The increasing number of voluntary surrenders suggests that more people now see returning as a viable option.

For anyone who has spent time studying political violence, India’s experience with Left-Wing Extremism feels different from the usual story. It is not just about an insurgency being pushed back by force. Something slower, less visible, but ultimately more important seems to be taking place.

Over the years, I have followed armed movements in different parts of the world—from Latin America to parts of Europe—and what is happening in India today stands out because it challenges a long-held assumption: that insurgencies are defeated mainly through military pressure.

A recent article by Zahack Tanvir in Times of Israel, “Left-Wing Terrorism No More? India’s Strategy from Force to Trust,” captures this shift quite well. As he writes, the real question now is not simply whether Maoist violence can be controlled, but whether “the conditions that allowed it to thrive are finally being addressed.”

That distinction matters. Across countries and contexts, insurgencies tend to survive not because of ideology alone, but because they grow in places where the state is absent, where poverty is entrenched, and where people feel they have been left behind.

When belief begins to fade

The Maoist movement in India, which traces its roots back to the Naxalbari uprising in 1967, followed a pattern we have seen elsewhere. It began in regions marked by inequality and neglect, drawing strength from local frustrations. For a time, that gave it a certain legitimacy in the eyes of some communities.

But movements like these rarely stay the same. Over time, they harden. Leadership becomes distant, ideas become rigid, and maintaining control often starts to rely more on pressure than persuasion. What we seem to be witnessing in India today is what I would describe, less academically, as a kind of exhaustion within the movement.

The growing number of surrenders is telling. More than 100 cadres lay down arms in a single day, as happened in Bijapur. It suggests more than fear of security forces. It points to something deeper—a quiet loss of faith.

Researchers often note that insurgencies don’t just end on the battlefield. They unravel when people stop believing in the cause. Tanvir makes this point directly: such movements “fade when people stop believing in them.” We have seen similar patterns in places like Northern Ireland and Nepal, where the psychological shift came before any formal end.

The slow return of the state

At the same time, the Indian state has not stood still. Security operations have continued, and the loss of key Maoist leaders in 2025 clearly disrupted the group’s structure. But what is more interesting is what has been happening beyond those operations.

In many of these regions, the state is becoming visible again in ways that matter to everyday life. Roads are being built where there were none. Mobile connectivity is reaching areas that were once cut off. Police stations are not just present, but fortified and functioning.

These changes may sound technical, but they reshape the environment in which an insurgency operates. Areas that were once isolated—where armed groups could move, recruit, and control information—are becoming harder to dominate.

There is also a quieter contest taking place: a battle over who represents the people. Maoist groups long positioned themselves as protectors in places where the state was missing. But as governance slowly returns, that claim becomes harder to sustain. When people can access services, communicate freely, and see institutions working, the appeal of parallel authority weakens.

Some of the steps taken by authorities carry a symbolic weight as well. Giving surrendered cadres copies of the Constitution may seem like a small gesture, but it signals something important—that the relationship with the state is meant to be based on rights, not just control.

Beyond surrender: rebuilding trust

What stands out most to me, however, is how surrenders are being treated. In many parts of the world, former insurgents face suspicion and limited opportunities, which can push them back toward violence. India appears to be trying a different approach.

Rehabilitation policies in Indian states like Chhattisgarh offer financial assistance, housing, land, and training. These are not entirely new tools, but the intent behind them feels different. The focus is less on showcasing victory and more on creating a path back into society.

This is where trust becomes central. In many of these regions, the absence of the state created space for insurgents to step in. Over time, that absence fed the conflict itself. Reversing that cycle requires patience. It is not something that can be achieved through security operations alone.

There are signs, however, that this process has begun. Community engagement initiatives, more sensitive policing, and efforts to bring officials and locals into direct conversation are gradually changing perceptions. It is not dramatic, and it is certainly not uniform, but it is noticeable.

The increasing number of voluntary surrenders suggests that more people now see returning as a viable option. That, in itself, is a significant shift. Trust is not built overnight, but once it begins to take hold, it can reshape the dynamics of a conflict.

A quiet but important shift

The progress made so far will depend on whether governance continues to improve and whether trust is sustained. Daily life is beginning to look different. Roads are opening up, communication is improving, and state institutions are becoming part of the landscape again.

Perhaps the most telling change is in how success is being measured. As Tanvir notes, the focus is slowly shifting—from counting how many insurgents have been neutralized to how many have chosen to come back. That is not just a policy adjustment; it reflects a different way of thinking about conflict.

From a broader perspective, there is something to learn here. Insurgencies rooted in deep social and economic issues cannot be resolved by force alone. They require the state to be present in a meaningful way—to provide services, to listen, and to be seen as legitimate.

In the study of terrorism and political violence, we often look for decisive moments, clear endings. India’s experience suggests that change can be quieter than that. It can happen through small, cumulative shifts—people making different choices, communities slowly re-engaging, institutions rebuilding their place.

If this trajectory continues, India may offer an example that goes beyond its own borders: not of how to simply defeat an insurgency, but of how to make it lose its reason to exist.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

What is unfolding in Pakistan’s case is part of a wider global trend. The line between domestic and international repression is becoming harder to draw.

At this year’s session of the United Nations Human Rights Council in Geneva, Pakistan was once again in the spotlight. That, in itself, is not unusual. What felt different, however, was the tone of the conversations taking place in the corridors and side events. The focus was no longer limited to what happens inside Pakistan’s borders. Increasingly, attention is shifting to what follows critics when they leave.

As someone who studies terrorism and state responses to dissent, I found this shift telling. It points to a broader transformation in how power is exercised. Repression, in this sense, is no longer something contained within territory. It travels with people. It adapts to new environments. And it often slips through the cracks of legal systems that were never designed to deal with such subtle, dispersed pressure.

The discussions on March 27 at the Palais des Nations brought this into sharper focus. Activists and observers described a pattern that many in academic circles have been tracking for some time: the gradual erosion of the idea that exile offers safety. What used to be a clear boundary—inside versus outside—now feels increasingly blurred.

Disappearances at Home, Silence by Design

To make sense of what is happening abroad, it is necessary to begin within Pakistan. Enforced disappearances remain one of the most troubling and persistent issues, particularly in regions like Balochistan. For years, families have protested, sometimes in small groups and sometimes in large marches, asking a simple question: where are their loved ones?

Reports by Human Rights Watch and similar organisations have documented these cases in detail. The pattern is painfully familiar. Someone is taken, often after an encounter with security forces. Then comes silence. No official acknowledgement, no clear legal process, and very little hope of accountability.

What is often missed in policy discussions is the wider effect of this practice. Disappearances are not only about removing individuals; they are about sending a message. Fear spreads outward—from the missing person to their family, their community, and beyond.

In my own research on political violence, I have seen similar dynamics in very different contexts. The actors may differ, but the outcome is strikingly similar: silence, caution, and self-censorship.

