precisely orchestrated Operation Sindoor. The mission effectively laid bare the vulnerabilities and superficial nature of Pakistan’s covert strategies along the Line of Control (LoC). In the wake of this defeat, the response from Pakistan was not one of reflection or strategic recalibration, but rather a recommitment to exhausted methods—chiefly, the long-standing practice of sponsoring terrorism. This shadow conflict, which Pakistan has cultivated for decades, has recently been reignited with intensified zeal and even more ominous intent. Operation Sindoor dismantled the myth that the Pakistan Army maintains superiority in asymmetric warfare across the LoC. Employing intelligence-led targeting, coordinated civilian-military operations within Kashmir, and precision strikes, India succeeded in destroying several of Pakistan’s key terrorist infrastructure points. Numerous high-ranking handlers, operating in proximity to frontline military positions, were also neutralised. Pakistan’s infamous Border Action Teams, unprepared for the scale and precision of the assault, suffered significant losses. Reinforcements dispatched under the assumption of surprise advantage were instead ambushed with lethal efficiency. Conservative estimates suggest that more than 70 Pakistani regular troops and special forces were either killed or incapacitated in the course of the operation. However, these figures remain unacknowledged by Pakistan’s military media wing, the Inter-Services Public Relations (ISPR), based in Rawalpindi.

The consequences extended beyond a mere tactical defeat—it marked a profound symbolic breakdown. The veil was lifted, revealing to the international community the unmistakable nexus between the Pakistan Army and terrorist organisations falsely presented as ideological movements. As Pakistan’s military leadership staggered under the impact—wounded both physically and psychologically—it did not pursue introspection or institutional reform. Instead, its response was fuelled by vengeance. With its credibility in tatters and domestic cohesion eroded by mounting economic distress, the military hierarchy resorted to its familiar playbook: reinforcing the architecture of cross-border terrorism. Within the rugged landscapes of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK), a fresh wave of militant training camps began to emerge—spreading like malignant growths. The same geography that once served as refuge for insurgents in the early 2000s is being repurposed—not to defend, but to initiate offensive operations aimed at infiltration and sabotage. These installations are far more advanced than rudimentary jungle shelters; they are heavily fortified compounds, featuring structured obstacle courses, dedicated firing ranges, encrypted communication hubs, and efficient logistics chains—all operated with military-level discipline and overseen directly by Pakistani officers of field rank.

In the interior regions of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK), satellite surveillance and signal intelligence have revealed a notable uptick in activity linked to operatives of Jaish-e-Mohammed and Lashkar-e-Taiba—groups ostensibly proscribed by Pakistan but, in reality, sustained and armed by its military-intelligence apparatus. Historic infiltration routes through Kupwara, Uri, and Poonch are being revitalised, now augmented with modern techniques involving drone-based supply drops, underground tunnel systems, and nocturnal incursions enhanced by GPS jamming technologies. The danger lies not in covert denial, but in a conscious intensification of hostile intent. The Chief of the Pakistan Army, acutely conscious of the country’s precarious diplomatic and economic condition, is engaging in a hazardous strategic gamble. With increasing scrutiny over his leadership both within military circles and among the broader public, he appears driven to recapture a faltering narrative through the use of “strategic proxies.” Terrorism remains the most potent instrument in Rawalpindi’s longstanding arsenal—an instrument now employed with alarming recklessness. His leadership, beleaguered by internal factionalism and an unparalleled erosion of legitimacy, seems fixated not on reform or peaceful coexistence, but on expanding clandestine conflict. Alarmingly, this ideological decay is no longer confined to PoK. The most disconcerting evolution is now taking root within Pakistan’s Punjab province. Once regarded as the cultural nucleus and a relatively secular space in the national context, Punjab is experiencing a covert revival of urban terror infrastructure. In cities such as Lahore, Bahawalpur, and Multan, dormant terrorist cells are being discreetly reactivated. These are not improvised militias of disenfranchised youth armed with outdated weapons; they are increasingly professionalised units under the instruction of retired ISI personnel, many of whom now operate under the guise of NGOs, charitable entities, or religious seminaries. These fronts offer both ideological justification and logistical support for what appears to be a quietly resurgent domestic terror ecosystem.

Amidst an ongoing civil-military power struggle, one aspect of the Pakistani state’s machinery remains untouched: the consistent prioritisation of defence funding and so-called “strategic programmes.” Despite a population grappling with soaring prices of basic commodities such as wheat and petrol, billions of rupees continue to be funnelled into clandestine military activities. International aid, ostensibly allocated for flood recovery and infrastructure development, has seemingly vanished into unaccounted defence-related expenditures. The directives issued by the Army Chief appear concerned less with professional armed forces modernisation and more with psychological operations, refining doctrines of insurgency, and sustaining strategic equilibrium through non-state proxies rather than overt confrontation. Ironically, this intensified focus on exporting militancy coincides with the military’s own struggle against a growing insurgency within national borders. The tribal regions, once controlled through sheer force and temporary truces, are experiencing renewed unrest. Militant organisations such as the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), emboldened by regional instability and the decline of American presence in Afghanistan, have launched an aggressive internal campaign, particularly in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan. These insurgents have evolved beyond hit-and-run tactics; they now execute coordinated ambushes, capture military outposts, and even target mid-level officers for assassination. By conservative estimates, the Pakistani military has suffered more than 400 fatalities from militant assaults within its own borders over the past year. In North Waziristan alone, targeted attacks since January have claimed the lives of at least 80 soldiers. Yet, in the face of such heavy losses, the Army Chief’s priorities appear skewed—focused less on internal security and more on provoking tensions across the Line of Control. It seems the military establishment has acquiesced to a state of perpetual violence, both domestically and externally, in a bid to uphold its strategic narrative. Even more troubling is the army’s renewed alignment with radical ideological movements. A network of newly established madrasas—many reportedly funded by Wahhabi donors from the Gulf—has emerged across southern Punjab and rural Sindh. These institutions are not simply centres of religious study but have become active recruitment hubs. Children are subjected to extremist indoctrination, trained in the use of firearms by adolescence, and taught to view martyrdom across the LoC as a sacred obligation. Intelligence surveillance has recorded a 40% surge in new recruit movement towards training facilities in PoK, signalling that the terror infrastructure is not merely operational, but expanding at an alarming pace.

In recent months, Indian intelligence agencies have intercepted a number of disturbing communications. In one exchange, a Pakistani handler claims to have “fifty fresh mujahideen ready for deployment in Poonch.” In another, an ISI operative provides precise instructions for drone drop locations within Indian territory. These individuals are not unsanctioned actors; rather, they operate openly under the protection of the military, frequently utilising official vehicles and accessing military-grade hardware. Simultaneously, Pakistan’s diplomatic representatives persistently deny any involvement by the state. However, the emerging pattern is far too consistent, deliberate, and institutionally embedded to be dismissed as coincidental. Repeatedly, whenever Pakistan experiences internal turmoil—be it economic hardship, political instability, or military dissent—it reverts to its traditional strategy of asymmetric aggression. A noticeable increase in ceasefire violations often follows periods of domestic unrest. Likewise, each instance of public criticism directed at the Army Chief seems to coincide with a renewed infiltration effort across the Line of Control.

Pakistan’s current strategy reflects both desperation and peril.

For a nation grappling with a crisis of legitimacy, burdened by mounting debt, and increasingly isolated on the international stage, the promotion of terrorism has ceased to be merely a tactic—it has become a lifeline. However, the consequences of this approach are proving to be overwhelmingly detrimental. With a society marked by deep internal fractures, a politically polarised environment, and a growing insurgency, the country teeters on the brink of internal collapse. Despite this, its military leadership remains fixated on outdated notions, still pursuing the illusion of strategic depth that effectively disappeared decades ago. The current course charted by the Army Chief reflects not a path towards military success, but one of reckless obstinacy. By continuously dispatching more terrorists across the Line of Control, he not only provokes a more capable adversary, but also accelerates the erosion of Pakistan’s future under the crushing weight of its own misguided ambitions.

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.

Strategic Illusions: The Fragile Recalibration of US-Pakistan Relations

The relationship between the United States and Pakistan has long been defined by convenience rather than conviction, punctuated by moments of intense cooperation followed by spells of deep mistrust. As recent developments begin to raise eyebrows, it is becoming increasingly evident that a new chapter may be unfolding—one marked not by a sincere partnership but by calculated strategic necessity. US President Donald Trump’s reported upcoming visit to Pakistan and the high-profile visit of Pakistan’s Army Chief Field Marshal Asim Munir to Washington have sent clear signals that both sides are once again exploring a tighter embrace. But what lies beneath these gestures? Is this an authentic shift or merely a transactional dance, choreographed by geopolitical compulsions? History casts a long shadow on the US-Pakistan relationship. For decades, their engagement has followed a familiar script: Washington courts Islamabad in times of need, showering it with aid and promises, only to withdraw affection when priorities shift or Pakistan’s duplicity becomes too glaring to ignore. From the Cold War to the post-9/11 era, the partnership has rarely transcended its opportunistic core. Every time the United States found itself in a regional quandary—whether it was countering Soviet expansion or hunting terrorists in Afghanistan—Pakistan presented itself as an indispensable ally. But once the urgency faded, so did the illusion of camaraderie.

The present moment bears the unmistakable scent of déjà vu. The United States, preoccupied with China’s growing footprint and an increasingly complex Indo-Pacific matrix, sees value in reactivating its lines to Islamabad. Pakistan, battered economically and diplomatically isolated, is desperate to regain relevance and secure strategic patronage. It is a classic case of mutual convenience masquerading as renewed friendship. The question is not whether both countries need each other—clearly, they do—but whether this need is rooted in sustainable goals or another fleeting convergence of interests. Pakistan’s military establishment, the true power center of the country, has always been adept at selling its strategic geography. Wedged between Iran, Afghanistan, India, and China, Pakistan offers prime real estate on the geopolitical chessboard. But that geography comes with a price—one that Washington has paid before. Decades of American military and economic assistance have yielded little in terms of lasting reform or ideological alignment. Instead, the US often found itself underwriting a security apparatus that played both sides—hunting terrorists with one hand while harboring them with the other.

Consider the bitter legacy of Afghanistan. While publicly siding with the US in its war on terror, Pakistan simultaneously gave sanctuary to the Taliban and other extremist elements. Osama bin Laden was discovered not in a remote cave but in Abbottabad, a stone’s throw from a Pakistani military academy. Billions in aid could not buy loyalty; it merely sustained a regime skilled in hedging its bets. The withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, with its chaotic final days, was a stark reminder of the cost of trusting Islamabad too easily. Now, as the Biden administration recalibrates its foreign policy priorities, and with Donald Trump potentially re-entering the global stage, the temptation to revive a working relationship with Pakistan is palpable. Trump’s anticipated visit may be billed as a diplomatic outreach, but it is likely a signal to Beijing, Delhi, and even Riyadh that Washington still sees value in Islamabad. In return, Pakistan hopes to leverage this attention to escape its pariah status and secure economic lifelines.

But such maneuvering is dangerous. It rewards ambiguity and penalizes clarity. While India—America’s primary partner in the region—remains firmly in the camp of democratic values and open markets, Pakistan continues to operate in murky waters. The same military establishment now reaching out to Washington is also clamping down on democratic dissent at home. Political opponents are jailed, press freedom is strangled, and civil society remains under siege. How does the United States reconcile these facts with its professed commitment to liberal values?

Furthermore, the strategic rationale is itself questionable. If the idea is to counterbalance China’s growing influence in South Asia, relying on Pakistan is a paradox. Islamabad is deeply enmeshed in Beijing’s orbit through the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), a flagship component of the Belt and Road Initiative. Chinese investments have tied Pakistan’s infrastructure, telecom, and energy sectors to its northern neighbor. Any US hope of peeling Pakistan away from China is not just naïve—it borders on delusional. This is not to say that engagement with Pakistan is futile. Dialogue is necessary, especially with a nuclear-armed state teetering on the edge of political and economic collapse. But engagement must be disciplined, not desperate. The US cannot afford to repeat the mistakes of the past, offering carrots without demands for real change. If Pakistan seeks legitimacy, it must earn it—not merely by allowing high-level visits or agreeing to intelligence sharing, but by taking concrete steps to dismantle extremist networks, uphold human rights, and shift its foreign policy posture from duplicity to transparency.

Field Marshal Asim Munir’s visit to Washington may be seen as an opening salvo, a signal of Pakistan’s willingness to reset. But it is vital to remember that such resets have occurred before—with limited results. From Musharraf to Kayani, from Raheel Sharif to Bajwa, every military leader has spoken the language of reform and cooperation, only to revert to old habits once the checks cleared. There is no evidence yet that Munir represents a meaningful break from this tradition. His public statements may emphasize development and diplomacy, but Pakistan’s internal dynamics suggest otherwise. Ultimately, what makes this moment perilous is the global context. The United States is no longer operating in a unipolar world. Russia is resurgent, China is emboldened, and the Middle East is in flux. In such an environment, the margin for error is razor-thin. A misstep in Pakistan could alienate India, embolden militants, or simply waste resources in a dead-end alliance. Realism demands cold calculations—not nostalgia for a partnership that never truly was.

The US must resist the lure of tactical engagement without strategic depth. It must demand accountability, not mere access. And it must remember that short-term alliances built on necessity are seldom sustainable. For Pakistan, the message should be equally clear: the era of exploiting geography for aid is over. If it wishes to be seen as a credible partner, it must act like one. So, are the US and Pakistan recalibrating ties for strategic convenience? Undoubtedly. But convenience is not conviction. And until both sides confront the ghosts of their past dealings, this reset risks becoming just another rerun in a long history of missed opportunities, broken promises, and dangerous illusions.

U.S. Terror Tag on TRF Exposes Pakistan’s Proxy Network, Validates India’s Stand

In a blow to Pakistan’s policy of employing terror as a tool of its regional policy for decades, the United States State Department on 18 July officially designated The Resistance Front (TRF) as a Foreign Terrorist Organization (FTO) and Specially Designated Global Terrorist (SDGT).

This decision validates what India has long claimed that TRF is not an indigenous militant group, but a proxy for the Pakistan-based jihadi organization Lashkar-e-Toiba (LeT), which was established to cover up Pakistan’s continued patronisation of terrorism in Jammu and Kashmir.

The US designation follows the ghastly April 22, 2025, Pahalgam attack in which 26 Hindu pilgrims were massacred following religio-based segregation by the terrorists. It was the worst attack on Indian civilians since the 2008 Mumbai attacks, incidentally also mounted by LeT under the broader tutelage of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), as growing body of evidence has substantiated since. When the TRF claimed responsibility for the Pahalgam massacre, it was a grim reminder of Islamabad’s unaltered terror playbook of decades that has seen it patronise groups to mount asymmetric proxy war in Kashmir.

India welcomed the U.S. move, calling it “a timely and important step reflecting the deep cooperation between India and the United States on counter-terrorism.” In a statement, the Ministry of External Affairs emphasized that “India remains committed to a policy of zero tolerance towards terrorism and will continue to work closely with its international partners to ensure that terrorist organizations and their proxies are held accountable.”

A Proxy by Design

The Resistance Front is not a spontaneous insurgent movement. It is a repackaged extension of LeT, launched in 2019 as global scrutiny tightened around Pakistan’s state-sponsored terror ecosystem. The Financial Action Task Force (FATF) had grey-listed Islamabad in 2018, citing its failure to clamp down on financing for groups like LeT and Jaish-e-Mohammad. Under international pressure, Pakistan sought to cloak its support to jihadist organizations in a local garb. Thus, TRF was born as the latest attempt to give LeT’s radical Islamist violence a territorial and “indigenous” facelift. Likewise, JeM also rechristened itself and created its own proxy called People’s Anti-Fascist Front (PAAF), which has also engaged in dozens of terrorist acts across Jammu and Kashmir.

TRF’s rhetoric attempted to depart from the overtly Islamist discourse of LeT, presenting instead a façade of Kashmiri nationalism. But this branding exercise was superficial. Intelligence reports have consistently revealed that TRF receives logistical, operational, and financial backing from LeT leadership operating freely in Pakistan, under the tacit protection of the Pakistani state.

From coordinated attacks on Indian security personnel to targeted killings of civilians, including the June 9, 2024, assault on a bus carrying Hindu pilgrims in Reasi district, TRF has steadily built a grisly record of violence across the Union Territory of J&K. Each of its violent acts have borne the unmistakable imprint of LeT’s operational style, which have been coordinated, brutal, and designed to provoke communal polarization and unrest in the region.

