‘Nations are born in the hearts of poets; they prosper and die in the hands of politicians’ — Allama Iqbal, the highly influential intellectual figure in South Asian and Pakistani history.
IN a moment that lays bare the contradictions at the heart of Pakistan’s statehood, the detention of former prime minister Imran Khan is not merely a legal episode — it is a political reckoning. What is unfolding is not new; it is the latest chapter in a long history where democracy in Pakistan flickers uncertainly, repeatedly eclipsed by the shadow of military power.
From its very inception in 1947, Pakistan has struggled to define the balance between civilian authority and military dominance. Unlike many postcolonial states, Pakistan did not evolve into a stable constitutional democracy. Instead, its political trajectory has been marked by cycles of fragile civilian rule interrupted by direct or indirect military control.
The early death of Muhammad Ali Jinnah left a vacuum that institutions failed to fill. By 1958, the first military coup led by Ayub Khan set the template: the army would not merely defend the nation — it would define it. Subsequent interventions by Gen Zia-ul-Haq and Pervez Musharraf reinforced a pattern in which civilian governments were tolerated only so long as they did not challenge the military’s supremacy.
This is the deeper context in which Imran Khan’s rise and fall must be understood. His ascent to power in 2018 was widely seen as facilitated, if not engineered, by the military establishment. His subsequent fallout with that same establishment reflects a recurring truth in Pakistan’s politics: leaders who fall out of favour with the military rarely survive politically unscathed.
The legal cases against Imran Khan — ranging from corruption allegations in the Toshakhana (Department or Repository) case to charges under anti-terror laws — raise serious questions about prosecutorial intent and due process. These charges may have a formal legal basis, but their timing, multiplicity, and intensity suggest something more than routine accountability. Under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, to which Pakistan is a party, the right to a fair and public hearing, the presumption of innocence, and access to legal counsel and family are not optional guarantees. They are binding obligations.
Reports that Imran Khan has been held in conditions of isolation, with restricted access to family members and legal counsel, raise troubling concerns under these standards. Denial of family visits is not a procedural irregularity; it moves toward inhuman and degrading treatment when prolonged. The United Nations Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners make clear that detainees must be treated with dignity, and that contact with family is a fundamental right. When isolation becomes a tool of pressure, it ceases to be lawful detention and resembles coercion.
At the centre of this crisis stands the Pakistani military, led by Field Marshal Asim Munir. The question is no longer whether the military influences politics—it demonstrably does. The real question is whether it can be subjected to constitutional accountability. In functioning democracies, the military is subordinate to civilian authority. In Pakistan, that hierarchy has too often been reversed, with the army acting not only as a security institution but as a political arbiter and, at times, an unelected sovereign.
If the detention of Imran Khan is politically motivated — and there is increasing reason to believe that it is — then responsibility cannot be confined to civilian institutions alone. Power must be matched with accountability. To shield figures such as Asim Munir from scrutiny is to accept a divided state, where law binds the weak but exempts the powerful. A credible democratic future for Pakistan depends on dismantling this imbalance and placing all institutions firmly within the reach of the constitution.
The crisis extends beyond one individual to the very structure of democratic participation. A political system cannot claim legitimacy if its most popular leader is imprisoned under contested circumstances while his party is constrained or excluded. The right to contest elections is not a privilege granted by the state; it is a fundamental democratic guarantee. International standards affirm that citizens must be free to participate in public life through representatives of their choosing. When that choice is narrowed through legal or administrative pressure, democracy itself is diminished.
There is a tendency to view Pakistan’s predicament as exceptional, but such a view is misleading. Across the border in India, laws such as the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act have been used to detain individuals for extended periods without trial, raising similar concerns about the weaponisation of law. This parallel does not absolve Pakistan; rather, it underscores a regional crisis in which democratic forms coexist uneasily with authoritarian practices.
Reports that Imran Khan is unwell and held in restrictive conditions add urgency to an already grave situation. The treatment of detainees is not a technical matter—it is a moral test. To deny adequate access to family, to prolong isolation, and to delay transparent proceedings is to erode the line between justice and punishment. Those who design and enforce such measures cannot claim neutrality if those measures violate both domestic and international standards.
Pakistan now stands at a decisive moment. It can continue along a path of managed democracy, where elections are shaped, dissent is contained, and accountability is selective. Or it can undertake the more difficult task of restoring constitutional supremacy, ensuring judicial independence, and subjecting all centres of power to the rule of law. This requires not gestures, but structural change—an end to opaque legal processes, a commitment to open trials, and an unequivocal guarantee that political participation will not be curtailed by coercion.
This is not about exonerating Imran Khan. It is about ensuring that if he is to be judged, he is judged fairly, transparently, and within the bounds of law. Justice cannot be contingent on political convenience.
The streets of Pakistan are not merely protesting a detention; they are challenging a system that has long blurred the line between authority and impunity. They are asking whether the law will remain subordinate to power, or whether power will finally submit to the law.
If Pakistan fails this test, the consequences will extend far beyond one man. They will deepen a crisis of legitimacy that has shadowed the country since its founding. Justice cannot be selective. Democracy cannot be conditional. And no institution — not even the military can remain beyond accountability without eroding the state itself.
The demand, in the end, is stark and uncompromising: either the law governs all, or it governs none.
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Ranjan Solomon is a writer, researcher and activist based in Goa. He has worked in social movements since he was 19 years of age. The views expressed here are the author’s own and Clarion India does not necessarily share or subscribe to them. He can be contacted at ranjan.solomon@gmail.com