The case of Idris Khattak brought rare international attention to this issue. Yet it also highlighted a deeper problem. For every case that reaches global headlines, many more remain invisible. This uneven attention creates what some scholars describe as a “hierarchy of suffering,” where only a handful of stories are heard while the rest fade into the background.

This is reinforced by a lack of transparency. Legal processes are often opaque, oversight is limited, and avenues for redress are weak. Over time, this creates a system where such practices can continue with little consequence. It is from within this environment that the outward projection of pressure begins.

When Pressure Crosses Borders

What became clear in Geneva is that these domestic patterns do not stop at the border. Instead, they seem to follow those who leave. Testimonies from activists, including Roshaan Khattak, painted a picture that is less dramatic than high-profile international incidents, but no less unsettling.

The methods described are rarely direct. There are no dramatic confrontations or visible operations. Instead, the pressure is quieter. Family members back home are approached or questioned. Administrative hurdles appear unexpectedly—delayed documents, unexplained complications. Messages arrive, sometimes anonymous, reminding individuals that distance does not necessarily mean safety.

Because these actions are informal and often deniable, they are extremely difficult to address. Host governments in Europe or North America may be aware that something is happening, but proving it is another matter entirely.

Freedom House has identified Pakistan as one of several countries engaged in what is now termed transnational repression. What stands out in this case is not spectacle, but persistence. There are no headline-grabbing incidents, but rather a steady, ongoing pressure that shapes behaviour over time.

From a research perspective, this challenges how we think about coercion. Traditional frameworks tend to separate what happens inside a country from what happens outside it. But here, the two are clearly connected. The same habits, the same tools—only adapted to a different setting.

A Contemporary Glimpse: Pressure Through Families

A recent case involving journalist Waqas, reported by DropSite, offers a glimpse into how this can unfold in practice. He alleged that police in Karachi harassed his parents after he reported on Punjab Chief Minister Maryam Nawaz and claims regarding her son Junaid Safdar’s use of a government Gulfstream jet for a private European trip. According to his account, his family was pressured into issuing a statement.

The Sharif family has firmly denied these allegations, calling them propaganda and stating that the aircraft in question was undergoing maintenance. As with many such cases, the details are contested and difficult to independently verify.

Yet what matters analytically is the pattern. The idea that pressure can be applied not directly to the individual, but to those close to them, is not new. It is, however, highly effective. People may be willing to take risks themselves, but far fewer are willing to see their families bear the consequences.

In studies of coercion and political violence, this kind of indirect pressure is well understood. It works precisely because it targets emotional and social ties that are almost impossible to shield. When used by states, it becomes even more complex, raising difficult questions about accountability and response.

A Policy Gap That Is Hard to Ignore

One of the clearest takeaways from the Geneva discussions is that policy has not kept pace with reality. There is growing documentation of abuses within Pakistan, and now increasing evidence of pressure beyond its borders. Yet responses remain fragmented.

There is still a tendency, particularly in Europe, to assume that offering asylum or residency is enough. In many cases, it is not. The forms of pressure described by activists do not fit neatly into existing legal categories. They rarely cross the threshold required for criminal prosecution, but they still have a real impact on people’s lives.

This creates a difficult situation for governments. How do you respond to something that is hard to prove, easy to deny, and yet clearly harmful? Existing counterterrorism frameworks offer little guidance, as they are largely focused on non-state actors. Diplomatic considerations, meanwhile, often limit how far states are willing to go in confronting such practices.

There are no easy solutions. Better documentation and coordination between countries would be a start. So too would legal frameworks that recognise and address transnational repression more directly. Without such steps, there is a risk that these practices will become more common, not less.

The Bigger Picture

What is unfolding in Pakistan’s case is part of a wider global trend. The line between domestic and international repression is becoming harder to draw. States are finding ways to extend their reach without resorting to overt or easily traceable actions.

For those of us who study political violence, this presents both a challenge and a warning. The tools of control are evolving, and our ways of understanding them need to evolve as well.

The discussions in Geneva made one thing clear: leaving a country no longer guarantees distance from its power structures. Repression, in its modern form, is more flexible than that. It moves through networks, relationships, and systems that span borders.

The question now is whether international institutions and national governments are prepared to deal with this shift. If not, they risk confronting a new reality with outdated assumptions—and that is rarely a winning strategy.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

A state that relies on disappearing its citizens, disenfranchising its minorities, and outsourcing its justice to religious mobs is a state in retreat from the modern world.

Amidst the complex landscape of South Asian geopolitics, Pakistan finds itself at a precarious crossroads where the traditional boundaries of law and statecraft are increasingly blurred by shadow policies and the instrumentalization of religious sentiment.

As of early 2026, the structural integrity of Pakistan’s social contract is under unprecedented strain. The state’s reliance on extrajudicial mechanisms to manage dissent, coupled with a legislative environment that increasingly narrows the definition of a “citizen,” has created a cycle of instability that transcends simple political friction.

To understand the current crisis, one must look at the three pillars of this systemic decay: the normalization of enforced disappearances, the institutionalization of religious repression, and the calculated weaponization of faith as a tool of political and social control.

The Shadow State and the Silence of the Disappeared

The phenomenon of enforced disappearances has evolved from a sporadic counter-insurgency tactic into a standardized instrument of state governance.

Throughout 2024 and 2025, reports from the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) and international monitors like Amnesty International have painted a grim picture of a “culture of impunity” that operates beyond the reach of the judiciary.

In Balochistan alone, the numbers are staggering; data from November 2025 indicated at least 106 new cases of enforced disappearances in a single month. This is not merely a regional security issue but a nationwide crisis of constitutionalism.

The human face of this crisis was most vividly captured by the Baloch Long March and the subsequent leadership of activists like Mahrang Baloch.

In late 2024, the targeting of women activists marked a disturbing escalation in the state’s crackdown. The “kill and dump” policy—a term now synonymous with the discovery of mutilated bodies of formerly disappeared persons—continues to terrorize marginalized communities.

Despite the 2024 United States Department of State Human Rights Report highlighting these “unlawful or arbitrary killings,” the domestic response has been largely performative.

The Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances (COIED), established to address these grievances, has been widely criticized by civil society as a “clearing house” for state narrative rather than a mechanism for justice.

Families of the missing, many of whom have spent over a decade in protest camps, find themselves trapped in a legal vacuum where the state neither acknowledges the detention nor produces the body, effectively erasing the individual from the legal record.

Institutionalized Repression: The Shrinking Space for Minorities

While the shadow state deals with political dissent, the legislative state has been busy refining the machinery of religious repression.

In Pakistan, faith is not a private matter of conscience but a public marker of legal status. For the Christian and Hindu communities, 2024 and 2025 have been years defined by a terrifying “weaponization of the womb.”

In Sindh, where over 90% of the Hindu population resides, human rights groups estimate that over 1,000 minority girls are forcibly converted and married off each year.