A Victory for Indian Diplomacy

That TRF’s designation as a global terrorist group has occurred even as Islamabad has been actively lobbying Washington for renewed military and financial cooperation is no coincidence. It is the result of sustained Indian diplomacy of years, particularly after the Pahalgam massacre. In its the immediate aftermath, India has undertaken a full-spectrum offensive against terrorism originating from Pakistan which includes both diplomatic, and military.

On the military front, Operation Sindoor was launched on May 6/7 targeting and destroying terror launchpads and logistical hubs across the Line of Control (LoC) in Pakistan Occupied Jammu and Kashmir (POJK) and mainland Pakistan through calibrated cross-border strikes. Simultaneously, India mobilized its diplomatic repertoire to expose the role of Pakistan’s deep state in grooming and guiding terror outfits, not just in Kashmir but across the broader South Asian region. Under this, over half a dozen delegations of Members of Parliament and diplomats visited 33 countries providing irrefutable evidence of Islamabad’s culpability, including communications intercepts and intelligence dossiers, that linked TRF attacks directly to handlers based in Pakistan.

The campaign specifically also targeted the members of United Nations Security Council members, both permanent and non-permanent, excluding China, which has emerged as a major shield for Pakistan at global forums over the last decade. With this decision from Washington, New Delhi has succeeded in reframing discourse on how Pakistan’s state-backed terrorist infrastructure threatens regional and global peace.

Pakistan’s Duplicity Exposed

Pakistan’s strategy of using jihadist groups as “strategic assets” while maintaining a veneer of plausible deniability is no longer tenable. By operating through proxy outfits like TRF and PAFF, Islamabad hoped to evade global scrutiny while continuing its decades-long covert war in Kashmir. But the U.S. designation cuts through that obfuscation.

“The TRF is a Lashkar-e-Toiba front and proxy,” Secretary Rubio’s statement declared unequivocally, removing any diplomatic ambiguity. The move also comes at a time when Pakistan’s military establishment has been aggressively attempting to reset ties with Washington, offering its resources and positioning its strategic geography as a potential gateway for U.S. re-engagement in Afghanistan and Central Asia, as well as contain Iran. But the TRF designation puts Pakistan on the backfoot, reaffirming that no strategic calculus can be allowed to eclipse the imperative of countering terrorism.

A Message to the Global South

The U.S. move also carries implications beyond South Asia. For years, New Delhi has struggled to persuade many Global South countries, who see Pakistan as a fellow victim of terrorism, of the duplicity of its neighbour’s approach. The designation of TRF by the United States, after painstaking efforts by Indian diplomats, should mark an end to this duplicity, as this decision lends credence to New Delhi’s repeated assertions that terrorism must be addressed uniformly, not selectively. The strong condemnation of the Pahalgam massacre by BRICS a few weeks ago, where even traditionally Pakistan-friendly nations refrained from shielding it, reflects this slow but steady shift in sentiment.

India has long advocated for a “no distinction” policy when it comes to terrorism, which is a stance undermined by the geopolitical calculations of major powers. But the TRF episode proves that, with the right strategy, facts on the ground can overcome narratives built on denial and deflection.

Toward Accountability

India’s challenge now lies in sustaining the momentum. Designation is one step; dismantling the financial and logistical architecture that sustains such groups is another. India has pushed for the enforcement of UN Security Council Resolution 1373, which mandates state accountability in curbing terrorism financing. The hope is that the TRF’s designation will compel financial institutions, regional bodies, and multilateral platforms to act decisively against those who shelter, fund, or excuse such entities.

Therefore, as India inches closer to its goal of internationalising the campaign against Pakistan’s proxy war, the TRF designation is more than a symbolic gesture. It should be seen as a diplomatic and strategic success, one that not only exposes Pakistan’s two-faced approach but also signals that the world is seeing through its “terror by proxy” strategy.

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?

The Monster within TTP and the Military’s Self-Inflicted Wound

The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) today epitomises the unintended consequences of Pakistan’s own strategic miscalculations — a Frankenstein’s monster birthed by the very establishment that once nurtured it as a supposed asset. For years, the Pakistani military establishment has engaged in the perilous tactic of fostering militant proxies, under the mistaken belief that such forces could be wielded with precision and control.

The TTP is a direct outcome of this approach — conceived within the shadows of domestic power plays and geopolitical strategies, only to evolve into a force that now torments its originators. This is not a narrative shaped by external actors or foreign agendas, but one firmly grounded in Pakistan’s internal policies, particularly the militarisation of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK) province and the consistent marginalisation of the Pashtun community. At the core of this destructive trajectory lies the military’s entrenched reliance on coercion over governance in managing the tribal regions. In the wake of 9/11 and Pakistan’s alignment with the United States in the war on terror, the tribal belt — especially South and North Waziristan — became a battleground of competing interests. The Pakistani military, balancing international expectations with domestic imperatives, initiated a series of operations across the tribal zones. What started as a mission to eliminate foreign militants rapidly expanded to include local tribes, most notably the Mehsud — the very community from which the TTP would ultimately arise.

The military’s strategy was blunt and indiscriminate. Entire villages were displaced, with little distinction made between suspected militants and civilians, as the region underwent intense militarisation. Daily life for the Pashtun population became dominated by curfews, checkpoints, and constant surveillance. The Mehsud tribe, in particular, bore the brunt of these operations, enduring severe hardship and loss. The military’s incursion into their lands, homes, and way of life sowed deep-seated resentment. Within this climate of humiliation and forced displacement, the TTP found both a steady stream of recruits and a rationale for its existence. It presented itself as a guardian of Pashtun honour, even as it perpetrated horrific acts of violence against both civilians and the state. A significant parallel in this pattern of radicalisation was the 2007 Lal Masjid incident in Islamabad. What began as a confrontation between the state and a radical Islamist faction escalated into a full-scale military operation, resulting in the deaths of numerous students, including young girls. The operation’s brutality, widely broadcast and sensationalised, had a profound impact across conservative and tribal areas of Pakistan, intensifying anti-state feelings. For many, especially among the Pashtun population, it exemplified the duplicity of a state that had long enabled religious extremism when advantageous, only to crush it with force once it posed a threat to the capital’s stability. This contradictory stance further entrenched the perception that the Pakistani state regarded its peripheral regions — particularly Pashtun communities — as disposable.

Complex Calculations Shape Pakistan-TTP Negotiations

The treatment of the large-scale displacement of Pashtuns during and after military operations starkly illustrates the state’s profound indifference towards the community. Millions were uprooted from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) and surrounding regions, only to encounter neglect and suspicion in urban centres such as Peshawar and Karachi. Refugee camps were overcrowded, underfunded, and lacked even basic provisions. The displaced were frequently regarded as second-class citizens. Rather than support and reintegration, they were met with poverty, constant surveillance, and routine profiling by police and intelligence agencies. For many young Pashtuns — already suffering from trauma and anger — the TTP offered not just vengeance, but a sense of identity and belonging. This systemic exclusion was not merely a bureaucratic failure, but a manifestation of deeper cultural and political biases. For decades, dominant national narratives — largely shaped by Punjab-centric perspectives — have stereotyped Pashtuns as primitive, uncivilised, and innately violent. Such dehumanisation served dual aims: it legitimised the aggressive militarisation of Pashtun regions and deflected attention from their political demands. In textbooks, mainstream media, and public discourse, Pashtuns were seldom depicted as integral contributors to the nation — instead, they were constructed as ‘others’, romanticised as valiant fighters when useful, and vilified as security threats when expedient.

This cultural mischaracterisation has carried significant political ramifications. It fostered a deep distrust between the Pashtun population and the state — a void the TTP was quick to exploit. By presenting itself as the champion of the oppressed and the avenger of injustices, it garnered sympathy and support from a community that felt consistently marginalised and mistreated. The state’s unwillingness to engage with genuine Pashtun concerns — including demands for political inclusion, equitable resource distribution, and fundamental rights — only widened the divide. The rise of movements such as the Pashtun Tahafuz Movement (PTM) is a clear manifestation of this estrangement, as is the state’s heavy-handed repression of it. Ironically, despite PTM’s emphasis on nonviolence and democratic reform, the state has often regarded it with greater suspicion than the TTP — revealing its confused and contradictory approach to Pashtun dissent. The TTP, in many respects, represents the consequence of the establishment’s flawed policy of distinguishing between “good Taliban” and “bad Taliban” — a dichotomy more relevant in strategic deliberations than in real-world outcomes. During the early phases of Pakistan’s involvement in the Afghan jihad, military and intelligence agencies provided support to militant actors, including those from the tribal belt, in efforts to project influence into Afghanistan and counter India. This patronage persisted beyond 9/11, with certain factions shielded or permitted to operate in anticipation that they could still serve strategic objectives. However, these entities — particularly the TTP — soon evolved independent agendas, shaped by radical ideology, tribal traditions, and a desire for retribution. The creation had developed a mind of its own.

Today, the TTP has redirected its violence inward, targeting the very military convoys that may once have harboured its founders. It assaults outposts, police stations, and civilian targets across Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and beyond. Despite repeated declarations of its defeat, the group has consistently demonstrated a disturbing ability to regroup — not solely due to external sanctuaries, but because the domestic conditions that facilitated its rise remain unresolved. Each failed operation, each instance of extrajudicial killing, each displaced household — these are not mere incidental costs; they are the fertile ground from which insurgency resurfaces. There is a bitter irony in observing the Pakistani military — long regarded as the state’s most dominant institution — struggle against a creation of its own making. Ordinary citizens — particularly Pashtuns — find themselves caught between state oppression and militant brutality. This tragedy is further exacerbated by the enduring lack of critical reflection within the establishment. The prevailing discourse remains fixated on external threats, cross-border terrorism, and international conspiracies — all deflecting attention from the internal policies that have continually backfired. The TTP cannot simply be eradicated through military force, for it represents more than a security challenge; it is a manifestation of political and societal failure. Its existence is entrenched in decades of marginalisation, distortion, and abuse. Lasting peace will not be achieved through violence alone; it requires genuine justice, inclusive representation, and a confronting of historical wrongs. Until the state acknowledges the humanity, rights, and legitimate grievances of the Pashtun population — and abandons the militarised lens through which dissent is seen as betrayal — the cycle of violence will persist. Pakistan’s establishment now faces an uncomfortable reality: it cannot indefinitely wield fire without suffering the consequences. The TTP is no longer just an insurgency; it is a violent reflection of the state’s own enduring failures. The Frankenstein is no longer shackled — it roams freely across the mountains and valleys of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, a chilling testament to the fact that once unleashed, such monsters do not fade quietly.

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.

Pakistan’s Terror Playbook is being Exposed and the Global South is Watching

When 26 civilians were massacred in Pahalgam tourist spot of Kashmir on April 22, 2025, it sent immediate shockwaves across India. But what has followed since may mark a turning point in how the world, particularly the Global South, responds to terrorism, particularly when it comes to state-sponsored acts of it.

For decades, India has sounded the alarm about Pakistan’s use of terrorism as an instrument of state policy, especially in Jammu and Kashmir. And quite often, its warnings were met with scepticism, diluted in diplomatic language, or lost in the geopolitical noise of the broader South Asian region. But the brutality of the Pahalgam attack, and the growing body of evidence linking the perpetrators to Pakistan-based groups, along with shifting geopolitical dynamics seems to have brought a considerable change in that conversation.

More significantly, India’s response this time was also swift and multipronged. Under Operation Sindoor on May 6-7, it launched a precise and calibrated military retaliation targeting terror infrastructure across the Line of Control (LoC) in Pakistan Occupied Jammu and Kashmir (POJK) and mainland Pakistan. The military operation was accompanied by its diplomatic offensive, which has been very methodical and effective as the changing discourse about terrorism reflects. The culmination of these efforts was on full display at the 2025 BRICS+ Summit in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, where the Global South bloc issued an unambiguous condemnation of a terror attack in Jammu and Kashmir, naming both the incident and its nature, which is remarkable.

The BRICS+ declaration stated it “condemned in the strongest terms the terrorist attack in Jammu and Kashmir on April 22, 2025, during which 26 people were killed and many more injured,” and reaffirmed a collective commitment to fighting terrorism “in all its forms and manifestations, including the cross-border movement of terrorists, terrorism financing and safe havens.”

This was not just diplomatic cliché and marks a quiet but significant pivot in the emerging world order where the Global South bloc is finally calling out double standards on terrorism, and doing so with rare unanimity.

A Shift in Global Norms

The Global South has long been a theatre of conflicting narratives when it comes to terrorism. While Western powers often dominate the discourse around extremism, violence in the Global South, whether in South Asia, West Asia, Southeast Asia, or African continent, has received a more selective treatment. However, that seems to be now changing.

India’s diplomatic campaign, strengthened by real-time evidence and growing solidarity among peer economies, is spotlighting how selective empathy and geopolitical hedging allow state-backed terror proxies to thrive. The BRICS+ statement, endorsed even by countries like China, which shares close strategic partnership with Pakistan, signals that this silence may no longer be tenable in the long run.

Indeed, the real headline from Rio wasn’t just that the Pahalgam attack was condemned. It was that China did not block the language of the declaration. This is significant given the depth of China-Pakistan strategic cooperation, especially under the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) framework, and Beijing’s long-standing practice of shielding Pakistani entities and terrorists like Masood Azhar from censure in global forums such as the UN Security Council (UNSC). Moreover, as per multiple independent assessments, Pakistan is heavily dependent on Chinese-origin military equipment whose share has grown over 80 percent of its conventional arsenal. Therefore, for China to allow a declaration that highlights cross-border terrorism, which may be a veiled but yet has an unmistakable reference to Pakistan, is nothing short of a diplomatic milestone for India.

The Growing Evidence of Pakistan’s Terror sponsorship

India’s case against Pakistan is no longer just about moral outrage. It is now substantiated by tangible, corroborated evidence that paints a picture of systemic complicity. According to Indian intelligence reports shared with international partners, including with the UNSC’s 1267 Sanctions Committee, in the aftermath of the Pahalgam massacre, the attackers belonged to a faction of The Resistance Front (TRF), which is a proxy outfit widely recognized as a rebranded arm of Pakistan sponsored terrorist group Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT). Both LeT and its affiliate networks have long enjoyed safe havens in Pakistan, with little meaningful action taken against their leadership despite international pressure and FATF conditions.

For years, Pakistan has relied on plausible deniability, labelling these groups as “non-state actors” beyond its control. But that narrative is wearing thin, particularly when attacks like Pahalgam are followed by the same tell-tale signs: trained cadres, sophisticated arms, and ideological alignment with Pakistan’s strategic calculus on Kashmir.

The BRICS+ Moment

The BRICS+ platform, which originally established by Brazil, Russia, India, China, and then South Africa and has now expanded to include key economies such as Egypt, Ethiopia, Iran, and the UAE, is increasingly seen as the voice of the Global South. It provides a forum for new powers to voice their concerns free from the historical constraints of Cold War dichotomies or Western alliances.

The Rio summit’s declaration on terrorism suggests that member states are no longer willing to overlook threats that destabilize their regions in favour of transactional diplomacy. For countries like Brazil and South Africa, which have dealt with their own home-grown security challenges, there is growing realization that impunity for terrorism anywhere poses risks everywhere.

India’s persistent framing of Pakistan’s terror infrastructure not as a bilateral grievance but as a global security issue seems to be gaining traction. New Delhi’s argument is simple: if terrorism financed, trained, and directed from across borders is tolerated in Kashmir, it sets a precedent that could embolden similar actors in Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia.

Reframing the Global South

The BRICS+ condemnation also highlights a deeper shift in Global South’s readiness to define its own red lines rather than outsourcing them to the geopolitical West. For decades, countries like India have been expected to toe the line of major powers when it came to defining security threats, be it in the West Asia, Central Asia, or elsewhere. But now, the Global South is building a consensus that its security interests are not derivative, rather they are primary. This is especially true when those interests are undermined by state-sponsored extremism operating under the guise of ideology, liberation, or regional grievance.

In this context, the silence or equivocation of certain powers on acts of terrorism, particularly those with clear cross-border linkages, can no longer be justified. The BRICS+ condemnation of the Pahalgam attack represents a break from the era of wilful ambiguity. It sets a bar of accountability for all states, regardless of their strategic alignments.

