New Delhi, Nov 25 Pakistan’s latest constitutional drama has exposed, yet again, the hollowness of its so-called democracy. But the tragedy this time didn’t unfold with tanks rolling down Constitution Avenue or generals announcing martial law on primetime television.
The country has witnessed something even more disturbing: a slow, polished, paperwork-driven coup carefully designed to look respectable. Pakistan’s parliament, already known for its obedience to the military, has quietly fortified the uniformed institution that has dominated the country since 1958.
At the centre of this political theatre is General Asim Munir, elevated to a newly created super-post that sits above every elected institution, and in practice, above the Constitution itself. What has happened is not surprising to anyone familiar with Pakistan’s power structure. The Army has never truly relinquished control; it has only changed its methods. But Munir’s takeover is notable for how meticulously it has been wrapped in constitutional language. He enjoys a position with sweeping authority over all branches of the armed forces, legal immunity, and insulation from judicial review.
For a country already ranked 117 out of 140 in the World Justice Project’s Rule of Law Index and described by Transparency International as having “deep structural corruption,” this formalisation of military supremacy is nothing short of catastrophic.
Munir did not need to send soldiers to raid government buildings. He didn’t even need a dramatic televised coup. Instead, he relied on a parliament weakened by internal divisions and terrified of the Army’s retaliation.
Pakistan’s opposition remains fragmented, with party leaders cycling between prison and exile depending on the mood of the generals. The ruling coalition, desperate for military blessing, pushed through amendments at lightning speed—amendments that create a centralised military command and strip courts of any real oversight over the top brass. This is not a correction. It is a coronation.
Munir himself is hardly a figure of national triumph. His record is marred by failure and controversy. During the May 2023 border flare-up with India, reports from within Pakistan’s own security circles criticised his assessments as “overconfident and strategically weak.”
Instead of accountability, he was promoted—first to Army Chief and now to this constitutionally fortified post. A general who struggled in a limited confrontation is now positioned above the civilians he was supposed to protect. This isn’t just ironic; it is dangerous.
Pakistan’s pattern is painfully predictable. Whenever its democracy shows signs of independence, the military intervenes—openly in 1958, 1977, and 1999, or covertly through engineered court decisions, political intimidation, and backroom deals in the 2000s and 2010s. Now the Army has discovered an even more sophisticated strategy: legislate the coup rather than announce it. The consequences are far-reaching.
First, the judiciary has been effectively declawed. Pakistan’s courts have historically wavered between complicity and resistance, sometimes validating coups (as in the 1958 “Doctrine of Necessity”) and sometimes pushing back against military excess. But with new legal shields protecting the top military office, the courts can do little more than observe silently. Any attempt to challenge military decisions becomes a constitutional dead end.
Civil society doesn’t fare better. Lawyers, journalists, and students have already faced crackdowns over the years, from the 2017 forced disappearances of reporters to the arrests of activists during the 2022–23 political turmoil.
According to Human Rights Watch, enforced disappearances in Pakistan number in the “thousands,” many linked to the military’s intelligence agencies—agencies Munir himself once headed.
Now, empowered with legal endorsement, the military can operate with even greater impunity, creating an atmosphere of fear that suffocates dissent. A society where criticising the Army is treated like a crime cannot grow intellectually or politically. It can only stagnate.
Pakistanis celebrating this constitutional shift—arguing that strong military control will stabilise the country—are ignoring the last 75 years of evidence. Each era of military dominance has ended with economic mismanagement, international isolation, and political collapse.
During Ayub Khan’s rule, growth was accompanied by massive inequality that sparked unrest. Under Zia-ul-Haq, extremism and sectarian violence flourished. Musharraf’s era began with promises of liberal reform but ended with institutional decay and the 2007 crisis. Munir’s turn will be no different.
A military that has never succeeded in creating long-term stability now has even fewer constraints. International consequences are inevitable. Pakistan’s economy is already devastated - inflation hovered around 24 per cent in 2023, external debt crossed $125 billion, and the country begged the IMF for yet another bailout to avoid default. Investors will not pour money into a state where real power lies with generals immune from accountability.
Global lenders rarely trust governments overshadowed by the military, especially when the military has a history of meddling in economic deals for its own benefit.
Pakistan’s powerful military conglomerate, the Fauji Foundation, already controls billions in commercial assets—from cement to fertilisers to food—making it one of the few armies in the world that behaves as a corporate empire. The veneer of legality will not reassure anyone. Aid will come with harsher conditions. Trade partners will hesitate.
Diplomatic pressure will grow. And, as always, the burden will fall not on the generals living in Rawalpindi’s protected compounds but on ordinary Pakistanis struggling to survive.
For India, this is not a comforting development. A Pakistan run more tightly by the Army is a Pakistan that makes decisions through a single institutional lens—reactionary, paranoid, and narrow. Civilian leaders tend to favour negotiation and crisis management; military leaders tend to favour escalation and strategic signalling. An India looking for a stable neighbour will instead face a Pakistan that grows more insular, more insecure, and more unpredictable.
What makes this constitutional coup particularly tragic is that Pakistan had glimpses—small, fragile ones—of democratic revival in the past. Civilian governments occasionally wrestled back authority. Grassroots movements pushed for accountability. Courts sometimes asserted independence. But Munir’s elevation is designed to extinguish those possibilities.
Once constitutionalised, military supremacy becomes far harder to challenge. Munir may think he has secured his legacy by rewriting the rules in his favour, but history has not been kind to Pakistan’s generals. From Ayub’s humiliating resignation to Yahya’s disgrace after 1971, to Musharraf living in exile, Pakistan’s military rulers eventually fell, only after inflicting long-term damage on the nation. This chapter will likely follow the same script.
Ultimately, Pakistan must confront a painful truth: the Army is not the guardian of the state; it is the weight dragging it down. A country where elections change faces but not power structures is not a democracy. A country where criticism of the uniform is treated as treason cannot claim to be free. And a country where one general can legally place himself above the political system cannot pretend to function like a modern nation.
Pakistan may have legalised this coup, but legality does not equal legitimacy. What has happened is an indictment of the entire political order—a system that allows one man in uniform, backed by an institution addicted to power, to override the will of millions.
History will judge Asim Munir and the Pakistan Army harshly. But the people of Pakistan, already battered by poverty, misrule, and repression, are the ones who will pay the price.
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