A harrowing case in June 2025 involved the abduction of four Hindu siblings—including a 14-year-old boy and a 16-year-old girl—from their home in Shahdadpur. Within 48 hours, forced videos were circulated online to “validate” their conversion, a tactic increasingly used to bypass legal scrutiny.

The Christian community remains similarly besieged. Following the horrific Jaranwala violence of August 2023, the subsequent years have offered little justice. As of late 2025, despite over 5,000 people being initially accused of burning 26 churches and 80 homes, convictions remain virtually non-existent.

Instead, the judicial system has seen cases like that of Shagufta Kiran, a Christian woman sentenced to death in September 2024 for allegedly sharing “blasphemous” material in a digital chat group.

This environment of selective justice ensures that while the mob remains free, the minority victim remains incarcerated or in hiding.

The Blasphemy Industrial Complex and the Weaponization of Faith

The most volatile element of this triad is the weaponization of faith through the country’s blasphemy laws. What were once intended as colonial-era protections against communal disharmony have been transformed into a “blasphemy industrial complex.”

In 2024, the HRCP estimated that over 750 people remained in prison on blasphemy charges, many of them languishing for years without trial.

However, the most dangerous development in 2025 has been the emergence of what activists call “blasphemy gangs”—organized groups that use social media to entrap individuals, particularly the youth, in fabricated religious controversies to extort money.

This weaponization has led to a total breakdown of the rule of law in instances of mob violence.

The lynching of a man in police custody in Quetta in September 2024, and the subsequent “encounter” killing of a doctor in Umerkot by police officers after he was accused of blasphemy, illustrate a terrifying trend: the state is no longer just failing to protect the accused; its agents are actively participating in the summary execution of those accused of religious offenses.

When the state itself adopts the logic of the mob, the judicial process becomes a mere formality. The Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP) and similar groups have successfully shifted the “Overton window” of Pakistani politics, making it political suicide for any mainstream leader to suggest reform of these laws.

The consequences of this three-fold crisis are clear. A state that relies on disappearing its citizens, disenfranchising its minorities, and outsourcing its justice to religious mobs is a state in retreat from the modern world.

The analytical consensus for 2026 suggests that unless there is a fundamental shift toward civilian supremacy and a genuine commitment to pluralism, the internal contradictions of the Pakistani state will continue to manifest in cycles of violence and international isolation.

The path forward requires more than just legislative reform; it requires a dismantling of the security paradigm that views its own citizens as the primary threat to national integrity.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

The Jordan and Oman visits illuminate India’s current Middle East strategy: avoid binary alignments, but expand leverage through dense networks

India’s engagement with the Middle East has never been romantic. It has been driven by hard necessities: energy security, remittances from millions of Indian workers in the Gulf, and the sea lanes that keep India’s economy breathing.

What has changed under Prime Minister Narendra Modi is not the rationale, but the scale of ambition. New Delhi no longer treats West Asia as a set of disconnected files—oil here, diaspora welfare there, geopolitics somewhere else. It increasingly views the region as a single strategic theatre, where India wants to be commercially indispensable, diplomatically flexible, and strategically present—without becoming militarily entangled in conflicts it cannot control.

Modi’s mid-December 2025 visits to Jordan (15–16 December) and Oman (17–18 December) fit squarely into that doctrine. Officially, the trip was framed by India’s Ministry of External Affairs as part of a broader tour, including Ethiopia, aimed at upgrading partnerships and widening sectoral cooperation.

But in West Asia, where symbolism often carries as much weight as signatures, the choreography in Amman and Muscat mattered as much as the communiqués. The message was clear: India is courting the region with culture, commerce, and calibrated restraint—rather than ideology or force.

Jordan: Symbolism with Strategic Purpose

Modi’s stop in Jordan stood out less for the volume of agreements than for the optics. Reports highlighted a deliberate and unusually personal gesture: Jordan’s Crown Prince personally drove Modi to the Jordan Museum. In Middle Eastern diplomacy, such gestures are never accidental. They signal intimacy, respect, and status.

The Crown Prince, Hussein bin Abdullah II—eldest son of King Abdullah II and Queen Rania—embodies Jordan’s Hashemite identity. This is not ceremonial trivia. The Hashemite monarchy traces its lineage to the family of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), a claim widely cited by authoritative historical and official sources, and one that underpins Jordan’s custodianship over Islamic and Christian holy sites in Jerusalem. That lineage remains central to Jordan’s political legitimacy and regional soft power.

For India, acknowledging this historical-religious dimension is strategically astute. Indian diplomacy in West Asia does not operate only through state institutions; it also navigates public sentiment, religious symbolism, and historical legitimacy. Engaging Jordan on its own civilizational terms allows New Delhi to deepen ties without forcing itself into the region’s rival camps.

Symbolism, however, was paired with substance. India and Jordan announced or finalized five concrete outcomes: cooperation in renewable energy; water resources management; a twinning agreement between Petra and Ellora; renewal of the Cultural Exchange Programme for 2025–2029; and a Letter of Intent on sharing population-scale digital solutions for governance and service delivery.

Individually, these may sound technocratic. Collectively, they reflect a clear Modi-era proposition to the Middle East: India is exporting capability, not just labour or demand. Digital public infrastructure, climate adaptation know-how, and heritage diplomacy resonate strongly in states like Jordan, where water scarcity, economic pressure, and identity politics intersect.

Jordan itself is a master balancer—between larger powers, regional crises, and domestic stability. India’s approach is therefore appealing precisely because it avoids offering a security umbrella it cannot or will not enforce. Instead, it offers politically safe, materially useful cooperation, while leader-level talks still addressed shared concerns such as regional stability and counter-terrorism.

Oman: Instruments, Architecture, and the Indian Ocean Logic

If Jordan showcased narrative and nuance, Oman showcased instruments.

In Muscat, Modi received a ceremonial welcome and engaged the Indian diaspora—a familiar but still potent tool of Indian diplomacy in the Gulf. Yet the real significance lay in economic and maritime architecture. Days before the visit, India’s cabinet approved a comprehensive India–Oman trade agreement, positioning the visit as a capstone rather than a courtesy call.

Indian official statements framed the deal as opening opportunities across textiles, food processing, automobiles, gems and jewellery, and renewables—exactly the sectors both countries highlight when they speak of diversification beyond hydrocarbons.

But the visit went further. Omani media detailed a broader package: a Joint Maritime Vision Document; cooperation on millet cultivation and agri-innovation; and four MoUs spanning maritime heritage and museums, scientific research and skills development, agriculture, and institutional ties between Oman’s Chamber of Commerce and Industry and the Confederation of Indian Industry.

At first glance, the mix looks eclectic. In reality, it maps cleanly onto the geography of the Indian Ocean. Oman sits astride sea routes and chokepoints vital to India’s energy imports and trade flows. A maritime vision is therefore not poetic language; it is a strategic statement that New Delhi sees Muscat as a partner in stabilising an increasingly stressed maritime space.