The Way Ahead

For Pakistan, this emerging scrutiny from fellow members of the Global South should lead to prompt introspection. Its longstanding strategy of cultivating asymmetric warfare through non-state actors has not only destabilized its neighbourhood but it has become its Achilles’ heel with several of its patronised terrorist groups redirecting their violence against Pakistan.

The evolving alignments and re-alignments at the global level signify that the world is no longer willing to excuse terrorism when it arrives wearing different uniforms. Nor is it buying the notion that development partnerships can offset or obscure the costs of cross-border violence.

India’s diplomatic pivot, wherein it complements force with diplomatic forums, is reshaping how terrorism should be debated and condemned in global settings. In this light, the BRICS+ statement in Rio is not just a victory for Indian diplomacy, but it also signals that the world’s emerging powers are ready to call terrorism by its name without considering who sponsors it.

Pak Continues to Use Terrorism as its State Policy

In a region long afflicted by insurgency and instability, Pakistan’s military establishment has emerged not merely as a participant, but as a principal architect in the deliberate orchestration and international projection of terrorism. Far from being a collateral consequence of geopolitical upheaval, Pakistan’s facilitation of terrorism is a calculated, institutionalised component of its strategic doctrine—an enduring pillar of statecraft. From sheltering global jihadist organisations to now allegedly utilising ISIS to target both the Afghan Taliban and Baloch rebels, Pakistan’s military-intelligence complex has evolved proxy warfare into a systemic geopolitical instrument. Recent intelligence assessments from Afghan and Western security officials highlight a deeply unsettling trend: factions within Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) are reportedly enabling elements of the Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISIS-K) to undermine the Taliban regime. Since the Taliban’s reassertion of power in 2021, relations with Islamabad have deteriorated—primarily over disputes concerning the Durand Line and the Taliban’s sheltering of Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) operatives. In response, Pakistan appears to be recalibrating its approach—weaponising ISIS-K to destabilise Taliban rule and re-establish influence in Kabul.

This is not a product of conjecture. A series of ISIS-K attacks against Taliban figures and Afghanistan’s Shia minorities have reportedly been linked to training centres and safe zones within Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan provinces. Afghan intelligence authorities have consistently accused the ISI of facilitating the logistical operations of ISIS-K, enabling cross-border movements, and covertly supporting actors opposed to Taliban authority. The Taliban government itself has issued public statements alleging that ISIS operatives infiltrating their territory do so with the backing of foreign intelligence agencies—an implicit reference to Pakistan. Simultaneously, Balochistan remains engulfed in a protracted and brutal conflict. The Baloch rebellion, driven by long-standing economic marginalisation and violent repression, has intensified in recent years. Yet, rather than addressing these deep-rooted grievances, the Pakistani military has responded with increased militarisation and a particularly disturbing tactic: deploying jihadist groups, including Lashkar-e-Jhangvi and militants linked to ISIS, against secular Baloch nationalist leaders. In numerous instances, Baloch activists and combatants have been assassinated or abducted by groups publicly aligned with ISIS, only for subsequent intelligence to expose their connections to ISI operatives through intercepted communications and insider testimonies.

The manipulation is systematic. By deploying jihadist proxies, the Pakistani military achieves plausible deniability, evades international censure, and delegitimises the Baloch movement by associating it with religious extremism. This strategy is not novel—it is an extension of a doctrine that has been honed for over forty years. During the 1980s, Pakistan’s military and the ISI constructed a vast proxy network of extremist groups to project influence, acquire strategic depth, and suppress domestic dissent. The U.S.-backed jihad against the Soviet Union in Afghanistan served as the prototype. Billions in American and Saudi funds were channelled through the ISI to support mujahideen fighters—many of whom later evolved into the Taliban and al-Qaeda. This infrastructure did not dissipate with the end of the Cold War; it was repurposed. In Indian-administered Kashmir, the ISI actively cultivated groups such as Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) and Jaish-e-Mohammed (JeM), responsible for some of the most egregious terrorist incidents in India, including the 2001 Indian Parliament attack and the 2008 Mumbai massacre. Hafiz Saeed, founder of LeT and designated a global terrorist by the UN and the U.S., has operated openly within Pakistan for years, organising mass rallies and running charitable fronts that double as recruitment hubs. The scale of this state-terrorism nexus is staggering. A 2023 Financial Action Task Force (FATF) report observed that Pakistan still harbours more than 40 UN-designated terrorist entities, many of which continue to enjoy unimpeded movement, fundraising capacity, and operational latitude. Islamabad has made surface-level arrests and account freezes to avoid sanctions, yet its deeper strategic sponsorship remains untouched.

This duality—supporting terrorism while simultaneously portraying itself as a victim—has become Pakistan’s geopolitical hallmark. Domestically, Islamist groups are weaponised to suppress dissenting journalists, intellectuals, and minority communities. On the international stage, terrorism is wielded as a tool of state influence. Whether confronting the Taliban in Kabul, fomenting unrest in Kashmir, or directing ISIS-linked operations in Balochistan, the ISI’s unseen influence is a constant. Global counterterrorism efforts have failed to dismantle this duplicity. Osama bin Laden’s presence mere kilometres from Pakistan’s premier military academy in Abbottabad starkly revealed Islamabad’s lack of sincerity in combating terrorism. This pattern persists, evident in the state’s bifurcation between “bad terrorists” (who attack Pakistan) and “good terrorists” (who serve strategic interests).

What renders this strategy especially perilous in 2025 is the shifting geopolitical landscape. With China deepening its regional engagement via the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), Beijing is increasingly alarmed by the instability in Balochistan. Yet, rather than curtail militant violence, Pakistan’s military has escalated its reliance on extremist proxies to suppress opposition and secure Chinese investments—transforming CPEC into a corridor shadowed by systemic violence. The global community must cease its indulgence of Pakistan’s duplicitous stance on terrorism. The military’s entrenchment of terror as a tool of foreign and domestic policy has rendered South Asia a continual theatre of conflict, with reverberations reaching as far as Europe and North America. Continued Western support—whether in the form of aid, weaponry, or diplomatic concessions—only serves to embolden Pakistan’s militarised deep state.

Pakistan is not a casualty of terrorism—it is among its principal architects. Unless the international community acknowledges this reality and responds with decisive measures—targeted sanctions, terror designations, and a withdrawal of support—the region will remain hostage to a military that thrives in ambiguity, playing a lethal double game at immense human cost.

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.

Militarism over Welfare: How Pakistan’s 2025–26 Budget Entrenches Army Dominance and Marginalizes the Provinces

The presentation of Pakistan’s Federal Budget for the fiscal year 2025–26 on 10 June serves not only as a financial outline for the nation but also as a telling indicator of the entrenched power dynamics within its political economy. With total federal spending amounting to Rs 17.57 trillion, the budget is framed in official discourse as a pathway to economic recovery and national security. Yet, a more critical and nuanced examination exposes these narratives as concealing a heavily militarised fiscal framework, wherein the Pakistan Army emerges as the primary beneficiary—frequently to the detriment of democratic institutions, inter-provincial fairness, and the country’s long-term developmental prospects.

A particularly striking illustration of this military-oriented strategy is evident in the federal government’s distribution of resources through the National Finance Commission (NFC) Award. Of the Rs 8.21 trillion allocated for provincial transfers, Punjab—widely regarded as the military establishment’s political bastion—receives Rs 4.25 trillion, constituting 51.74% of the total. Sindh is granted 24.55% (Rs 2.01 trillion), Khyber Pakhtunkhwa 14.62% (Rs 1.20 trillion), while Balochistan—the nation’s most underdeveloped and marginalised province—receives a scant 9.09% (Rs 0.75 trillion).

This distribution highlights not merely economic partiality, but also the military’s entrenched involvement in shaping inter-provincial fiscal allocations to favour compliant constituencies while marginalising dissenting regions. The reality that Punjab receives more than double the funds allocated to Sindh and almost six times that of Balochistan—without any remedial provisions to address the latter’s enduring underdevelopment—raises significant concerns regarding the military’s opaque yet enduring influence over federal policy formulation.

The situation in Balochistan is especially grave. Despite its abundant natural resources, the province has endured persistent economic neglect, political exclusion, and military repression. In the 2025–26 budget, Balochistan has once again been overlooked in terms of significant federal development projects. This fiscal marginalisation is no coincidence—it exemplifies a wider securitisation agenda, wherein the state, under military dominance, views Balochistan more as a geostrategic asset than as a population entitled to governance and service. Military cantonments continue to proliferate across the region, yet essential infrastructure such as schools, hospitals, and roads remain scarce. The Army’s approach to calls for enhanced resource autonomy and local governance remains rooted in coercion rather than dialogue.

In Sindh, and particularly in Karachi—the nation’s economic hub—the disparity in budgetary allocation is equally evident. Although the province is a significant net contributor to Pakistan’s overall revenue, its share of federal resources remains disproportionately low. The limited federal expenditure on Sindh’s urban infrastructure and rural healthcare or education reflects Islamabad’s wider policy orientation: maintain centralised authority and channel resources towards regions aligned with military interests, while penalising areas that challenge the establishment’s dominance. Sindh’s increasing political divergence from military-sanctioned narratives likely accounts for its persistent fiscal sidelining.

Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP), despite serving as a frontline region in Pakistan’s so-called war on terror and enduring the harshest impacts of military operations and their humanitarian fallout, is allocated a mere 14.62% of the federal divisible pool. The irony is stark—the province has borne immense human cost in service of the Army’s security objectives, yet receives scant developmental assistance in return. This inconsistency highlights the military’s instrumentalist approach toward peripheral regions: exploit them for strategic leverage while withholding the benefits of federal investment and post-conflict reconstruction.

Nowhere is the military’s hold over the national budget more visible than in defence expenditure. The 2025–26 budget earmarks Rs 2.55 trillion solely for military operations and equipment—a 20% rise from the previous fiscal year. When defence pensions are factored in, this figure increases to Rs 3.29 trillion. By comparison, the Public Sector Development Programme (PSDP)—the central mechanism for promoting public welfare and infrastructure development—has been limited to just Rs 1 trillion, accounting for only 6% of total federal spending.

This fiscal imbalance reveals a troubling truth: Pakistan is not simply a state possessing a powerful military—it is a military possessing a state. Defence is allocated over three times the funding designated for all federal development initiatives combined. In a country burdened by IMF-driven austerity measures, escalating poverty, a failing education system, and a deteriorating healthcare sector, such budgetary priorities are not merely imprudent—they are fundamentally undemocratic.

The military’s economic dominion extends well beyond formal budgetary provisions. Through an extensive network of foundations, real estate enterprises, and corporate entities such as the Fauji Foundation and Army Welfare Trust, the Pakistan Army maintains a commanding presence across the national economy. Nevertheless, it persistently demands an increasing proportion of federal tax revenues under the pretext of “national security.” The most recent rise in defence spending has been rationalised by invoking perceived threats stemming from India’s Operation Sindoor—a cross-border strike purportedly revealing Pakistan’s defence vulnerabilities. Yet, leveraging such incidents to justify inflated military budgets further illustrates the Army’s adeptness at securitising each fiscal cycle to its advantage, frequently at the expense of economic prudence and democratic accountability.

Public reaction to the budget has been largely unfavourable, particularly across digital platforms where a limited degree of free expression persists. On Twitter/X, Facebook, and YouTube, trending hashtags such as #Budget2025, #PakistanDefenceBudget, and #CivilianNeglect reflect mounting discontent over the military’s dominance in determining national priorities. Sentiment analysis of user posts and comments reveals a citizenry increasingly aggrieved by rising inflation, unemployment, and deteriorating public services, all while observing the Army amass greater wealth, influence, and impunity.

From Baloch activists decrying the absence of schools and access to clean water, to Sindhi commentators criticising the inequities of the budget, and citizens in KP questioning the marginalisation of a region scarred by conflict and extremism, provincial discontent is no longer latent—it is erupting. Even prominent political leaders have begun to cautiously voice concerns over the budget’s military bias, although many continue to remain silent, constrained by the fear of institutional retaliation.

Exacerbating this growing public dissatisfaction is the stark contrast drawn between the current budget and those enacted during former Prime Minister Imran Khan’s tenure. Although his administration faced criticism for economic mismanagement, it was nonetheless seen as making some effort to invest in health, education, and social welfare. In the present context, citizens view even these limited advancements as having been reversed, supplanted by an inflated defence budget that delivers no tangible benefit to the ordinary Pakistani.

The debt burden is also intensifying. Pakistan’s obligations for debt servicing are steadily increasing, with a significant portion of non-defence expenditure now directed towards interest repayments. Yet, despite these fiscal pressures, the military remains untouched by austerity. On the contrary, it continues to benefit from consistent budgetary hikes, preferential land allocations, and expansive business entitlements—all safeguarded by a pervasive culture of impunity and the enduring absence of civilian oversight.

Even more troubling is the manner in which the military’s fiscal dominance is accompanied by political repression. Independent economists and journalists who challenge defence expenditures frequently encounter threats or censorship. Parliamentary scrutiny of military spending remains largely symbolic, with no transparency regarding detailed budgetary breakdowns. This lack of openness is deliberate—it constitutes an institutionalised mechanism of military governance by alternative means.

The 2025–26 federal budget thus reflects the distorted civil-military equilibrium in Pakistan. It is more than a fiscal plan; it constitutes a political declaration. It confirms that the Pakistan Army—unelected and formally subordinate under the Constitution—continues to operate as the country’s de facto authority, exercising control not only over foreign affairs and domestic security but also over financial governance. The implications of this dynamic are severe: inhibited human development, widening inter-regional disparities, and a nation locked into a persistent cycle of underdevelopment and authoritarian rule.

Nevertheless, the latest federal budget lays bare the deeply embedded militarism that characterises Pakistan’s state apparatus. While Punjab enjoys a disproportionately favourable share and the Army continues to consolidate its dominance, the provinces of Balochistan, Sindh, and KP remain mired in systemic marginalisation and underinvestment. The budget not only reinforces fiscal disparity but also perpetuates political inequity, upholding a status quo in which military power eclipses democratic will, and security takes precedence over justice, social welfare, and equity. Without a fundamental reconfiguration of civil-military relations—beginning with fiscal transparency and genuine civilian oversight—Pakistan’s prospects for democracy and development will remain subordinated to the ambitions of its military elite.

Escalation Over Development: Questioning the Pakistan Army’s New Procurements

Amidst deteriorating economic conditions, the Pakistan Army is embarking on an assertive and ambitious course of military modernisation, channelling significant resources into advanced weaponry despite pervasive poverty, escalating inflation, and crumbling public infrastructure. This determined enhancement of military capability—highlighted by the prospective acquisition of China’s HQ-19 air defence system, the untested and unproven Shenyang J-35s (derived from the Shenyang FC-31 “Gyrfalcon”), and KJ-2000 aircraft—aims to counter India’s conventional military superiority, but has sparked serious apprehensions both domestically and internationally. While this build-up is officially framed as a strategic necessity in response to regional threats, critics increasingly interpret it as a disquieting sign of the military establishment’s growing dominance over Pakistan’s political and economic landscape. With civilian institutions collapsing under the strain of chronic underfunding and disregard, a critical question arises: is this arms buildup genuinely about safeguarding national security, or is it fundamentally about consolidating power?

The HQ-19, an advanced anti-ballistic missile system, represents more than just a military upgrade—it reflects Pakistan’s increasing prioritisation of militarisation, a trajectory that appears increasingly misaligned with its economic circumstances. Pakistan’s external debt has exceeded $130 billion, and its foreign exchange reserves remain critically low. The nation has been compelled to depend on financial support from the International Monetary Fund (IMF), Gulf nations, and China, often subject to stringent austerity measures. These economic pressures have resulted in substantial reductions in public services, leading to a pronounced deterioration in the quality of education, healthcare, and essential infrastructure. The disparity is striking: while children in rural Sindh attend schools without furniture or textbooks and hospitals in Balochistan lack vital medicines, the government continues to allocate billions towards radar systems, drones, and missile defence technology.

According to the World Bank’s latest estimate, nearly 45 per cent of Pakistan’s population lives in poverty, with an additional 16.5 per cent enduring extreme poverty. In sharp contrast, India—the regional rival Pakistan seeks to match—has lifted a record number of people out of poverty. Within the past year alone, 1.9 million more individuals in Pakistan have slipped below the poverty line.

This trend towards militarisation has not escaped scrutiny. Public discourse—particularly among independent journalists and policy analysts—is increasingly centred on the imbalance between military expenditure and investment in social development. Critics contend that these acquisitions are less about safeguarding national borders and more about preserving the military’s institutional dominance. Historically, the Pakistan Army has wielded considerable autonomy and influence, frequently operating outside the bounds of civilian control. Its presence extends into major economic sectors—including construction, agriculture, and real estate—largely via military-operated conglomerates such as the Fauji Foundation and the Army Welfare Trust. This deep-rooted economic involvement has fostered a system in which the distinction between national interest and military interest is progressively obscured. Pakistan has, in effect, become a garrison state—one in which military imperatives dominate the allocation of economic resources.

The repercussions of this imbalance are acutely experienced by ordinary Pakistanis. Inflation—fuelled by currency depreciation and rising global costs—has rendered basic goods unaffordable for millions. Unemployment continues to climb, particularly among the youth, while the informal labour sector—already fragile—has expanded further due to the decline in formal employment opportunities. Simultaneously, power outages remain commonplace, water scarcity persists across numerous regions, and urban infrastructure—from roadways to drainage systems—is deteriorating under increasing strain. Within this setting, announcements of fresh military procurements are frequently met with a mix of disbelief, resentment, and growing public discontent.

The government’s rationale centres on national security and maintaining regional equilibrium. With India continually advancing its military capabilities and longstanding tensions over Kashmir persisting, Pakistani defence officials maintain that remaining technologically competitive is imperative. The HQ-19 system, designed to intercept ballistic missiles at high altitudes, is portrayed as a strategic counter to India’s expanding missile defence infrastructure. However, this narrative avoids addressing a deeper concern: at what cost? While achieving regional parity is a legitimate objective, is it more urgent than feeding children, providing medical care, and educating future generations?

Similar doubts emerge regarding the anticipated acquisition of J-35 fighter jets by the Pakistan Air Force. The ongoing maintenance costs of such advanced aircraft could significantly strain Pakistan’s annual budget. Critics argue that this fixation on military rivalry ignores the fundamental pillars of national security—economic resilience, social welfare, and human capital development.

Furthermore, the secrecy and lack of transparency surrounding these procurements have heightened anxieties over accountability. In contrast to defence budgets in many democratic states—where military expenditure undergoes parliamentary oversight and public discussion—Pakistan’s defence spending remains predominantly exempt from such scrutiny. Civilian administrations frequently possess minimal influence over these decisions, resulting in a democratic shortfall that weakens institutional checks and balances. The military’s disproportionately large claim on national resources is not merely a fiscal concern—it signifies a more profound structural issue regarding the distribution of power within Pakistan.

The strategic alliance with China introduces an added layer of complexity. China has emerged as Pakistan’s principal supplier of military hardware, and while the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) holds theoretical promise, it has yet to deliver widespread economic transformation. Instead, there is growing apprehension over rising debt dependency and the minimal involvement of local stakeholders in these large-scale initiatives. The provision of the HQ-19 system, therefore, may extend beyond defence purposes—it could serve as a tool for strengthening geopolitical alignment and advancing debt diplomacy. While the military leadership may perceive this as a strategic gain, the long-term consequences for national sovereignty and economic autonomy are considerably less encouraging. Simultaneously, the J-35’s elevated costs and demanding maintenance requirements risk further burdening Pakistan’s already fragile financial position, especially as it endeavours to modernise its air force. Moreover, China’s decision to export the J-35 before its integration into the People’s Liberation Army Air Force introduces considerable strategic uncertainty.

Another deeply concerning aspect is the impact of militarisation on democratic governance. When the military assumes control over key areas of national policy, civilian authorities are frequently reduced to symbolic roles. This dynamic undermines democratic institutions, erodes policymaking competence, and cultivates a culture of impunity. The pattern becomes self-perpetuating: as military dominance increases, civilian institutions become progressively less capable of exercising oversight, while public perception shifts to viewing the military as the sole effective institution within a deteriorating state. This sentiment further weakens confidence in democratic mechanisms and complicates efforts to promote alternative national priorities.

The social cost is immense. Public health metrics continue to worsen, with malnutrition, maternal mortality, and preventable illnesses remaining widespread. The education sector, particularly in rural regions, suffers from chronic underfunding, staffing shortages, and systemic dysfunction. Literacy rates show little improvement, and Pakistan performs poorly on international human development rankings. Within this context, the imagery of cutting-edge missile defence systems appears especially incongruous. What message is conveyed to citizens when their government places a higher premium on armaments than on essential public welfare?

There is also a significant risk of heightened regional instability. Arms races, by their very nature, tend to escalate the probability of conflict rather than prevent it. As India and Pakistan simultaneously expand their defence capabilities, opportunities for diplomacy and mutual confidence-building diminish. The deployment of technologies such as the HQ-19 and J-35 fighter jets could trigger reciprocal measures by India, fuelling a perilous cycle of provocation and response. At a time when South Asia confronts shared challenges—ranging from climate change and water scarcity to terrorism—the diversion of vital resources into military build-ups undermines the region’s collective capacity to address these pressing threats.

Voices from civil society are increasingly urging a realignment of national priorities. Economists, educationists, and public health experts argue that genuine security is rooted in human development. A population that is well-educated, healthy, and economically empowered is considerably more resilient against external threats than any missile defence system. Moreover, reallocating resources towards social sectors could foster inclusive economic growth, alleviate inequality, and strengthen social cohesion—outcomes that are essential for achieving sustainable peace.

The way ahead demands political will and comprehensive institutional reform. Civilian authorities must reassert control over policymaking and insist on greater transparency in defence expenditure. Parliamentary scrutiny must be reinforced, and budgetary priorities should align with the genuine needs of the populace. International stakeholders also share responsibility. Donor nations and financial institutions should refrain from facilitating unregulated military spending through aid or loans that do not impose conditions promoting investment in social development.

The Pakistan Army’s recent procurement ambitions—exemplified by the prospective acquisition of the HQ-19 missile system and J-35 fighter jets—underscore the militarised perspective through which national priorities are frequently shaped. While strategic defence undeniably holds significance, it must not come at the cost of essential human development. In a nation where millions lack access to clean water, quality education, and adequate healthcare, investing in advanced weaponry cannot be seen as a comprehensive solution to security challenges. The true measure of a nation’s strength lies not in its arsenal, but in the well-being of its citizens. Ultimately, the arms race may not only fail to enhance Pakistan’s security—it risks deepening internal vulnerabilities and widening the disconnect between the state and its people. Can Pakistan continue to sustain this pattern of militarisation in South Asia? India, the world’s fourth-largest economy, reserves the right to respond with acquisitions of its own. The short-term “advantages” sought by Pakistan’s militarised leadership will prove unsustainable if the state persists in acting like a revisionist power under the mistaken belief that it can contend with a nation of India’s scale.

The New Face of Baloch Resistance: Operational Sophistication and Strategic Messaging of the Balochistan Liberation Army

Over recent years, Pakistan has experienced numerous overlapping and escalating crises, beginning with the regime change in Afghanistan. In August 2021, Pakistan’s hybrid regime initially welcomed the developments that led to the rise of its longstanding ally—the Taliban. However, the situation rapidly deteriorated. The Taliban’s shift in allegiance inflicted not only a geopolitical setback but also spurred a surge in insurgent activity within Pakistan. Beyond the purported Taliban backing of militant organisations—particularly the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan or TTP (a claim the Taliban refutes)—there are various other factors contributing to the groups’ structural and operational transformations. The Baloch Liberation Army (BLA), regarded as the most formidable and ambitious insurgent faction in Pakistan alongside the TTP, clearly exhibits signs of tactical and ideological evolution, necessitating that the Pakistani state recognise these changes in order to formulate appropriate countermeasures.

The Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) emerged during the late 1990s and early 2000s as an armed resistance against what the Baloch population perceives as systemic marginalisation and exploitation by the Pakistani state. Balochistan—the largest yet poorest province in the country—possesses significant reserves of natural resources, including coal, natural gas, gold, and copper. The demand for provincial autonomy has persisted for decades, further intensified by the prevalent belief that the region was historically incorporated into Pakistan through coercive means.

The BLA initially emerged with aims centred on greater provincial authority over governance and resource management, but it soon evolved into a movement advocating full independence. Originally led by tribal figures such as Balach Marri during its early phase, the organisation has since experienced a leadership transition, now predominantly composed of educated middle-class individuals, including women. Notable figures include Aslam Baloch—linked to the suicide attack targeting Chinese engineers in Dalbandin—along with Bashir Zaib Baloch, Hammal Rehan, Rehman Gul Baloch, among others.

This leadership has overseen a significant transformation in the BLA’s tactical approaches and strategic orientation. Once primarily associated with hit-and-run attacks in mountainous regions—typically targeting gas pipelines, mobile towers, railway lines, and similar infrastructure—the group has shifted towards more coordinated and advanced urban guerrilla assaults against state security personnel. A notable recent example occurred on 11 March, when BLA militants hijacked the Quetta-Peshawar Jaffar Express, demanding the release of Baloch political prisoners and victims of enforced disappearances. In retaliation, the Pakistani military undertook a rescue mission lasting over 24 hours, underscoring the BLA’s capacity to engage in prolonged confrontations with state forces. Furthermore, the escalation of suicide attacks—especially since the reactivation of the Majeed Brigade (the BLA’s suicide unit) in 2018—has added a new layer of lethality and strategic depth to its operations. These attacks have also included female combatants such as Shari Baloch, who killed three Chinese lecturers at the Confucius Institute at Karachi University in 2022. Such incidents, along with assaults on Chinese personnel and projects as well as Punjabi migrant workers, serve as deliberate strategic messaging by the BLA. They underscore the group’s territorial claims and its willingness to indiscriminately target civilians it perceives as symbols of colonial domination and state-led exploitation.

The notable expansion in the BLA’s numerical strength, operational reach, and strategic standing must be understood within a broader, multi-faceted context. Crucially, recognising the debilitating effects of factionalism, several Baloch insurgent groups opted to unite in 2018 under the collective banner of the Baloch Raji Aajoi Sangar (BRAS). This alliance even announced the formation of a joint military command—the Baloch National Army—tasked with implementing a coordinated strategy across the province. Additionally, similar to the TTP, the BLA has significantly profited from the sophisticated weaponry abandoned by US forces following their withdrawal from Afghanistan. Following the March train hijacking, Pakistani authorities disclosed the serial numbers of three American rifles used by the attackers, which were originally supplied to Afghan troops during the conflict. Furthermore, the Taliban’s return to power has created new sanctuaries for Baloch militants to regroup within Afghanistan, in addition to those already existing in Iran’s Sistan-Baluchistan province.

Beyond the aforementioned developments, the BLA has adapted to contemporary dynamics by enhancing its propaganda capabilities through strategic use of social media. Its evolution from rural hit-and-run tactics to an urban guerrilla force engaged in narrative construction is also a response to exclusionary urban development, significant rural-to-urban migration, and increasing internet accessibility. A further aspect of this rhetorical strategy was evident following the deadly terror attack in Pahalgam, India. In a statement issued on 11 May, the BLA claimed responsibility for executing 71 coordinated attacks across 51 locations in the province as part of preparations for Operation Herof 2.0, shedding light on the group’s broader strategic calculus. The BLA appealed to India and other international actors to recognise and support it as a legitimate, indigenous national liberation movement, drawing parallels with the Bangladeshi independence struggle from Pakistan. Through this, the BLA sought to assert its position as a relevant actor in South Asian geopolitics, aiming to weaken what it describes as “the terrorist state” of Pakistan.

Nevertheless, above all other factors, the primary driver behind the BLA’s expanding capabilities is the sustained repression of the Baloch population by the Pakistani state. Decades of harsh policies characterised by systemic marginalisation and collective punishment have so profoundly alienated the Baloch people that, in the absence of viable alternatives, even those opposed to violent methods often find themselves sympathetic to the BLA. It has been reiterated to the point of becoming axiomatic in political science that political challenges cannot be resolved solely through military means. The longstanding political grievances of the Baloch population have consistently been dismissed, silenced, and met with severe, indiscriminate force by the state. Unless Pakistan initiates a process grounded in accountability and sensitivity, and begins to provide the Baloch with genuine political representation and rights, the region will remain ensnared in an unending cycle of violence and repression.

Fragile Federation: Sindh’s Unrest over the Indus Canal Project Turns Violent

Despite Pakistan achieving a tenuous peace with India following military escalations along the border after the deadly Pahalgam massacre, the regime simultaneously faced multiple internal challenges. The escalation of activities by insurgent groups such as Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) and Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) in the provinces of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan has already undermined the military establishment’s popularity, legitimacy, and morale. Meanwhile, popular protests in Sindh, ongoing for several months in opposition to the federal government’s proposed Indus canals project, have escalated into violence. Rather than addressing the grievances politically, the regime opted for a harsh crackdown, resulting in the deaths of two activists, which further incited protestors to set fire to the residence of Sindh’s Interior Minister, Ziaul Hassan Lanjar.

The province of Sindh has long been a simmering cauldron of discontent, spanning several decades. It has consistently voiced grievances over federal discrimination and political marginalisation, which have benefited the politically and economically dominant Punjab. Central to the inter-provincial conflict between Sindh and Punjab is the issue of water, particularly the Indus River. On this occasion, the province mobilised in protests against the federal government’s decree to construct “six strategic canals” intended to address agricultural underdevelopment and food insecurity nationwide. Although the regime agreed to suspend the project in April amid persistent protests until a consensus among provinces was achieved, the demonstrations persisted, accusing the government of secretly proceeding with canal construction and engaging in deception. Public frustration escalated, prompting the regime to launch a harsh crackdown that resulted in the shooting of Zahid Laghari, a prominent activist of the Sindhi nationalist group Jeay Sindh Muttahida Mahaz (JSMM). This triggered a volatile situation in which protestors blocked a vital national highway, set oil tankers on fire, and roamed the area armed with AK-47 rifles.

The canal project forms part of the broader Green Pakistan Initiative (GPI), launched in July 2023 with the aim of modernising the country’s agricultural sector. Agriculture is a vital component of Pakistan’s economy, contributing 25% to GDP and providing employment to 37% of the population.

The initiative seeks to promote modern farming techniques, including the introduction of high-yield seeds and fertilisers, attract investment, and convert barren land into fertile, cultivable areas. In June 2024, President Asif Ali Zardari, as part of the GPI’s progression, approved the construction of six canals, with two planned for each of the provinces Punjab, Sindh, and Balochistan. Among these, the Cholistan canal has provoked significant opposition in Sindh, as residents believe it will substantially divert water from the Indus, reducing the province’s equitable share. Although the government assured that the canal would be constructed along the Sutlej River—governed by India under the 1960 Indus Water Treaty—and would utilise surplus monsoon flows along with river water from Punjab, Sindhi leaders disputed this claim, highlighting the critically low flow levels of the Sutlej.

Despite hosting the country’s financial centre, Karachi, and making a substantial contribution to the national economy, Sindh remains marginalised by federal policies that systematically neglect its interests, leading to its gradual decline. Agriculture accounts for 17% of Sindh’s provincial economy, with 77% of its agricultural land reliant on irrigation from the Indus River. The Indus is vital to the province, serving not only as a crucial water source for agriculture and daily consumption but also preventing the intrusion of Arabian Sea water inland, sustaining the mangrove forests in the Indus delta, and preserving these ancient ecosystems and cultural lifeways. Unsurprisingly, the Indus has been a continual source of dispute for lower riparian Sindh, which bears the impact of federal water management policies, such as dam and canal construction, that divert water to upper riparian Punjab. A notable example is the Kalabagh dam, proposed by General Zia ul-Haq in the 1980s, which was halted following strong opposition from Sindh and other stakeholders.

In this context, the Water Apportionment Accord of 1991 was established to resolve inter-provincial water disputes and ensure a fair distribution of water resources. However, the authority responsible for implementing the accord, the Indus River System Authority (IRSA), has faced widespread criticism for operating through a non-transparent and complex process, which has exacerbated disputes among provinces regarding the interpretation of its provisions. Additionally, the accord did not address the issue of sharing water shortages. Given the severe infrastructural deficiencies, frequent flooding, and impacts of climate change contributing to water scarcity, the lack of a mechanism for equitable sharing places the greatest burden on lower-riparian Sindh. IRSA is also known for disregarding concerns raised by provincial representatives while prioritising the establishment’s agenda. This was evident when IRSA issued the ‘Water Availability Certificate’ for the Cholistan canal in February 2025, asserting adequate water availability for the project despite objections from the Sindhi representative.