By bundling maritime cooperation with food systems, research, and heritage, India signals that it views the relationship not as transactional energy diplomacy, but as long-term resilience building.

What India Is Really Building—and Where the Risks Lie

Taken together, the Jordan and Oman visits illuminate India’s current Middle East strategy: avoid binary alignments, but expand leverage through dense networks—trade agreements, digital platforms, diaspora ties, cultural legitimacy, and maritime cooperation.

It is a pragmatic approach in a region where India must simultaneously engage mutually suspicious actors while safeguarding core interests: the welfare of its citizens abroad, the stability of energy supplies, and the security of shipping lanes.

The risk is not a lack of goodwill. The risk is volatility. Trade agreements can be signed, but investment decisions freeze when wars escalate. Cultural diplomacy can soften perceptions, but public opinion can swing sharply when Gaza dominates headlines. Even a carefully “non-entangling” posture can be tested if maritime disruptions intensify and partners expect sharper choices.

Still, December 2025 sends a clear signal. India is betting on breadth over bravado. In Amman, it leaned into Hashemite symbolism while anchoring cooperation in water, climate, and digital governance. In Muscat, it pursued trade and maritime frameworks that treat Oman not merely as a hydrocarbon supplier, but as a strategic node in the Indian Ocean economy.

It is not a flashy strategy. But in a region defined by overreach and miscalculation, India’s long game is built on something rarer: patience, optionality, and relevance.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

European states and institutions face a choice. They can treat Pakistan’s clampdown as a bilateral stability problem — useful to manage in quiet channels, rewarded with trade — or they can treat it as a human-rights crisis

When governments throttle the internet, ban critical channels and let critics vanish, the damage is both immediate and structural: lives are imperilled, civic life is narrowed and the civic record is rewritten.

Pakistan’s recent turn toward an intensifying digital chokehold — in which whole swathes of the population are periodically cut off from mobile broadband, social platforms are blocked, independent channels are pushed offline and journalists are intimidated or abducted — should be a clarion call for principled diplomacy from European capitals.

Instead, what we have seen is a studious silence that reveals uncomfortable truths about how human-rights rhetoric is traded against geopolitical convenience.

A digital straitjacket: shutdowns, laws and the shrinking public square

The pattern is now familiar. The Pakistani state has made internet restriction a recurrent instrument of political management: mobile internet are always suspended during protests, platforms including X are blocked, and legislative efforts are repeatedly sought to broaden surveillance and takedown powers.

Human Rights Watch documented the scale and human cost of this policy architecture: “Complete and partial internet shutdowns increased in 2024,” and, according to the same analysis, such shutdowns in 2023 affected almost 83 million Pakistanis, and caused economic loss of $237.6 million to Pakistan’s economy.

These are not abstract inconveniences; they are blanket deprivations of communication, information and the right to organise.

The legal scaffolding is equally troubling. Through amendments to the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA), the creation of new regulatory bodies with scant oversight, and press policies enforced by the Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority (PEMRA), the state has moved to legalise a broader architecture of digital control.

As Farieha Aziz, co-founder of the digital rights group Bolo Bhi, put it at the time those rules were debated: “Their goal appears to be complete control over information by the state, and for the state to have total hegemony over information. They want to turn the internet into another PTV.”

That sentence — blunt and deliberate — captures what is at stake when rules meant to combat harm are drafted without safeguards: the risk that regulation becomes a pretext for muzzling dissent.

The human toll: disappearances, abductions and the Wazir cases

Amnesty International’s reporting — covering enforced disappearances, arrests under cyber and public order laws, and violent repression of protest — is stark: by mid-year the Commission of Inquiry on Enforced Disappearances had received 197 missing-persons cases, while a civil society group recorded 2,332 cases of enforced disappearance across the year.

These figures describe a practice that is systematic rather than sporadic; enforced disappearance is not an afterthought but a method.

There are also emblematic, personal stories that render the policy visible. Independent journalists from Pakistan’s tribal areas have been abducted, reportedly beaten and coerced into silence.

Gohar Wazir, who was kidnapped and later spoke to Radio Mashaal, described his ordeal and its message: “They can kill me at any time,” he said, a sentence that deserves to be quoted in full because it is not theatrical — it is testimony from someone who survived enforced intimidation.

His account of being blindfolded, beaten and forced to record a pledge to stop critical reporting is emblematic of how non-digital and digital repression combine: silencing through physical violence, reinforced by legal and cyber instruments that amplify fear.

From Gwadar to Islamabad, the cumulative effect is the same: civic courage is punished, civic information is constrained and whole communities — whether PTM activists in Pashtun areas or organisers in Pakistan-occupied Kashmir — face both online and offline mechanisms of erasure.

Amnesty and other monitors document arrests, trials in secret military settings, restrictions on assemblies and punitive legal innovation that together hollow out democratic protections.

Pakistan’s 27th Amendment, media blackouts and the compression of debate

The current political moment crystallises the stakes. Proposals tied to the so-called 27th Constitutional Amendment — which, according to reporting, would touch the military command structure and reconfigure judicial and federal balances — have produced a fierce domestic dispute.

The controversy is not merely about institutional mechanics; it is about whether constitutional change will be debated openly or engineered in darkness.

Opposition parties, civil society groups and journalists have warned that rushed amendments and restricted debate undermine democratic legitimacy. The debate has unfolded alongside an environment in which discussion on sensitive topics is routinely narrowed, sometimes through formal PEMRA prohibitions and at other times by the less formal but equally effective practice of a media blackout enforced by informal pressure.

Reports documenting “invisible” blackouts — where channels simply stop covering certain events without public explanation or legal order — suggest a media landscape bent toward self-censorship by design or intimidation.

This is why the censorship of constitutional debate is particularly corrosive. Democracies must tolerate noise and ugly argument; constitutional change divorced from open deliberation and scrutiny is transformation without consent.

When the state uses both legal instruments and extralegal pressure to compress conversation, it does more than limit dissent: it steals democracy’s most basic asset, the right of citizens to contest the rules that govern them.

Europe’s choice: principled pressure or quiet accommodation?

European states and institutions face a choice. They can treat Pakistan’s clampdown as a bilateral stability problem — useful to manage in quiet channels, rewarded with trade, security cooperation and migration-management concessions — or they can treat it as a human-rights crisis requiring visible diplomatic pressure, support for independent media, protection for exiles and tangible consequences for rights-abusing policies.

The current European posture, characterised in too many quarters by hedged statements and low-volume concerns, amounts to tacit accommodation.

That reluctance is understandable in realpolitik terms: Pakistan is strategically situated, hosts vital migration routes and is a partner on counterterrorism. But principled diplomacy is not symbolic theatre; it is a strategic instrument. Democracies that trade away human rights credibility risk exporting impunity.

If European policy is to be more than transactional, it must stop treating digital repression as an internal administrative problem and begin to regard it as a human rights emergency: support for civil society legal defence funds, relocation pathways for threatened journalists, conditionality on technical assistance that might be repurposed for surveillance, and coordinated public naming of abusive practices.

European engagement must also listen to local experts. As digital rights researcher Seerat Khan warned in recent coverage, “These restrictions will only increase. They aren’t something that will go away with time.” That is not gloom; it is a practical forecast.

The trajectory is visible. If democracies fail to address it now, they will have forfeited the influence they most credibly possess: the ability to insist that the technologies, laws and processes of modern governance respect human rights.

A final word: repression seldom announces its endpoint. Legal restrictions harden, media spaces shrink, the line between digital policy and political policing blurs. The abductions, the shutdowns and the censorship of constitutional debate are not isolated incidents.

They are the parts of a coherent strategy that treats information as a security problem rather than a public good. European foreign policy — if it values democracy beyond slogans and press freedom beyond press releases — must stop treating such practices as acceptable collateral to geopolitical concerns.

If Europe remains silent, it is not only failing Pakistanis under threat; it is teaching other regimes that there is no cost to closing digital spaces and disappearing dissidents. And that lesson will be taught elsewhere, too.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Pakistan was the aggressor in Kashmir. Pakistan has sabotaged Afghan sovereignty. Pakistan continues to deny Pashtuns self-determination.

As a Swedish human rights defender, I refuse to sanitize history for anyone’s geopolitical comfort. What happened in Jammu & Kashmir in 1947 was not a “dispute.” It was an invasion driven by Pakistan’s militarized ideology — an ideology that saw Hindu and Sikh communities not as citizens entitled to safety, but as obstacles to a strategic land grab.

On October 22, 1947, Pakistan launched “Operation Gulmarg,” a state-engineered campaign disguised as a tribal uprising. Rifle-wielding Pashtun militias, backed by Pakistan Army regulars, entered Kashmir with one mandate: terror.

What followed was slaughter and sexual violence on a scale that would today meet the legal threshold for crimes against humanity. Historians Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre documented the massacre of thousands in Baramulla — entire Hindu-Sikh neighborhoods erased, women kidnapped, hospitals raided.

This brutality forced Maharaja Hari Singh to sign the Instrument of Accession to India. India’s intervention was a rescue mission because Pakistan’s troops and proxies made it genocidal. Former Pakistani Brigadier Sardar Shaukat Hayat Khan later admitted, “We planned, led, and financed the operation.” There is no diplomatic spin for that.

Yet for decades, Western analysts lazily labeled this catastrophe a “territorial conflict.” That intellectual cowardice granted Pakistan impunity to turn Kashmir into the world’s longest-running terror-export project. The UN demanded Pakistan withdraw all troops before any plebiscite — Pakistan instead increased them. Facts matter, even when inconvenient.

Two Paths: One Builds, One Bleeds

Let’s be blunt: India and Pakistan diverged, morally and structurally.

India, despite all internal challenges, has expanded democratic participation and invested in its part of Kashmir. After the 2019 constitutional reforms integrating Jammu & Kashmir more fully into India, investment and infrastructure improved drastically. Tourism surged beyond pre-militancy levels. New universities, hospitals, and road networks have emerged. Local elections have recorded the highest turnouts in decades — people vote when they believe their vote matters.

Contrast that with Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK): rolling blackouts, disappeared activists, banned civil rights groups, and a per capita income less than half that in India-administered regions. When residents protested food shortages and electricity theft by authorities in 2024, Pakistani troops shot at civilians.

Military historian Agha Humayun Amin — a Pakistani Army veteran himself — has repeatedly documented that Pakistan’s reliance on irregular militias and non-state actors began in the 1947–48 Kashmir invasion and then became a recurring strategic model in 1965, in the Kashmir insurgency from 1988 onward, and again in the 1999 Kargil conflict.

In his work, he argues that this pattern reflects the dominance of the military establishment over civilian decision-making in Pakistan, and that it has produced repeated strategic failures rather than meaningful gains.

Let that sink in. The suffering of Kashmiris is fuel for Pakistan’s ruling establishment, not a tragedy they wish to end.

The Pakistan–Afghanistan Conflict: A Border Drawn in Arrogance

You also asked for a raw breakdown of why Pakistan and Afghanistan remain adversaries: it boils down to a colonial scar called the Durand Line. Drawn in 1893 by Britain without Afghan consent, this artificial border split Pashtun homelands in half.

Afghanistan has never recognized it. Pashtun resentment is justified — imagine Stockholm sliced down the middle and one half handed to Moscow. That’s the magnitude of the injustice.

Pakistan exploits this division to maintain strategic control. Since the 1970s, its military elite has weaponized Islamist factions inside Afghanistan to install friendly regimes and crush Pashtun nationalism.

Islamabad supported the Taliban for decades — not out of religious solidarity but territorial paranoia.

Journalist and regional expert Ahmed Rashid has consistently argued that Pakistan’s security establishment seeks to prevent the emergence of a strong and independent Afghanistan.

In works such as Pakistan on the Brink and Descent into Chaos, he explains that Islamabad has long viewed a weak, divided, and aid-dependent Afghanistan as strategically advantageous — especially for maintaining influence and countering Afghan resistance to the Durand Line.

According to Rashid, this is why Pakistan historically supported Taliban networks and other militant factions that keep Kabul unstable and reliant on Pakistan’s cooperation.

Even now, Pakistan accuses Kabul of hosting terrorists while conveniently forgetting that the Taliban leadership long lived comfortably in Quetta and Peshawar under Pakistan’s eye. It’s a toxic codependence: Pakistan keeps Afghan instability alive so it can dictate the terms of “peace.”

Durand Line: Occupation by Barbed Wire and Bulldozer

Pakistan’s treatment of Pashtun communities along the border is brutally consistent with its Kashmir playbook: militarize, suppress, erase.

In recent years, Pakistan has fenced the Durand Line and demolished centuries-old tribal crossings — without local consent. Families are divided. Trade is strangled. Pashtun protests — like the peaceful PTM movement — are met with arrests, torture, disappearances.

Pakistan occupies Afghan territory the same way it occupies PoK: through deliberate underdevelopment, demographic manipulation, and violent intimidation.

According to Christine Fair, Pakistan’s strategic culture is rooted in the belief that it is “an insecure and incomplete state,” which has helped the Pakistan Army dominate national decision-making and pursue policies that rely on ideological tools, proxy actors, and regional influence rather than democratic governance and coherent national identity.

That’s exactly right. If Pakistan ever accepted freely expressed self-determination — whether in Kashmir or among Pashtuns — its own internal fissures would explode. So instead, it smothers those voices.

Human Rights Are Not a Geopolitical Bargaining Chip

Pakistan’s propaganda frames every criticism as an attack on Muslims. That’s cheap. Muslims in India vote, study, protest, and participate in governance. Muslims in Pakistan-controlled areas cannot even criticize the army without vanishing.