For decades, Sindh has persistently alleged that it receives significantly less water than allocated under the 1991 Accord. The diminishing flow of the Indus has had devastating effects on the province, including the encroachment of seawater inland, which has led to salinisation and erosion of extensive agricultural lands, reduction of mangrove forests, mass displacement of populations, destruction of livelihoods, and severe impoverishment. The frequent flooding experienced in the province is another outcome of these mismanaged water policies. Sindh is still struggling to recover from the catastrophic 2022 floods, which devastated approximately 4.4 million acres of agricultural land and resulted in nearly 800 fatalities. Consequently, it is understandable that the population has vehemently opposed efforts to further deprive them not only of their rightful share but also of their fundamental source of sustenance. Nabi Bux Sathio, Vice President of the Sindh Chamber of Agriculture, stated that the Cholistan canal would “ruin 12 million acres of agricultural land in Sindh to irrigate just 1.2 million acres of desert in Punjab.”

Therefore, the Pakistani government should address the grievances of the Sindhi population with sensitivity and accountability, rather than resorting to violent repression. Instead of treating the issue as merely a provincial concern, the regime must adopt a holistic perspective and recognise its reliance on its diverse constituents. With demands for provincial autonomy and government accountability intensifying across all provinces except Punjab, Pakistan must confront the profound seriousness of the situation and respond with rationality.

Pakistan’s Baloch Conundrum and its Impact on Foreign Policy

In today’s interconnected world, where the internet is vital for communication, commerce, and education, a government-imposed digital blackout represents more than a policy—it conveys a powerful message. This message continues to resonate in its third year within one of the central districts of Pakistan’s Balochistan province. Panjgur, renowned for its date palm cultivation and situated between Quetta, the provincial capital, and the strategic port city of Gwadar, has remained digitally incapacitated for several years. On 26 May, Pakistan’s Ministry of Interior prolonged the internet suspension in the area for a further six months, citing the “prevailing law and order situation” as justification.

This decision might appear to be a localized matter of governance or security. However, it symbolises a far more profound dysfunction within the Pakistani state and is closely tied to the government’s militarised policy towards Balochistan. More significantly, this neo-imperialist and securitised strategy, which has kept Balochistan in turmoil and unresolved for decades, carries serious consequences not only for Pakistan’s internal cohesion but also for its foreign policy and its persistently strained relations within the region, particularly with India.

The Baloch insurgency is not a recent phenomenon. Since Pakistan’s formation in 1947, the Baloch have launched multiple uprisings in response to what they perceive as systemic political marginalisation, economic deprivation, and cultural suppression by the Pakistani state. The fifth and ongoing phase of this armed resistance, which commenced in the early 2000s, has demonstrated notable resilience, with groups such as the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) posing an escalating challenge to the state. As The Economist notes, the distinct feature of this current insurgency lies in its broader support base, extending beyond a few feudal elites to include an increasingly mobilised Baloch middle class. What started as a regional demand for autonomy has, under the weight of state repression, evolved into increasingly vocal calls for full independence from Pakistan.

Rather than pursuing genuine dialogue or instituting reforms, the Pakistani state has consistently resorted to militarised governance in the region, characterised by grave human rights violations, including thousands of enforced disappearances, extrajudicial executions, sexual violence against Baloch women, and widespread information blackouts. The internet suspension in Panjgur—along with similar disruptions in districts such as Kech and Gwadar, notably during the Baloch Yakjehti Committee-led protests of February–March 2025—is not merely a case of administrative excess. It forms part of a broader strategic approach that views Balochistan not as an equal federating unit, but as a rebellious frontier to be subdued for its resources. This perception is further entrenched by the military’s manipulation of local politics, whereby it installs loyalists into provincial governance structures, sidelining indigenous political actors deemed unreliable.

But what does this mean for Pakistan’s foreign policy?

At its foundation, foreign policy represents an extension of a state’s internal stability and should ideally embody political maturity. In Pakistan’s case, the persistent Baloch insurgency acts as both a distraction and a strategic liability. It consumes financial and military resources that might otherwise be allocated to constructive diplomatic engagement or economic development. More pointedly, the situation in Balochistan significantly affects Pakistan’s regional dynamics. For example, having consistently failed to address the underlying Baloch grievances, the Pakistani establishment frequently resorts to deflecting criticism of its shortcomings by accusing India of covertly supporting Baloch insurgent groups.

Although there is little publicly available evidence to substantiate Pakistan’s claims of Indian involvement in Balochistan, the reality is that the protracted conflict has become not only a critical weakness and challenge within its domestic security architecture but also a growing diplomatic liability. As human rights discourse increasingly influences multilateral institutions and resonates among Western allies, the Pakistani Army’s ongoing military repression is likely to attract heightened international condemnation.

Furthermore, ongoing state repression and the resulting militancy hinder prospects for regional cooperation. The China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), heralded as the flagship project of China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) and a cornerstone of Pakistan’s economic diplomacy, has its most extensive infrastructural presence in Balochistan. Although Islamabad promotes CPEC as transformative—promising advancements in roads, energy, and infrastructure—these promises have yet to materialise meaningfully on the ground, even after a decade. Many Baloch nationalists view the project as a neo-colonial venture that marginalises local communities while enriching external stakeholders. Measures such as internet shutdowns, arbitrary arrests, and militarised checkpoints in Gwadar and surrounding areas have only deepened these concerns. Despite China’s growing alarm over Balochistan’s deteriorating security—underscored by multiple attacks on Chinese personnel and assets last year—Pakistan’s response remains firmly rooted in a security-focused paradigm.

This brings the focus back to Panjgur. In a region where students, the business community, and other segments of society are deprived of access to the digital realm, the state is effectively severing the area from the modern world. This digital disconnection does not restore stability; rather, it is intended to conceal the abuses committed by the Pakistan Army and to silence the grievances of the Baloch people. The Pakistani establishment fails to recognise that, over time, such measures generate greater alienation, radicalisation, and instability.

Accordingly, Islamabad must recognise that Balochistan represents not merely a security challenge but a failure of governance. While internet restrictions may temporarily quell dissent, they will not resolve the insurgency and instead deepen feelings of alienation among the Baloch population. As long as Panjgur and vast areas of Balochistan remain isolated—both literally and metaphorically—Pakistan’s pursuit of internal stability and regional peace, particularly with India, will remain unattainable. A state that cannot deliver justice and connectivity to its own citizens lacks the credibility to demand justice or trust from its neighbours or the wider international community.

The route to peace in Pakistan does not lie solely through Islamabad and Rawalpindi; instead, it winds through Panjgur and traverses Balochistan.

Field Marshal Asim Munir: What It Means for Pakistan

In a development that has sparked concern across Pakistan’s social landscape, the federal government under Shahbaz Sharif has recently bestowed the rank of Field Marshal—the nation’s highest military title—upon General Asim Munir, the Chief of Army Staff. Officially justified on the grounds of his “exemplary leadership” during the latest military confrontation with India, the move has prompted significant debate regarding the future direction of civil-military relations in Pakistan, as well as the military’s increasingly entrenched influence over democratic institutions, which have historically operated under the shadow of the armed forces.

This marks only the second occasion in Pakistan’s nearly eight-decade history that such a distinction has been granted to a military general. The first instance was in 1959, when General Ayub Khan received the title and subsequently governed Pakistan as a military autocrat for more than ten years. Though the comparison remains unspoken, it is both striking and revealing.

General Munir’s promotion to Field Marshal follows a recent military escalation between India and Pakistan, triggered by Operation Sindoor (6–7 May) launched by the Indian Armed Forces in retaliation for the killing of 26 tourists in Pahalgam, Jammu and Kashmir, on 22 April by Pakistan-based Lashkar-e-Toiba-affiliated terrorists. While official statements from Islamabad praised the operation as a strategic triumph that repelled Indian “aggression,” emerging reports suggest a far more nuanced reality. This is despite Indian forces not only striking terrorist infrastructure in initial precision attacks between 7–9 May, but also widening the operation’s scope to target at least nine Pakistan Air Force (PAF) bases, in addition to other military assets including air defence systems in urban centres such as Lahore. No fewer than three airbases, including Rafiqui, sustained substantial damage and were rendered non-operational.

The official account presented by the Pakistan military underscores themes of restraint, readiness, and strategic deterrence. In doing so, the narrative seeks to transform a moment of vulnerability into one of fortitude. The conferment of the Field Marshal rank on General Munir is being promoted as a key element of this narrative reconstruction by the military leadership. This symbolic gesture aims to unify Pakistan behind its armed forces and convey an image of institutional robustness at a time when internal dissent was mounting, and the legitimacy of both the military and civilian governments has been increasingly questioned in recent years, particularly following electoral manipulation.

The significance of General Munir’s elevation extends well beyond ceremonial recognition. In Pakistan, where the military has historically served as the primary arbiter of political authority, such appointments are seldom purely symbolic. They frequently carry prescriptive implications. This promotion should be understood as a formal acknowledgement of the ongoing consolidation of military supremacy over key state institutions. For example, the military establishment has appointed numerous retired and active officers to head various civilian agencies such as NADRA (National Database and Registration Authority), WAPDA (Water and Power Development Authority), and organisations like SUPARCO (Pakistan Space & Upper Atmosphere Research Commission), among others. The increasingly indistinct boundary between civilian and military spheres has become a defining feature of Pakistan’s governance framework. Consequently, General Munir’s advancement is not merely a commendation of his “wartime” leadership but a clear indication that the military intends to maintain, if not extend, its control over the country’s political arena in the foreseeable future.

The Army’s impetus for this symbolic consolidation of authority arises in part from its declining public reputation in recent years. Previously regarded as the exclusive guardian of order and stability within a volatile political environment, the Army’s overt involvement in political manoeuvring has faced growing criticism.

The pivotal moment occurred with the removal—and eventual incarceration—of former Pakistani Prime Minister Imran Khan. Initially perceived as the military’s preferred candidate, Khan’s time in office deteriorated relations with the generals, culminating in his ousting via a no-confidence motion in 2022, widely considered to have been orchestrated by the military leadership. His subsequent arrest and the suppression of his supporters attracted widespread condemnation both within Pakistan and internationally, undermining the Army’s carefully maintained reputation as an impartial protector of the national interest.

Within this context, the conferment of the Field Marshal rank serves as an effort to regain diminished legitimacy. General Munir is portrayed not merely as a military tactician but as a unifying national leader who re-established Pakistan’s strategic equilibrium amid Indian hostility and maintained national cohesion during periods of internal turmoil.

However, such symbolism carries significant consequences. The present civilian government, largely perceived as a product of the military-backed elections of 2024, has exhibited minimal opposition to this concentration of power. Consequently, Pakistan is edging alarmingly close to overt authoritarianism. What sets this period apart from previous episodes of military rule is the façade of civilian governance that confers democratic legitimacy on what is fundamentally a military-controlled state apparatus. Within this context, the Field Marshal designation is not merely a ceremonial embellishment but rather a symbol crowning an increasingly centralised power structure, which allows scant space for institutional independence or democratic accountability in Pakistan.

Furthermore, this display of confidence should also be interpreted as concealing underlying vulnerabilities amid the ongoing and severe economic crisis and security challenges confronting Pakistan. For example, the rupee continues to depreciate, inflation remains elevated, and the country remains heavily dependent on IMF bailouts alongside financial assistance from allied nations such as China and Saudi Arabia.

In Pakistan, the legacy of Field Marshal Ayub Khan continues to exert a significant influence. His period in power was characterised by centralisation, suppression of dissent, and a disastrous conflict with India in 1965. The Pakistani establishment may be invoking the memory of strong leadership once more, even if it comes at the expense of institutional stagnation. More importantly, this development diverts attention from a crucial question: Who holds the military accountable in Pakistan? In democratic systems, even generals during wartime are subject to scrutiny by elected officials. However, in Pakistan, where the Army has long functioned as a state within a state, such oversight remains largely unattainable.

Pakistan is at a pivotal crossroads, and the promotion of General Asim Munir to Field Marshal epitomises the broader political shift in which civilian institutions are progressively subordinated to military control, with democratic aspirations being compromised in favour of purported security priorities.

In the short term, this action may effectively convey a sense of unity and strength. However, over the longer term, the concentration of authority in unelected hands seldom augurs well for institutional progress or political stability. As Pakistan addresses its economic difficulties, faces insurgency threats, and contends with the complexities of a multipolar global order, its most significant challenge may arise not from external adversaries but internally: the erosion of democratic principles and the deepening entrenchment of military dominance.

Marching in Reverse: How Pakistan Turns Defeats into National Holidays

Pakistan has long been characterised by contradictions, and its leadership has once again veered into the realm of performative patriotism. On this occasion, however, they have gone beyond their usual reliance on rhetoric or censorship, choosing instead to officially commemorate what is widely regarded as a strategic failure in the recent military standoff with India, following the latter’s Operation Sindoor, which struck militant infrastructure and military targets without reprisal. On 13 May, the Shehbaz Sharif administration announced a new national holiday, Youm-e-Markaz-e-Haq (Day of the Battle for Truth), to be observed annually on 10 May — not to mark a victory, but what officials framed as a moral success over India, despite experiencing significant military losses during the week-long conflict.

The circumstances surrounding this newly instituted national “day of valour” are far from obscure. Between 6/7 and 10 May, South Asia experienced a perilous escalation between India and Pakistan. In response to the Pahalgam massacre, in which 26 Indian civilians were killed by Pakistan-backed Lashkar-e-Toiba militants on 22 April, India undertook Operation Sindoor during the night of 6–7 May, aiming to demonstrate deterrence and punitive intent. The operation targeted no fewer than nine locations housing militant infrastructure and training camps across the Line of Control and within Pakistani territory. Independent analysts and satellite imagery have substantiated India’s precision strikes on terror-related logistics.

In retaliation, Pakistan’s military launched its own Operation Bunyan Marsoos on 10 May, which included drone swarm offensives; however, all were effectively neutralised by India’s Air Defence Systems, which intercepted and destroyed dozens of Turkish-made drones in large numbers. In a significant escalation, Indian armed forces targeted no fewer than nine Pakistan Air Force (PAF) bases, extending across the country from the Nur Khan airbase near Islamabad/Rawalpindi to Rahim Yar Khan, Sukkur, Chunian, Pasrur, and Sialkot, among others. With several airbases rendered largely inoperative, Islamabad was compelled to pursue de-escalation through Director General of Military Operations (DGMO)-level dialogue by the evening of 10 May.

However, the DG-ISPR, the media arm of Pakistan’s Armed Forces, reverted to its well-established narrative strategy by asserting that a “befitting reply” had been delivered to India’s precision strikes, despite clear evidence to the contrary. Such rhetoric has become a defining feature of the military’s public relations discourse.

Despite professing a commitment to transparency, the Pakistani establishment—along with its civilian front—has once again avoided offering genuine openness or accountability. Instead, Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif capitulated to the military establishment’s every exaggerated demand, aligning himself with its mythmaking apparatus. As part of these symbolic gestures, on 13 May, PM Sharif proclaimed that 10 May would henceforth be observed annually as Youm-e-Marka-e-Haq (Day of the Battle for Truth), in a show of support for the Pakistani armed forces. Furthermore, the government extended this orchestrated display by designating 16 May as Youm-e-Tashakur (Day of Gratitude), ostensibly to express thanks to divine forces for safeguarding the nation.

Even more notably, General Asim Munir, the current Army Chief, was conferred the rare military rank of Field Marshal, becoming only the second Pakistan Army General to receive this title since General Ayub Khan in 1959. This elevation is symbolic rather than operational, reflecting more the military’s intent to project strength than any substantive achievement on the battlefield.

However, these recent developments provide insight into the broader pattern whereby the Pakistani state—especially its military establishment—routinely transforms setbacks into celebrations to uphold its legitimacy. In the process, it not only actively reshapes historical narratives in real time but also employs national holidays as instruments of diversion and morale control.