Kashmiri Muslims deserve dignity. Kashmiri Hindus who endured ethnic cleansing in 1990 deserve justice. Pashtuns deserve self-determination. Afghanistan deserves sovereignty. None of these rights are negotiable simply because Pakistan’s generals consider geography a military asset.

And Western institutions must stop indulging Pakistan’s narratives just because they fit Cold-War nostalgia or “Muslim victimhood” stereotypes. Victimhood ends the moment you become the perpetrator.

Accountability or Regression

Seventy-eight years after Pakistan’s armed invasion of Jammu & Kashmir on October 22, 1947 — an invasion marked by mass rape, targeted killings, and the destruction of non-Muslim communities — the structural logic behind that aggression has not changed.

Pakistan’s military establishment still treats territory as a trophy, civilians as expendable, and jihad as a policy tool. The same mindset that unleashed tribal Lashkars to butcher Kashmiris in Baramulla and Mirpur is what later produced Lashkar-e-Taiba, Jaish-e-Mohammad, and every other “proxy” weaponized to destabilize the region.

Export terror. Deny responsibility. Perform victimhood. Silence dissent. Pakistan perfected this sequence starting in October 1947 and has repeated it in every decade since.

Meanwhile, the human cost is borne entirely by those under the shadow of Pakistani control and interference — Kashmiris who lost their land and cultural identity in Pakistan-occupied territories; Pashtuns split by the Durand Line and punished for demanding basic civil rights; Afghans whose country was turned into a battlefield to serve Pakistan’s paranoia about strategic depth.

If the international community claims to value human rights, then moral clarity is non-negotiable: Pakistan was the aggressor in Kashmir. Pakistan has sabotaged Afghan sovereignty. Pakistan continues to deny Pashtuns self-determination. These are not “regional sensitivities.” They are ongoing violations rooted in the original crime of 1947.

Peace begins with truth. And the truth is simple: Dignity does not grow where an army stands guard over stolen land.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Pakistan ranks among the lowest globally in gender equality, with systemic barriers in education, employment, and political representation.

In the political heart of Europe, behind the sleek glass facade of the European Commission, decisions are made that ripple far beyond the continent. Among these is the Generalized Scheme of Preferences Plus (GSP+), a mechanism that grants developing countries privileged access to European markets.

In return, these nations are expected to uphold human rights, labor protections, environmental safeguards, and good governance.

Since 2014, Pakistan has been one of the principal beneficiaries of GSP+, reaping billions in export earnings each year, primarily through its textile sector.

Yet, the pressing question remains: has Pakistan honored the commitments it made to earn this privileged access? Or has it simply profited while turning its back on the very standards the scheme was designed to reinforce?

At the ongoing 60th Session of the UN Human Rights Council in Geneva, these questions have surfaced again, sharper than ever.

The evidence paints a grim picture of Pakistan’s trajectory—a country that continues to enjoy European trade benefits while deepening its disregard for basic human rights.

The Promise and the Reality

When the EU granted Pakistan GSP+ status in 2014, it was hailed as a win-win agreement. Pakistan gained tariff-free access for most of its exports, and the EU expected genuine reforms in return.

Over the past decade, Pakistan’s exports to the EU have nearly doubled, jumping from €8.3 billion in 2013 to almost €15 billion in 2023.

But the other half of the bargain has collapsed. Pakistan committed to ratify and implement 27 international conventions covering human rights, labor standards, environmental protection, and governance.

While ratification took place on paper, implementation never followed. Instead, Pakistan’s record has deteriorated in critical areas such as religious freedom, gender equality, press freedom, and civil society protections.

Blasphemy Laws and Persecution

Nothing better illustrates Pakistan’s failure than its misuse of blasphemy laws. Introduced under military rule in the 1980s, these laws have been weaponized against Christians, Hindus, Shias, and even Sunni Muslims who fall out of favor with extremists.

The world remembers the case of Asia Bibi, a Christian woman sentenced to death for blasphemy and later acquitted after nearly a decade on death row. But hers is just one story among thousands.

Today, men and women—like Christian couple Shafqat Emmanuel and Shagufta Kausar—remain trapped on death row for similar accusations.

According to human rights groups, dozens of people are killed each year in mob violence linked to blasphemy allegations.

The laws are not just a tool of religious persecution; they are a weapon to settle personal disputes, silence dissent, and terrorize vulnerable communities.

The EU has long had a lever to demand reform: GSP+. Yet, despite two resolutions by the European Parliament calling for suspension of Pakistan’s trade privileges, the European Commission has declined to act.

Each time, the will of parliament was ignored, leaving victims in Pakistan without the support they desperately need.

Women and Girls Left Behind

The situation of women and girls in Pakistan is another glaring violation of GSP+ commitments. Pakistan ranks among the lowest globally in gender equality, with systemic barriers in education, employment, and political representation.

Despite EU funding aimed at improving education access, millions of girls remain out of school, and early marriage rates remain high. In rural areas, entrenched cultural practices deny girls the chance of education altogether.

Reports suggest that part of the funding has even flowed into extremist religious seminaries (madrasas)—institutions known for radicalizing children rather than empowering them.

For women who dare to step into public life, harassment, violence, and exclusion are commonplace. Cases of so-called “honor killings” continue to surface, with perpetrators often going unpunished due to weak enforcement of laws and entrenched patriarchy.

Enforced Disappearances and Suppression of Dissent

Equally troubling is Pakistan’s record of enforced disappearances. Between 2011 and 2023, nearly 10,000 cases were reported, with families left in agonizing uncertainty as activists, journalists, and political dissidents vanished without trace.

Many are believed to be victims of the state’s powerful security apparatus, particularly in Balochistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

At the same time, press freedom has been crushed. Pakistan now ranks 150th out of 180 countries on the World Press Freedom Index. Journalists face harassment, censorship, and even abduction.

In 2023, the government imposed a nationwide communication blackout affecting 125 million people, silencing critics during a political crisis.

Civil society organizations are under siege as well, with restrictive laws curbing NGO activity and foreign funding. Those who speak out against the state face intimidation or worse.

Europe’s Complicity

The most scandalous aspect of this story is not just Pakistan’s violations—it is Europe’s complicity. The European Commission has consistently turned a blind eye, issuing assessments that celebrate “awareness raising” instead of demanding real change.

In 2023, the European External Action Service claimed that GSP+ had increased “awareness of human rights at the grassroots level.”

But awareness is not implementation. As one parliamentarian remarked, “This is not about awareness, it is about action.” By accepting cosmetic progress, the Commission risks becoming complicit in Pakistan’s abuses.

Worse still, EU funds directed toward education have indirectly supported madrasas linked to extremism. The Commission admitted that while it funds schools, it does not monitor content.

In practice, this means European taxpayers are subsidizing institutions that teach intolerance, discrimination, and sometimes violent extremism.