The strategy itself dates back several decades. In 1965, Pakistan launched Operation Gibraltar, aiming to provoke an uprising in Jammu and Kashmir by infiltrating regular army troops. The operation, however, ended in failure, triggering the full-scale Indo-Pak War of 1965. Ultimately, Pakistan ceded more territory than it gained and was compelled to agree to a ceasefire through the Tashkent Agreement of 1966. Nevertheless, each year on 6 September, the country observes Defence Day—a solemn patriotic occasion featuring military parades and speeches glorifying Pakistan’s alleged martial superiority.

In 1999, Pakistani forces unlawfully crossed the Line of Control and seized strategic mountain positions in the Kargil region. The operation, carried out without civilian government approval, led to the deaths of hundreds of Pakistani soldiers as India launched a counteroffensive to retake the area. Nevertheless, General Pervez Musharraf—the architect of the Kargil debacle, appointed Army Chief by Nawaz Sharif after bypassing two senior officers only months earlier—soon assumed control through a military coup. Even today, Kargil is remembered in segments of Pakistan’s national narrative not as a failure, but as a bold display of military ingenuity.

What remains consistent across these episodes is the deliberate reconfiguration of national memory. Military defeats are recast as stories of resistance, while tactical blunders are reframed as moral triumphs. This extends beyond mere propaganda; it represents a sustained strategy of narrative management that shields the military from accountability and ensures the civilian government remains subordinate to the armed forces’ entrenched authority.

By designating 10 May as Youm-e-Markaz-e-Haq, the state is not merely revising the narrative of a military confrontation but is also proactively undermining dissent, stifling debate, and conditioning future generations to prioritise myth over reality. Educational institutions will present it as a moment of national victory, much like the portrayal of Operation Gibraltar. Any critiques highlighting strategic failures or the true economic, diplomatic, and military costs are likely to be marginalised or suppressed.

The utility of these contrived holidays is multifaceted. Firstly, they offer a cathartic release for a population grappling with economic hardship, political turmoil, and international isolation. In a nation beset by soaring inflation, a depreciating rupee, and frequent IMF bailouts, mythologised nationalism provides an inexpensive form of escapism that discourages critical inquiry. Secondly, such observances function as tests of loyalty. By requiring public participation in the commemoration of fabricated victories, the state fosters an environment where patriotism becomes performative and dissent is deemed perilous.

Thirdly, and arguably most cynically, these holidays reinforce the military’s hold over national identity. While in most democracies national holidays commemorate independence, revolution, civil rights, or peace, Pakistan’s calendar is increasingly dominated by observances that glorify the military’s role as protector and guardian, despite historical evidence to the contrary. These occasions are not simply commemorations but tools of militarised nationalism, deliberately crafted to obscure inconvenient realities.

While every nation possesses its own symbols and moments of unity can be vital, when these symbols are founded on falsehoods and unity rests upon denial, the outcome is not strength but stagnation. Consequently, the Pakistani establishment is offering its population triumphalism and a continuous stream of delusion rather than the truthful account to which they are entitled.

Moving forward, although Youm-e-Markaz-e-Haq will likely be observed with parades, speeches, and patriotic songs, behind the flags and slogans lies the reality of a state regressing—where defeats are recast as triumphs, silence is disguised as gratitude, and history is rewritten not by scholars but by military leaders. Unless Pakistanis demand accountability from the establishment, the nation will remain ensnared in a cycle of self-deception, mistaking every backward step for progress.

The Cost of Power: How Pakistan’s Military Economy is Undermining Its Future

Pakistan’s enduring economic difficulties are well recognised globally. In recent years, the nation has experienced alarming inflation, an ongoing crisis in foreign exchange reserves, and an overwhelming debt burden. These issues have led to widespread unemployment, increased poverty, and daily hardships for a population already caught in the crossfire of recurring terrorist violence and military operations ostensibly aimed at countering it. Nevertheless, despite this worsening scenario and the harsh effects of austerity measures imposed by the IMF on the populace, Pakistan’s disproportionately large military appears unaffected and is, in fact, gradually expanding its share of the national economy.

The expansive role of the military in Pakistan’s domestic affairs extends beyond politics and foreign policy, significantly permeating the economic sphere. To begin with, the military absorbs a substantial portion of the GDP—Pakistan’s defence expenditure for FY2025 stood at 2.3% of GDP, exceeding equivalent figures for India, China, and the European Union. According to a study by Moneycontrol, Pakistan’s defence budget experienced an annual growth rate of 12.6% between FY17 and FY25, compared to India’s 8%. In contrast, education and healthcare were allocated merely 2% and 1.3% of the GDP, respectively.

In addition, the military has developed an extensive private conglomerate, commonly referred to as the ‘milbus’ (military business)—a term introduced by prominent scholar Ayesha Siddiqa in her seminal work Military Inc.: Inside Pakistan’s Military Economy. Through a network of commercial enterprises, including the Fauji Foundation, Army Welfare Trust, Shaheen Foundation, Bahria Foundation, and the highly contentious Defence Housing Authority (DHA), the military has embedded itself across numerous sectors such as real estate, banking, manufacturing, agriculture, shipping, education, and media. Some estimates suggest that the military controls approximately 12% of the nation’s land.

Although the military and its proponents contend that the professionalism, stability, and efficiency it represents are reflected in its economic endeavours, many critics challenge the monopolistic, expansive, and opaque nature of this military dominance. Defence-operated industries suppress local competition and private enterprise, while benefiting from tax concessions and minimal regulatory oversight. By blurring the boundary between protector and profiteer, the military prioritises strategic positioning and its own commercial gain over public welfare and principles of market equity. These concerns are amplified when certain ventures become entangled in corruption scandals, such as the DHA Valley Islamabad fraud, or disregard public interests, as seen in the Indus canals initiative. The DHA—initially established to offer affordable housing for retired military personnel but now catering to elite residential projects—has faced widespread criticism over questionable land acquisitions and community displacements to benefit the privileged. Moreover, the inclusion of senior military officials in the 2021 Pandora Papers exposed the extent to which they funnel vital national assets through offshore financial channels.

The ‘milbus’ in Pakistan has not only exacerbated the persistent and severe underinvestment in human development, but the military’s substantial economic influence also reinforces its political dominance within the country. It is well established that the military remains the most powerful institution in Pakistan, having governed directly for nearly three decades and exerting significant influence behind the scenes during periods of civilian administration. Given the military’s pervasive control over the economy, civilian governments are largely stripped of the ability to make independent decisions based on the needs and interests of the populace.

Thus, the expansive economic domain of the military in Pakistan has a direct impact on the nation’s socio-economic stability. On one hand, defence-operated enterprises—shielded from public audits and regulatory scrutiny—create monopolies that undermine local businesses, deplete public resources, and significantly intensify inequality. On the other hand, the ‘milbus’ entrenches authoritarianism, rendering civilian governments largely symbolic. At a time when the country’s economic crisis continues to spiral, inflicting severe hardship on ordinary citizens, it is essential to critically reassess the allocation of national resources, particularly those directed towards the military. The military’s vast commercial ventures must be brought under the same regulatory framework as civilian enterprises, and its market dominance restricted. Achieving this requires a fundamental recalibration of civil-military relations, along with a reflective discourse on the appropriate role of the military within a democratic framework.

Pakistan’s National Security Strategy Is Broken. Reform Must Begin at Home

Pakistan’s National Security Strategy Is Broken. Reform Must Begin at Home

In 2021, the Pakistani government introduced its inaugural National Security Policy, asserting that “the safety, security, dignity, and prosperity of citizens in all their manifestations will remain the ultimate purpose of Pakistan’s national security (p. 6).” To many, this appeared to mark a shift—at least rhetorically—towards a more citizen-focused and comprehensive understanding of security, moving away from the historically military-centric framework. Yet, four years on, such declarations appear increasingly unfulfilled.

From Balochistan to Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan remains challenged by escalating internal insurgencies. The Baloch nationalist movement, in particular, has withstood decades of state repression and, in recent years, has expanded both in territorial scope and tactical capability. Concurrently, Pakistan’s regional stance—especially its policy alignment with the Afghan Taliban and its enduring engagement with extremist proxies—has resulted in diplomatic isolation and increased domestic exposure to militant reprisals.

If Pakistan aspires to become a secure state, it must first confront a difficult truth: national security cannot be sustained on the basis of repression, strategic ambiguity, and denial. Instead, it must be re-envisioned to include justice, political reconciliation, and an honest reckoning with historical missteps. This transformation must commence with Balochistan.

For decades, the Pakistani state has approached Baloch nationalism not as a legitimate political grievance requiring resolution, but as a security challenge to be forcefully suppressed. This approach has involved enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, and aggressive military interventions. Consequently, a profound sense of alienation has taken root among Baloch communities, many of whom, having suffered state violence, now view the state more as a colonising force than a protective authority. It is therefore unsurprising that leading non-violent advocates for justice in the province, such as Mahrang Baloch, have personally experienced repression, with numerous family members subjected to enforced disappearances or extrajudicial killings.

Despite ongoing state abuses, the insurgency has persisted—and indeed, it has adapted. Organisations such as the Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) have extended their activities beyond traditional rural strongholds, increasingly targeting economic infrastructure and security personnel across the province, and occasionally in major urban centres such as Karachi. In recent years, Baloch insurgents have repeatedly attacked Pakistani military facilities and China-backed development projects, resulting in the deaths of several Chinese nationals. This trajectory does not reflect a weakening movement; rather, it underscores the failure of the Pakistani state’s militarised strategy.

The government continues to portray the insurgency as externally orchestrated, particularly by India. This narrative serves to conveniently sidestep the deeper, legitimate grievances of Baloch citizens, including political exclusion, resource extraction without local benefit, and a lack of essential public services. Notably, Balochistan—despite its substantial mineral wealth—remains among the most impoverished and underdeveloped regions in the country. It is this stark disjunction between the state’s strategic priorities and the lived experiences of its people that lies at the core of Pakistan’s faltering national security framework.

Pakistan’s prevailing security architecture has been predominantly shaped and directed by the military establishment. Its conventional orientation has remained India-centric, interpreting national security primarily through the limited perspective of perceived external threats. This strategic outlook has fostered three deeply detrimental tendencies within the country’s policymaking.

Firstly, it has resulted in the systematic securitisation of internal dissent. Movements advocating for ethnic rights, such as the Pashtun Tahafuz Movement, calls for democratic reform, and even critical journalism are frequently perceived as threats to “national unity.” The state’s response has often been coercive, ranging from censorship to outright violence—as recently witnessed during the Baloch Yakjehti Committee’s protest march against extrajudicial killings and ongoing state-enforced disappearances in Balochistan. This approach has only exacerbated public distrust and further eroded the cohesion of the social fabric.

Secondly, it has normalised the deployment of non-state actors as tools of regional influence. From Kashmir to Afghanistan, Pakistan has supported extremist groups that serve its strategic objectives. While this proxy strategy may have yielded short-term gains, it has come at a significant cost, as several of these groups have turned against the state itself—most notably the Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), which has resurged in strength in recent years.

Thirdly, this strategy has contributed to Pakistan’s diplomatic isolation. Its ongoing support for, or at least tolerance of, the Afghan Taliban has estranged key allies, including the United States and the wider international community. Repeated statements by US officials accusing Pakistan of exploiting its partnership with Washington for counterterrorism purposes while simultaneously shielding such groups underscore this duplicity. Moreover, Pakistan’s failure to present a coherent counter-extremism policy has rendered it an unreliable actor in global counterterrorism initiatives. Arguably, Pakistan’s national security doctrine has, paradoxically, undermined its own security.

For Pakistan to break free from this cyclical pattern, it requires more than a mere superficial adjustment to its national security policy. A profound transformation is necessary, starting with a shift in focus from safeguarding the interests of the military establishment to prioritising the welfare of its citizens.

This entails prioritising political dialogue over military repression in Balochistan and other turbulent regions. Additionally, it must recognise that dissent is not an act of treason, that ethnic grievances do not constitute national threats, and that lasting peace is achieved through negotiation, not eradication.

This also requires rejecting the militarised approach in favour of empowering civilian institutions to lead on internal security. The intelligence and military apparatus must not serve as both judge and executioner in matters of internal dissent. Pakistan’s democracy, despite its fragility, cannot thrive under the strain of a constant state of emergency and dominant military control.

Moreover, it is crucial to abandon the “good Taliban, bad Taliban” policy, which has always been driven more by strategic considerations than by moral principles. The Taliban’s resurgence in Afghanistan represents a model that Pakistan should avoid, as it has strengthened jihadist networks across the region. Pakistan must end its strategic ambivalence and decisively distance itself from all extremist groups. No state can achieve stability while harbouring forces fundamentally opposed to the very concept of the modern nation-state. Pakistan has options, but lacks the political will.

The path to reform will be challenging. It will necessitate the military’s relinquishment of some control over internal policy decisions, as well as political leaders demonstrating the courage to confront uncomfortable truths. Additionally, it will require society as a whole to call for a new definition of security—one that is not merely the absence of conflict, but the presence of justice, opportunity, and dignity. For Pakistan, the stakes are immense. The choice is no longer between change and continuity, but between transformation and ongoing disintegration.

The Quiet Engine of Extremism: Why Pakistan’s Madrassas Still Matter

In the aftermath of India’s Operation Sindoor on May 7, which targeted militant infrastructure in Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, a familiar cycle of accusations and denials has resumed. Pakistani officials immediately labelled the operation a strike on civilians insisting that places of worship, and religious schools, were among the many targets.

Particular attention has been drawn to Markaz Subhan Allah in Bahawalpur, a facility long known as the headquarters of the Deobandi militant group Jaish-e-Mohammed (JeM).

It was here, notably, that Masood Azhar, the proscribed group’s founder, reappeared in December 2024 after years of purported house arrest, a stark reminder of how Pakistan’s most dangerous extremists often operate with impunity, even when officially designated as threats by the international community.

This narrative may resonate in some quarters of the international community, but it masks a deeper, long-running reality which is that many of Pakistan’s religious seminaries, or madrassas, have long played a central role in incubating violent extremism. While not all madrasas are complicit, thousands have served as ideological and operational feeders for some of the region’s most dangerous militant groups.

The connection between Pakistan’s madrassa network and its decades-old strategy of cultivating proxy groups is well documented. And yet, it remains largely absent from current discourses on terrorism globally. To understand the roots of regional instability and why efforts to counter terrorism often flounder, the international community needs come to terms with this institutional reality.

An Infrastructure of Indoctrination

Since the 1980s, after President General Ziaul Haq thrust Pakistan into the frontline of global jihad against Soviet Communists in Afghanistan with the support of United States and Saudi Arabia, the country’s intelligence services, particularly the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), have cultivated relationships with a range of militant groups. As the anti-Soviet jihad in Afghanistan folded in the late 1980s, Pakistani Army, having adopted the doctrine of “strategic depth,” the notion that non-state actors could serve as force multipliers in conflicts with neighboring states, redirected these Afghan Jihad returnees to Kashmir. Moreover, an umbrella of Kashmir-centric anti-India groups, such as Hizbul Mujahideen (HM), Lashkar-e-Toiba (LeT), and Jaish-e-Muhammad (JeM), were created to sustain the insurgency in Kashmir. It is instructive when Former President General Pervez Musharraf acknowledged as much in 2010 admitting how Pakistan had supported militant groups to “pressure India.”

But the more pressing question is how Pakistan’s military and its Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) continue to sustain such a vast militant ecosystem. The answer lies in the decades-old nexus between militant outfits like Lashkar-e-Taiba and Jaish-e-Mohammed, and a wide network of religious seminaries (madrassas) that serve as sources of both ideological indoctrination and recruitment.

While madrassa system of education is not new to Pakistan, but their explosive growth over the last few decades has altered the country’s educational and religious landscape. From just a few hundred at independence in 1947, their numbers have ballooned to more than 30,000 today, a conservative estimate, with nearly half of these operating without state oversight.

While some offer basic religious instruction, many propagate an austere, puritanical version of Islam, often influenced by Saudi Wahhabism and Deobandi orthodoxy — that fosters sectarian intolerance and glorifies armed struggle. For instance, many of these madrassas, as highlighted by M. W. Malla (2020), have relied on curriculum which emotively glorifies “jihad – Islamic holy war – through vivid imagery for whom alif (A) was meant Allah, be (B) meant Bundook (Gun), jim (J) meant jihad, and ha (Ha) meant hathiyar (arms) and likewise.”

A Pipeline to Militancy

In theory, madrassas are meant to provide education and social support to the underprivileged. However, in case of Pakistan, a significant proportion of these Islamic schools serve as gateways to radicalization. The situation is compounded by lack of governmental oversight. For instance, while the officially registered madrasas, numbering nearly 17500 as per governmental statistics, cater over 2.2 million students, millions more are enrolled in the unregistered ones. Consequently, orphaned and impoverished children, often with no other schooling options, are drawn into a closed system where anti-Western and anti-Hindu narratives are presented as divine truth. Recruitment for jihadist groups often begins in these classrooms.

Incidentally, some of the most prominent Islamic religious seminaries of Pakistan such as Jamia Ashrafia in Lahore, Dar-ul-Uloom Banori Town in Karachi, and Jamia Haqqania  Akora Khattak have been repeatedly linked to known extremist organizations. Take the case of Jamia Haqqania, which has been referred to as the “University of Jihad” and its former Vice Chancellor Maulana Samiul Haq as the “Father of Taliban.” Much of the Haqqania network leadership and cadre, which is part of Afghan Taliban, has received their religious training from these institutions with a number of them currently surving in the transitional government of Taliban in Afghanistan.

Even as international pressure has mounted, reform efforts have faltered. It is instructive how Pakistan’s current government quietly abandoned the 2019 requirement for madrassas to register with the Ministry of Education, a modest reform that aimed at bringing religious seminaries under state oversight. The reversal came in December 2024, as part of a political bargain with Jamiat-e-Ulema-e-Islam (Fazl), Deobandi religious party led by Maulana Fazlur Rehman, to secure the party’s support for a constitutional amendment that expanded the powers of the military establishment while curbing the judiciary’s independence. Pakistan’s leaders have often found it easier to co-opt these groups than to challenge them — a compromise that comes at significant cost.

Beyond the Madrassa

The culture of radicalization in Pakistan does not stop at religious schools. State-run public schools often include textbooks that promote intolerance, framing India and the West as existential threats. Clerics like Maulana Abdul Aziz, once the head of Islamabad’s infamous Lal Masjid, openly issue calls to violence. He has faced little accountability despite repeated clashes with the state.

This radical ecosystem is self-reinforcing. With 39 percent of Pakistan’s population living below the poverty line, many families have little choice but to send their children to madrassas that offer free food and shelter. But the pattern is not limited to the poor. In recent years, Pakistan has witnessed recruitment by extremist groups among the educated elite, including medical students and professionals drawn to the ideology of ISIS and its affiliates.

This widening appeal underscores that extremism in Pakistan is not simply a problem of poverty or illiteracy — it is one of systemic indoctrination and strategic tolerance. The madrassas are just the most visible node in a much broader network of radicalization.

The Global Dimension

That Pakistan has managed to sustain this infrastructure with relatively few consequences is, in part, a reflection of international inconsistency. During the U.S.-led war in Afghanistan, Islamabad was seen as a necessary, if difficult, partner. More than $33 billion in U.S. aid flowed into Pakistan post-9/11, even as evidence mounted that its military continued to support insurgent groups like Afghan Taliban, LeT, HM and JeM.

What is more problematic is how China, too, despite vying for the global leadership and having endured terrorism in its Xinjiang province, has largely refrained from pressuring Pakistan. This is being justified by its investment in the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) and its geopolitical competition with India. Moreover, while the state patronage of funding conservative religious education from Gulf countries has gone down, the role of religious groups has continued to foster this ecosystem.

In addition, in terms of global oversight, even the Financial Action Task Force (FATF), the global watchdog on terror financing, has struggled to enforce long-term compliance. Though Pakistan was removed from the FATF’s “grey list” in 2022, much of the underlying infrastructure remains intact.

A Familiar Playbook

The claims that India’s recent strikes targeted civilian infrastructure follow a well-established script. In 2019, following the Balakot airstrikes, it denied that any militant camp had been hit, despite independent verification of the target’s history as a JeM facility.

What makes Operation Sindoor different is not the nature of Pakistan’s response, but the context in which it occurs. Militant violence inside Pakistan has surged, with a 79 percent increase in attacks in 2023 alone. Many of these attacks have been carried out by groups the state once sheltered. The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), now re-empowered by the Taliban’s return in Afghanistan, has turned its guns inward.

In effect, Pakistan is now haunted by its own proxies, groups once deployed as strategic assets have grown autonomous and hostile. The madrassas that fed them remain largely untouched, a sign of the state’s reluctance, or inability, to dismantle the very apparatus it helped create.

The Consequences of Denial

The madrassa-militancy nexus is not the only reason for instability in South Asia, but it is a critical one.

As long as Pakistan continues to shield this infrastructure behind religious rhetoric and claims of victimhood, genuine counterterrorism cooperation will remain elusive.

For the international community, the lesson is clear: treating Pakistan as a willing partner while ignoring its internal contradictions only delays the reckoning. Madrassa reform, state accountability, and a broader ideological shift are not just domestic imperatives for Pakistan, but they are regional and global necessities.

Until then, any claims of targeting civilians in strikes like Operation Sindoor must be weighed against a broader, uncomfortable truth: some of the very institutions Pakistan defends as sacred have long functioned as sanctuaries for those who preach and practice violence.

Pahalgam Massacre and Pakistan’s Terror Legacy

Pakistan today finds itself in the throes of a deep and multifaceted crisis. A collapsing economy, political volatility, and a fraying internal security order have combined to expose the limits of the state’s resilience. Armed ethnonationalist movements in Balochistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, along with a resurgence of transnational jihadist violence, now pose grave challenges to internal cohesion. Compounding this crisis of the state’s systemic dysfunction is the unprecedented erosion of public trust in the military — historically the most powerful and stable institution in the country.

In any functioning democracy, such systemic dysfunction might prompt serious institutional introspection. But Pakistan is not a conventional democracy. Its generals continue to dominate the national security and foreign policy apparatus, leaving little room for recalibration — particularly on matters where the military has long maintained primacy, such as its regional policy.

On April 15, General Asim Munir, Pakistan’s current Army Chief and undoubtedly its most powerful figure, delivered a politically charged speech aimed at salvaging the military’s diminished public standing.

Instead of reflecting on the domestic failures under his tenure, Munir fell back on a familiar script by invoking Kashmir as the nation’s unfinished cause, a “jugular vein”, which will be supported till the very last end. But this time, he cast Pakistan’s long-standing support for insurgency in Jammu and Kashmir through a more overtly communal lens, framing it within a polarizing Hindu-Muslim binary. Far from an offhand remark, this rhetoric not only distracts from Pakistan’s internal problems but also serves to reaffirm Islamabad’s continued reliance on militant proxies as instruments of foreign policy.

Disturbing, though not surprising, the consequences of General Munir’s provocative speech seemed to unfold just days later, with militants carrying out a deadly attack in Pahalgam, a popular tourist destination in Jammu and Kashmir’s Anantnag district.

Early reports indicate the armed assailants, mostly non-locals of Pakistani origins, having singled out victims based on their religious identity before launching a brutal massacre that killed at least 26 civilians and injured many more.  The synchronicity between the timing of the speech and nature of the attack are difficult to dismiss as mere coincidence. Instead, they raise serious concerns about the ongoing connection between Pakistan’s powerful military establishment and the extremist groups it has long been accused of supporting behind the scenes. The group claiming responsibility, The Resistance Front (TRF), is widely recognized as a rebranded version of Lashkar-e-Taiba — a U.N.-designated terrorist organization with deep ties to Pakistan’s security establishment. TRF’s reinvention is widely viewed as a strategic manoeuvre to shield Islamabad from international censure, including scrutiny by the Financial Action Task Force (FATF).

The timing of the attack, so closely following General Munir’s speech, raises troubling questions. For decades, militant violence in Kashmir has often followed inflammatory statements from Pakistani leaders or shifts in the geopolitical landscape. The latest attack appears to follow this pattern, and its motive fits a familiar logic: force India back to the negotiating table by stoking instability.

There are three interconnected factors that may underscore how Pakistan’s fingerprints appear evident. First, the Pakistan Army’s public legitimacy is at its lowest point since the country’s founding in 1947, largely due to its deep and controversial involvement in domestic politics. Second, the Shehbaz Sharif-led government has repeatedly reached out to New Delhi to revive bilateral talks—an initiative that India has, quite justifiably, conditioned on Islamabad halting its support for terrorist networks targeting Indian interests. Third, since India’s 2019 constitutional reorganization of Jammu and Kashmir, the region has steadily transitioned from a “terrorism” flashpoint to a “tourism” revival story, leaving Pakistan’s decades-old Kashmir narrative and its attempts to internationalise the so-called dispute adrift.

The timing of the attack coinciding with U.S. Vice President J.D. Vance’s visit to India adds a provocative layer. It recalls a grim precedent: in March 2000, during President Bill Clinton’s visit to India, Pakistani-backed militants massacred Sikh villagers in Kashmir — Chittisinghpura massacre —an act widely seen as an attempt to draw global attention to Islamabad’s agenda. The parallels are hard to ignore.

But the most damning aspect of Pakistan’s strategy is that while it is increasingly self-defeating, it refuses to abandon this strategy despite its violent backfire. Militant blowback has rendered vast stretches of its own territory—particularly in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan—effectively beyond the reach of the central government, now largely controlled by Islamist extremists and Baloch nationalist insurgents, respectively. Extremist networks once deployed for strategic depth have turned inward, contributing to Pakistan’s domestic instability. According to the 2025 Global Terrorism Index, Pakistan now ranks as the world’s second most terrorism-affected country, surpassed only by Burkina Faso. Terrorism-related fatalities in Pakistan rose by 45 percent in 2024 alone.

Yet, despite these devastating costs, both in lives lost and in national stability, Pakistan’s military and political leadership remains either unwilling or unable to break with its long-standing policy of using militant proxies as instruments of regional strategy. This stubborn adherence to an outdated and corrosive doctrine has hollowed the state from within. The massacre in Pahalgam is not merely a cross-border atrocity; it is a symptom of a state trapped in its own delusions — one that continues to use extremist violence as a tool of policy even as it undermines its own survival.

While global powers have rightly condemned this latest act of terrorism at Pahalgam, expressions of outrage are no longer sufficient. The international community must adopt a firmer stance—one that combines diplomatic pressure, targeted sanctions, and enhanced monitoring of Pakistan’s financial and security networks. Islamabad must be made to understand that impunity is no longer an option as cost of inaction is steep.

For too long, Pakistan’s proxy war playbook has been tolerated as a regional irritant, which it is not. If this pattern continues unchecked, the risk of broader destabilization in South Asia — and the possibility of an escalation — will become all too real. The world must act before this proxy war metastasizes into something far more dangerous.

Voices from the Vanished: The Fight for Justice in Balochistan  

In the shadowed corridors of the Pakistani state, where power is wielded not by the parliament but by barracks and clandestine agencies, the soul of Balochistan bleeds. The month of January 2025 alone saw 107 enforced disappearances across the province, according to a chilling report by Paank, the human rights wing of the Baloch National Movement. These are not just numbers—they are human lives swallowed by a brutal machine that operates beyond accountability, with the military establishment acting as judge, jury, and often, executioner. Dr. Abdul Malik Baloch, President of the National Party and former Chief Minister of Balochistan, has emerged as one of the few political voices courageous enough to confront the state’s ongoing repression. In a recent public address, he condemned the federal government and military’s intrusion into Balochistan’s affairs—especially through the controversial Mines and Minerals Act, which he decried as a constitutional betrayal.

Resource Colonialism in a Federal Guise

The plunder of Balochistan’s natural wealth—Saindak, Reko Diq, Gwadar—is conducted not with development in mind, but domination. The people of Balochistan are treated not as stakeholders, but as subjects of a 21st-century colonial project. Contracts with companies like Pakistan Petroleum Limited and Saindak Metals are renewed without the consultation of legitimate public representatives, further entrenching the military’s grip over the region’s resources. John Locke, the Enlightenment philosopher who laid the foundation for liberal constitutionalism, argued that a government loses legitimacy the moment it no longer operates with the consent of the governed. The Pakistani state’s actions in Balochistan represent a grotesque inversion of this principle. Where the social contract demands mutual obligation, the state offers extraction and suppression. In Locke’s words, such a regime ceases to be civil and becomes a “state of war.”

Disappearances: The Anatomy of a State Crime

The figures from the Paank report are harrowing: enforced disappearances have become the norm rather than the exception. These are not rogue acts but systematic state policy—an organized terror campaign carried out by military and intelligence agencies to quash dissent and eradicate political opposition. The mutilated bodies of Muhammad Ismail (20) and Muhammad Abbas (17), found after being abducted from their Kalat home, represent the fate of thousands. Their youth, their innocence, their right to live—all discarded in the name of national security. Hekmatullah Baloch, another victim, was shot during a peaceful protest and succumbed to his injuries in a Karachi hospital. His crime? Demanding accountability. Michel Foucault, in his seminal work Discipline and Punish, observed that modern states have replaced the public spectacle of punishment with hidden forms of control—surveillance, incarceration, and disappearance. Pakistan, in Balochistan, has regressed to a grotesque hybrid, mixing the medieval cruelty of mutilation with the modern state’s bureaucratic efficiency. The Fourth Schedule and Maintenance of Public Order (3MPO) are not laws—they are instruments of tyranny.

The Illusion of Democracy and the Reality of Martial Law

While Islamabad claims to be a constitutional democracy, Balochistan is ruled like an occupied territory. Dr. Abdul Malik denounced the frequent use of colonial-era laws to detain political activists, many of them women. He rightly equated this crackdown to civil martial law—a regime where uniforms dictate politics and silence becomes the only guarantee of safety. The philosopher Hannah Arendt warned that the collapse of the line between the legal and the illegal is the precursor to totalitarianism. In Balochistan, this line has not only been blurred; it has been erased. The people no longer know when they cross a boundary, because the boundary moves with the will of the soldier. This system does not merely suppress dissent—it criminalizes existence itself. Border trade, once a lifeline for over three million people, has been strangled by new regulations and taxes. What remains is not law and order but extortion by officials, where survival is a privilege granted to the obedient and denied to the defiant.

The Politics of Extraction and Exclusion

The resource curse is not a theory in Balochistan—it is lived reality. The province is rich in gas, gold, copper, and port infrastructure, yet its people suffer from abject poverty, rampant illiteracy, and systemic unemployment. This paradox is no accident; it is by design. Antonio Gramsci’s idea of passive revolution is illuminating here. Gramsci noted how dominant classes use state apparatuses to integrate resistance into the system without altering its exploitative foundations. In Balochistan, token development projects and cosmetic representation serve as cover for a deeper colonization. What the state offers is not empowerment but pacification. Even the façade of electoral politics is undermined. Dr. Malik lamented that extensions to mineral contracts were being signed without legitimate public oversight, deepening the alienation of the Baloch people. This political exclusion is a deliberate strategy to delegitimize regional autonomy and enforce submission to centralized authority.

Dispossession Disguised as Security

The Talaar check post, which Dr. Malik demanded be dismantled, is not merely a security installation—it is a symbol of domination. It represents the architecture of occupation: a structure that surveils, intimidates, and fragments the community it purports to protect. Similar outposts dot the Baloch landscape like scars, each a reminder that the state sees its own citizens as insurgents in need of subjugation. Frantz Fanon, in The Wretched of the Earth, described colonial regimes that deploy violence not just to suppress rebellion but to imprint inferiority onto the colonized psyche. The Pakistan Army’s presence in Balochistan functions the same way. It tells the Baloch they do not own their land, their bodies, or their future.

Dr. Malik’s demands are not radical—they are constitutional. He asks for the release of political workers, simplification of trade rules, and the withdrawal of draconian laws. Yet in the eyes of the establishment, such calls are tantamount to sedition. This reaction reveals the state’s true nature: one that cannot accommodate dissent because its foundations are built on domination, not dialogue. It views Baloch identity not as a part of the national mosaic, but as a threat to its imposed uniformity. The German philosopher Jürgen Habermas emphasized the importance of “communicative rationality”—the idea that democratic societies should resolve conflicts through open, inclusive dialogue. The Pakistani state, instead, speaks in the language of bullets, barbed wire, and black sites. It confuses coercion with cohesion and believes silence equals stability.