The Commonwealth Question

Beyond the EU, Pakistan’s place in the Commonwealth of Nations is also under scrutiny. The country has already been suspended twice from the Commonwealth due to human rights abuses.

With conditions worsening, the question arises: should Pakistan be suspended a third time—or should it be “three strikes and you’re out”?

The Commonwealth prides itself on shared values of democracy and human dignity. If Pakistan flagrantly violates these principles, should it continue to sit at the same table as reformist democracies? The answer, from a moral standpoint, is clear: suspension until meaningful reforms are implemented.

A Question of Integrity

As the European Commission prepares to review Pakistan’s GSP+ status in the coming months, it faces a defining choice. This is not just a question of tariffs and trade. It is a question of Europe’s integrity and moral responsibility.

If Pakistan continues to enjoy tariff-free access while persecuting minorities, silencing dissent, and suppressing women, then the EU is betraying its own values.

The price of this partnership is not counted in euros—it is counted in human lives lost, voices silenced, and communities crushed.

For too long, Europe has hidden behind bureaucratic reports and vague assurances. But now, as evidence mounts, the time has come for decisive action.

The Way Forward

The European Union must now move beyond rhetoric and take decisive steps if it wishes to uphold its own principles. The first and most urgent measure is to suspend Pakistan’s GSP+ status unless clear and verifiable reforms are implemented.

Continued trade privileges should be strictly tied to measurable improvements in human rights, particularly in addressing the misuse of blasphemy laws, advancing gender equality, and ending the practice of enforced disappearances.

Equally critical is ensuring transparency in EU funding. European taxpayers’ money, intended to support education and empowerment, must never be diverted to extremist seminaries that fuel intolerance and radicalization.

Effective monitoring mechanisms are essential so that these resources genuinely promote equality, tolerance, and critical thinking.

At the same time, Europe must stand firmly with Pakistan’s civil society. Human rights defenders, journalists, and NGOs are often the last line of resistance against authoritarian tendencies, and many risk their freedom and their lives in the process. They deserve not only recognition but active support from the international community.

Finally, Pakistan’s place in the Commonwealth of Nations must be reconsidered. Membership in this community of states is a privilege grounded in shared values.

If Pakistan persistently fails to meet even the most basic human rights obligations, it should not enjoy the legitimacy and standing that Commonwealth membership confers. Until it demonstrates genuine commitment to reform, Europe and its allies must be prepared to act.

Pakistan has enjoyed the benefits of Europe’s generosity for over a decade. Its exports have flourished, its economy has been bolstered, and its political elite has celebrated the gains. But for ordinary Pakistanis—religious minorities, women, journalists, dissidents—the promised dividends of GSP+ never arrived.

As a human rights observer, I cannot help but stress: Europe must stop being complicit in Pakistan’s abuses. Trade benefits must not come at the cost of human dignity. The European Union and the Commonwealth alike must show courage, not complacency.

Because at the end of the day, this is not just about trade. This is about the soul of Europe’s values—whether we stand firm for human rights or allow them to be bartered away for economic gain.

If Pakistan will not honor its commitments, then Europe must honor its own.

For Saudi Arabia, the pact is fundamentally about protecting its sovereignty and deterrence posture in a region fraught with volatility.

On September 17, 2025, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan formalized a Strategic Mutual Defence Agreement in Riyadh during Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif’s state visit. The pact commits both nations to treat any act of aggression against one as an attack against both.

Headlines around the world quickly framed this as a significant geopolitical move. Yet a closer examination reveals a more nuanced reality: the pact is as much about perception as it is about military strategy, serving primarily Riyadh’s security interests while providing Pakistan a temporary boost on the global stage.

For Saudi Arabia, the pact is fundamentally about protecting its sovereignty and deterrence posture in a region fraught with volatility. The Kingdom has faced multiple security threats over the past two decades, from proxy conflicts in Yemen to missile and drone attacks from regional adversaries.

Saudi Defense Minister Prince Khaled bin Salman underscored this perspective when he said, “Any aggressor who seeks to destabilize Saudi Arabia or Pakistan must know that their aggression will be met with a united front.”

While some observers interpret such statements as signaling offensive ambition, the context suggests otherwise. The timing coincided with an Arab-Islamic summit in Doha addressing concerns about sudden military escalations in the Middle East.

Saudi Arabia’s Enduring Reliance on Western Defense Architecture

Despite its ambitions for regional leadership and vast oil wealth, Saudi Arabia’s military capabilities remain fundamentally dependent on Western powers. The United States is the Kingdom’s primary security guarantor, with over $129 billion in active arms deals under the Foreign Military Sales program.

These include advanced systems such as F-15SA fighter jets, THAAD and Patriot missile defense batteries, M1A2 Abrams tanks, and AWACS surveillance aircraft. American personnel routinely train Saudi forces in targeting protocols, civilian casualty mitigation, and operational planning.

In 2019, the U.S. deployed more than 2,700 troops to Saudi Arabia to bolster air and missile defenses amid rising threats from Iran-backed militias—a deployment that underscored Riyadh’s inability to independently deter regional adversaries.

The United Kingdom also plays a significant role, supplying Eurofighter Typhoons and providing technical training to Saudi pilots and ground forces. These Western alliances are not merely transactional; they are embedded in the Kingdom’s defense doctrine. Saudi Arabia’s military procurement, intelligence sharing, and strategic planning are deeply integrated with NATO standards and U.S. operational frameworks.

The western alignment is not diminishing. While Saudi Arabia has sought to diversify its partnerships—engaging with China, Russia, India, and other regional actors—the backbone of its defense remains Western.

The recent pact with Pakistan does not alter this reality. Instead, it supplements Riyadh’s deterrence posture with symbolic Islamic solidarity, while operational alignment on the West continues unabated.

Pakistan’s Rental-Army Service: From Jordan to Bahrain

Pakistan’s military has long served as a readily deployable force, offering manpower, training, and strategic support in exchange for financial aid and diplomatic backing.

This arrangement dates back to the 1970s, when Brigadier Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq—later Pakistan’s president—was stationed in Jordan during the Black September conflict. Zia reportedly led operations against Palestinian factions, helping King Hussein suppress internal dissent. This intervention marked Pakistan’s first major military engagement in Arab internal security.

During the Iran–Iraq War in the 1980s, Pakistan assured Saudi Arabia that any attack on the Kingdom would be treated as an attack on Pakistan. Though never formalized, this political assurance laid the groundwork for future cooperation.

Pakistani troops were rented in Saudi Arabia throughout the decade, providing training and advisory support. In the 1990s, Pakistan rented out thousands of its troops to Saudi Arabia and the UAE during the Gulf War, tasked primarily with internal security and logistics rather than frontline combat.

Perhaps the most recent example of Pakistan’s military outsourcing and renting occurred during the 2011 Iran-backed Shia uprising in Bahrain. As part of the Arab Spring, Bahrain’s Shia majority protested under the auspices of Iran.