A Dark Mirror for the World

The world must not avert its eyes. What is happening in Balochistan is not an internal affair—it is a human rights catastrophe that demands international scrutiny. The United Nations, the European Union, and rights organizations must pressure Pakistan to end its military campaign of terror. Balochistan is the mirror in which we see the true face of the Pakistani establishment: brutal, extractive, and unapologetically authoritarian. Until the military returns to the barracks, until the disappeared are returned to their families, and until the people of Balochistan control their own destiny, there will be no peace. To paraphrase the philosopher Rousseau: A people once forced to be silent will eventually speak with fire. Balochistan is the mirror in which we see the true face of the Pakistani establishment: brutal, extractive, and unapologetically authoritarian. Until the military returns to the barracks, until the disappeared are returned to their families, and until the people of Balochistan control their own destiny, there will be no peace. Pakistan has, willy-nilly, disappeared the people of Balochistan—fathers, mothers, brothers, daughters—without remorse or accountability. This machinery of oppression has shattered countless lives and torn apart the social fabric of a proud and historic people. The silence of the disappeared echoes louder than any protest; it reverberates through every Baloch household and haunts every mother who waits at her doorstep. These disappearances, and the suffering they bring, are not merely crimes—they are the slow incineration of hope. If this trajectory of state violence and contempt continues, it will not just destabilize Balochistan but engulf any prospect of peace. A state that thrives on the pain of its peripheries cannot claim unity; it can only demand obedience, and such obedience always comes at the cost of human dignity. It is no longer a question of politics—it is a question of survival. And the world must choose: to remain complicit in silence or to stand with a people struggling to be seen, to be heard, and above all—to be free.

Lynched for Belief: The Systemic Persecution of Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan

On 18 April 2025, a 47-year-old car workshop owner was brutally killed with sticks and bricks as a mob of hundreds stormed his place of worship, while numerous others had to be rescued by police in the city of Karachi, Pakistan. This horrific incident, which should provoke national outrage and deep sorrow, failed to elicit a strong response from civil society or a decisive intervention from the state. The reason lies in the fact that both the victim and the worship site belonged to the Ahmadi Muslim minority— a community that routinely faces violent persecution, systemic political and bureaucratic discrimination, and institutionalised oppression within Pakistan.

Each year, reports by governmental bodies, international human rights organisations, and community advocates document the persistent assaults on Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan by Islamist factions or radicalised mobs, with no meaningful intervention by the state. In some instances, the state appears overtly complicit in such actions—for example, in March of this year, a 120-year-old Ahmadi place of worship was demolished by police following pressure and complaints from Islamist groups claiming the structure resembled a mosque. To offer a glimpse into the societal persecution faced by this community: Ahmadi Muslim graves are frequently defiled and vandalised, while individuals endure constant harassment, targeted assassinations, mob violence, unofficial commercial boycotts, employment discrimination, and abuse on digital platforms. This is compounded by the alarming frequency of blasphemy accusations levelled against Ahmadi Muslims, for reasons such as possessing the Quran, inscribing Prophet Muhammad’s name on a wedding invitation, or engaging in prayer using language or gestures considered distinctly Islamic.

While opposition to the Ahmadiyya community has existed since its inception in the late 19th century by Mirza Ghulam Ahmad of Qadian in Punjab, the most critical blow to Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan was delivered through the 1974 constitutional amendment, which officially declared them non-Muslims. Despite sharing the majority of beliefs and practices with mainstream Muslims, Ahmadis diverge in their recognition of Mirza Ahmad as the Mahdi or Messiah, a belief that conflicts with the Islamic doctrine of Khatam-e-Nubuwwat (the finality of Prophet Muhammad). Subsequently, in 1984, General Zia-ul-Haq issued an ordinance prohibiting Ahmadi Muslims from performing Islamic rites or displaying religious symbols associated with Islam, such as erecting domes or minarets on their places of worship. In 1985, he also introduced segregated voter lists based on religious identity, effectively requiring Ahmadi Muslims to renounce their beliefs in order to vote. This marked the onset of a formalised system of legal disenfranchisement and persecution, which continues today. Although the practice of separate electoral rolls was ended in 2002, Ahmadi Muslims were excluded from this reform. The requirement to repudiate their faith has since permeated various aspects of governance, barring them from essential state services such as obtaining a passport. Notably, in October 2022, Punjab’s provincial government mandated the inclusion of a declaration affirming the finality of Prophet Muhammad within the marriage registration form.

The emergence of the far-right Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP), the group whose supporters were involved in the recent attack and killing of an Ahmadi Muslim man in Karachi, has significantly deepened the climate of fear and marginalisation experienced by the community.

The TLP rose to national attention in 2017 when it staged a three-week blockade of a major highway in Islamabad to protest a minor amendment to the electoral oath, which the group perceived as a dilution of the state’s stance against Ahmadi Muslims. The government ultimately conceded to their demand by reinstating the original wording, resulting in the resignation of Law Minister Zahid Hamid. Such is the influence of far-right sentiment that, in 2018, the Imran Khan-led PTI government succumbed to pressure from extremist groups and requested that Princeton professor Atif Mian resign from his role as Economic Adviser solely on account of his Ahmadi Muslim identity.

While the systemic exclusion of Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan was initiated and continues to be upheld by the state, the deep-seated societal animosity it has fostered has now grown beyond the state’s control. Decades of intentional state policy targeting the community for political gain have inflicted lasting damage on the nation, fostering a society deeply afflicted by radicalism, self-destructive impulses, and toxic intolerance. According to data compiled by the Ahmadiyya community, at least 264 Ahmadi Muslims were killed in targeted attacks, mob violence, and bombings between 1984 and 2018. It is important to note that even Pakistan’s first and only Nobel Laureate, Abdus Salam, was not spared from the effects of this pervasive hostility—his gravestone was defaced to erase the word ‘Muslim’ due to his Ahmadi Muslim identity.

Repression as Governance: Pakistan’s Violent Grip Over Balochistan

When Pakistan experienced the hijacking of the Jaffar Express by Baloch insurgents last month, it triggered a renewed wave of public concern regarding the likely methods of state retaliation. These fears were neither new nor unjustified; instead, they were firmly grounded in decades of securitised repression in the region, where the Pakistani state has historically operated as a regime of punitive authoritarianism, characterised by systemic violence, extrajudicial reprisals, and the delegitimisation of ethno-nationalist opposition.

What proved particularly troubling, however, was the state’s broadening punitive reach beyond alleged insurgent actors, extending into civil society and non-combatant political opposition. The arrest of Dr. Mahrang Baloch, along with several members of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), marked a decisive shift towards the criminalisation of rights advocacy and calls for institutional accountability. These actions have refocused attention on the ongoing decline of human rights protections in Balochistan, highlighting the persistent impunity with which the Pakistan Army operates, subjecting the region’s marginalised communities to systemic dispossession and militarised governance.

In the aftermath of the Jaffar Express incident, which highlighted a significant intelligence failure within the Pakistan Army-led security apparatus, the state, adhering to its entrenched model of militarised governance in Balochistan, launched a series of ostensibly “counter-insurgency operations” across the province. In keeping with its historical approach to coercive statecraft, these operations were accompanied by widespread reports of staged “encounters,” a term now widely understood as a euphemism for extrajudicial executions, during which dozens of Baloch men were summarily killed.

The region has long been a site of thousands of cases of enforced disappearances, where Baloch men have been abducted by security forces, many of whom have either been extrajudicially executed or remain missing to this day. For example, the Voice for Missing Baloch Persons (VMBP) has documented over 7,000 cases of enforced disappearances in the province since 2004. Even reports from the Pakistani government, such as the Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances (COIED), have recorded over 2,700 such cases in the region. Pakistani forces have been accused of executing many of these individuals, with the recovery of mutilated bodies across the province being a recurring phenomenon. For instance, local news reports indicate that between April 5th and 6th alone—within a span of just 48 hours—twelve bodies of recently disappeared Baloch individuals were recovered from various areas of the province, including Barkhan, Khuzdar, Mashkay, and Buleda. These findings have been unequivocally condemned as extrajudicial killings, further solidifying long-standing allegations about the secretive and violent methods employed by Pakistan’s security establishment in its control of Balochistan.

Alongside these lethal operations, the state intensified its crackdown on civil society actors, particularly human rights organisations, which it has controversially sought to equate with insurgent networks. This strategic obfuscation and conflation serve a dual purpose: they delegitimise grassroots human rights efforts while simultaneously justifying state-sanctioned violence as a necessary counter-insurgency measure to the wider Pakistani public, especially in other provinces. Organisations such as the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), led by Dr. Mahrang Baloch, have consistently challenged the state’s fabricated narratives, exposed the performative nature of alleged “encounters,” and highlighted the ongoing continuity of repression that has characterised Pakistan’s approach to the region for decades. It is within this broader context of securitised silencing and pervasive violence that the recent arrests of rights defenders must be critically understood—not as isolated instances of executive overreach, but as integral components of a deeply entrenched regime of disciplinary statecraft aimed at eradicating dissent and reinforcing an exclusionary national identity.

It is important to note that Dr. Mahrang Baloch was arrested by the Pakistani state on March 22 while she was leading a peaceful sit-in protest against the extrajudicial killing of three Baloch men by state police forces the day before. The alleged crime of these three young men was their mere participation in anti-government protests condemning the unlawful detention of several Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC) members, including prominent activists Bebarg Zehri and Saeeda Baloch, who had been arrested by Pakistani forces on March 20 and March 21, respectively.

Nonetheless, the broader implications of these punitive actions seem to be not only significant but also structurally unsettling. They expose the Pakistani state’s entrenched tendency to use coercive violence as part of its colonial approach to Balochistan, where any demands for justice and democratic participation are not simply suppressed but actively framed as existential threats to state sovereignty. This is accomplished by labelling political dissent as “sedition” and systematically eroding any counter-narrative that challenges the state’s militarised orthodoxy.

Consequently, the current situation in Balochistan can no longer be simplified as a case of developmental neglect or peripheral instability. It must instead be understood as a manifestation of a deliberate and ongoing dismantling of civic space, the judicial denial of ethnic rights, and the institutionalisation of structural violence under the ideological guise of counterterrorism. What is unfolding in Balochistan seems to be a clear example of necropolitical governance, where the very existence of Baloch bodies—whether mobilised, defiant, or passively situated—becomes a source of intense anxiety for the state and, consequently, a target for its systemic violence.

Thus, these actions represent a deliberate attempt to delegitimise, criminalise, and ultimately eliminate dissenting discourse, particularly those expressions that challenge the entrenched impunity of military operations or call for the institutionalisation of structural accountability within the federal framework. By employing such repressive measures, the Pakistani state appears determined to systematically close off what remains of civil and political space that could otherwise enable critique, deliberation, or resistance to its militarised governance in Balochistan.

This strategic repression goes beyond mere authoritarian excess; it embodies a malicious form of statecraft aimed at provoking the radicalisation of the last remaining peaceful political dissent, thereby making armed insurgency the only viable form of opposition. This trajectory is neither incidental nor accidental but is instead intentionally cultivated to squeeze non-violent political channels, thereby creating a self-fulfilling narrative of insurgency that could serve to legitimise the state’s repressive apparatus.

In effect, this strategy is perceived as a means to absolve the state from the need to justify its actions within constitutional or democratic frameworks, if such frameworks exist at all, thereby enabling the entrenchment of its colonial control over Balochistan through the normalisation of extreme violence. As repression in Balochistan becomes increasingly institutionalised, the international community must recognise the epistemic violence being carried out under the guise of state security and advocate for accountability within the country, including an immediate halt to this unchecked violence.

Is the Pakistan Army crumbling?

The Pakistan Army, once a formidable force that determined the nation’s destiny with authority, is now deteriorating under the burden of corruption, incompetence, and internal conflict. General Asim Munir, who currently leads the institution, has steered it towards a state of disgrace, turning what was once Pakistan’s most powerful entity into a divided, despised, and faltering power structure. The divisions are deepening, the foundations are weakening, and Munir’s leadership appears to be on the brink of collapse.

In an unprecedented display of defiance, junior officers have turned against their own commander, presenting a letter that reads more like an ultimatum than a request. Colonels, majors, captains, and soldiers have come together in their outrage, demanding that Munir resign immediately or face repercussions that could destabilize the military. Their language is harsh and resolute. “This is your 1971, General,” the letter states, referencing the humiliating defeat that led to the creation of Bangladesh. The officers accuse Munir of tarnishing the army’s legacy, using its power against the very citizens it was meant to protect, and employing the military as a blunt tool to suppress political adversaries and undermine democracy.

What was once the ultimate arbiter of Pakistan’s future has now become an institution mired in disgrace. Munir has transformed GHQ into a personal fiefdom, where military power is used not against external threats but against journalists, students, activists, and political opponents. The ousting of Imran Khan and the blatant manipulation of the February 8, 2024, elections have only reinforced what the world had already anticipated: the Pakistan Army is no longer a defender of national security; it has become an instrument of repression, a junta posing as a military, and a remnant of dictatorship desperately clinging to power.

Public anger has reached a critical level. The military, once held in high esteem, is now the subject of overt resistance. Soldiers, once respected, are now pelted with stones by children in the streets. Military convoys, once feared, are now greeted with mockery and abuse. Munir’s leadership has tarnished the army’s credibility, transforming it from the nation’s protector into its most reviled oppressor. The bitterness is profound, and the resentment simmers like an unhealed wound.

As the country descends further into economic turmoil, Munir and his generals continue to prosper. The army’s unchecked dominance over business empires, land acquisitions, and financial institutions has enabled them to accumulate vast wealth while the average Pakistani faces starvation. Palatial homes rise behind fortified barriers while entire families beg for food on the streets. The letter from the rebellious officers is filled with disdain, accusing Munir of being little more than a petty tyrant who has extended his tenure to 2027 not out of obligation but driven by insatiable greed. “The economy is a decaying corpse, and yet you parade in GHQ like a pathetic dictator while we starve,” the letter asserts. The anger now extends beyond the streets—it is rising within the ranks, signaling the onset of a revolt unlike anything the military has ever experienced.

Munir’s failures extend beyond politics and economics. His incompetence has rendered the army ineffective on the battlefield, where insurgents now openly mock its weakness. The hijacking of the Jaffar Express by the Balochistan Liberation Army (BLA) was a moment of profound humiliation—a flagrant demonstration of how Pakistan’s adversaries no longer fear its military. Armed militants took control of an entire train, held hostages, and departed unscathed. The army’s response? Empty rhetoric and futile threats. The officers’ letter is laden with disdain: “The BLA’s taunts resonate more strongly than your hollow ISPR press releases, and the soldiers who once stood tall now hang their heads in shame.”

This is not merely a crisis of leadership; it is a moment of existential reckoning. The officers who have spoken out are not issuing idle threats—they are signaling the presence of a force ready to act. Should Munir refuse to resign, the army itself may soon turn against him. A coup from within is no longer an unimaginable scenario. The chain of command is weakening, discipline is deteriorating, and the storm is on the horizon. Whispers are circulating in the barracks, unrest is brewing among the ranks, and a spirit of defiance is spreading among those who once unquestioningly obeyed orders.

Pakistan stands on the brink of turmoil. The army’s long-unquestioned dominance, once tolerated by the populace, is now encountering resistance from within its own ranks. Munir’s grip on power is loosening, his credibility is in ruins, and his prospects are grim. Will he heed the warnings and step down, or will his obstinate arrogance drag both the army and Pakistan into a profound internal crisis?

The world is closely watching. Both Pakistan’s allies and adversaries are observing the gradual disintegration of a military once regarded as untouchable. The United States, China, and Saudi Arabia—countries that once viewed Pakistan’s army as a vital stabilizing force—are now cautious of its instability. A divided and rebellious military spells disaster for the region, where existing instability has already provided fertile ground for extremism and disorder. Should the army persist along its current trajectory, Pakistan risks becoming a failed state, a theater for proxy wars, and a nation devoid of sovereignty, its future shaped by foreign powers.

One fact is undeniable: the era of the Pakistan Army’s unquestioned dominance is coming to an end. The wave of rebellion is growing, and Munir’s name is destined to be recorded not in triumph, but among Pakistan’s greatest failures. The only path forward for Pakistan is to restore power to its rightful source—the people. For far too long, the army has usurped the nation’s future, subverting democracy and ruling through force and intimidation. The time has come to break this military stranglehold. Pakistan must rise, reclaim its sovereignty, and bring an end to the army’s tyranny once and for all.