In response, the Bahraini government—backed by Saudi Arabia—launched a crackdown. Pakistani media began running recruitment ads for the Bahrain National Guard, seeking former army drill instructors, anti-riot experts, and military police. Within months, over 2,500 Pakistani ex-servicemen were deployed to Manama, increasing the size of Bahrain’s riot police and National Guard by nearly 50%.

The recruitment was facilitated by the Fauji Foundation, a Pakistani conglomerate with deep ties to the military establishment. This episode starkly illustrated Pakistan’s willingness to export and rent its military labor for fellow the Muslim nations.

Strategic Desperation and Institutional Incentives

Pakistan’s willingness to serve as a deployable military partner is driven not by strategic foresight but by economic desperation and institutional self-interest. The country’s economy is in deep crisis.

In 2025 alone, multinational corporations including Microsoft, Shell, Pfizer, and Yamaha exited Pakistan due to political instability, regulatory dysfunction, and currency depreciation. Foreign reserves have plummeted, and debt obligations to the IMF exceed $13.5 billion. Amid this collapse, military outsourcing offers a revenue stream and diplomatic leverage.

The Pakistan Army operates over 50 commercial entities, with assets exceeding $39.8 billion. This military–industrial complex incentivizes external deployments that enhance institutional autonomy and profitability.

Moreover, Pakistan’s strategic doctrine—rooted in Cold War geopolitics—emphasizes influence in neighboring regions, particularly Afghanistan and the Gulf. Military deployments serve this doctrine, allowing Pakistan to project power and maintain relevance in Islamic geopolitics.

The Pakistan Army remains the most powerful institution in the country, often overshadowing civilian governments. Its ability to independently negotiate defense arrangements with foreign states positions it as a transnational actor, capable of shaping foreign policy through military diplomacy.

Yet this autonomy has come at a cost: Pakistan’s military prestige is increasingly tied to mercenary service rather than strategic innovation.

Symbolism Without Substance

The Saudi–Pakistan defence pact, while dramatic in language, does not alter the fundamental asymmetry between the two nations. Saudi Arabia gains a nuclear-armed partner for symbolic deterrence, while Pakistan gains temporary validation amid domestic chaos.

The agreement institutionalizes a relationship that has existed informally for decades, offering symbolism without strategic transformation.

Saudi Arabia’s primary security concerns remain focused on Israel after the recent Qatar episode, and internal dissent—not South Asian dynamics. The pact offers Riyadh a layer of Islamic solidarity, but operational reliance continues to rest on U.S. air defense systems, intelligence networks, and strategic cover.

Pakistan’s role is supportive, symbolic, and ultimately disposable.

In essence, the pact reinforces Saudi Arabia’s broader security posture, complementing its existing defense architecture without compromising its strategic autonomy.

For Riyadh, it is a calculated move—strengthening deterrence through symbolic alignment while remaining anchored to its robust Western partnerships.

For Pakistan, however, the agreement underscores a familiar pattern: seeking relevance through external validation rather than internal reform. It reflects a deeper structural imbalance—where one state consolidates its position through strategic foresight, and the other continues to outsource its military for short-term survival

The West does not need less Islam. It needs the right Islam — visible, unapologetic, and equipped to dismantle extremism from within.

One of the most insidious myths circulating in Europe and North America today is the notion that what the West needs is “less Islam.” It is a simplistic narrative pushed aggressively by Israeli information warfare and echoed by politicians eager for easy answers to complex challenges: if jihadism exists, then Islam itself must be the source. The conclusion is presented bluntly — fewer Muslims in Western societies equals greater safety.

This is a dangerous lie.

Such thinking does three things simultaneously. It shifts the blame for decades of reckless Western immigration policies onto ordinary Muslims. It ignores the reality that millions of Muslims in the West are well-integrated, law-abiding citizens. And most dangerously, it dehumanises entire populations — not only Palestinians, but Syrians, Iraqis, Afghans, and anyone who happens to share the same faith.

I have no sympathy for Islamism or Jihadism. On Al Arabiya and Alhurra, I have argued openly that movements like the Muslim Brotherhood should be banned in the West. Extremist organizations must face zero tolerance. On this, Europe could actually learn from the Arab Gulf. Saudi Arabia and the UAE have shown that it is possible to dismantle radical networks without demonizing Islam itself.

At a Muslim World League conference in Morocco last year, leading scholars reached a straightforward conclusion: Muslims who choose to live in the West must respect and obey the laws of their host countries.

When I met privately with Dr. Mohammad Al-Issa, Secretary General of the Muslim World League, his message was even sharper: Western governments should integrate Muslim communities more effectively, respect Islam as a religion — but also expel radicals and outlaw Jihadist movements.

This is why Israel’s framing is dishonest. The Muslim world is not ignoring extremism. On the contrary, it is confronting it directly. The real problem lies within Western legal systems that too often shield radicals under the banners of free speech and asylum, enabling Jihadists to exploit democratic loopholes.

The solution is not “less Islam.” The solution is better Islam. We need credible Muslim scholars to expose extremist ideology, deradicalisation programmes that use authentic Islam as the antidote, and laws that prevent radicals from exploiting freedoms to spread hate.

We must also confront another driver of extremism in Europe: Iran. In Sweden, Tehran bankrolls Kurdish gangs, spreads Hezbollah’s ideology through mosques, and fuels violence. This is not Islam — it is state-sponsored extremism. It should be treated as such: strip radicals of citizenship, dismantle their networks, and confront Iran directly.

There is already a Muslim roadmap for this struggle. In 2020, more than 1,300 Muslim leaders from 139 countries signed the Charter of Makkah. Its principles are unambiguous: diversity is part of God’s design, no religion should be judged by the crimes of extremists, freedom must coexist with law and order, and young people must be protected from the poisonous myth of a “clash of civilizations.”

The Muslim world has put forward a modern, rational vision. The only ones refusing to see it are those in the West who cling to the illusion that demonising Muslims will somehow make societies safer. It will not. Islamophobia weakens democracies, divides communities, and feeds radicalisation.

If we are serious about security, the path is clear: ban Jihadist Organisations, reform laws that shield extremists, work with mainstream Muslim scholars, and dismantle Iran’s toxic networks.

The West does not need less Islam. It needs the right Islam — visible, unapologetic, and equipped to dismantle extremism from within. That is how we win.

Syria’s recovery is not just symbolic—it’s strategic. A stable, unified Syria is essential for regional security, refugee returns, and long-term economic integration.

The war in Syria may not be over on paper, but on the ground, the tide has clearly turned. Since the collapse of the Assad regime in December 2024, nearly 250,000 Syrian refugees in Turkey have returned home. This movement is not driven by propaganda or pressure, but by something far more powerful: the hope that Syria, at long last, is stabilizing.

That hope is grounded in real, visible change. The Damascus Stock Exchange has reopened, signaling a cautious but meaningful restart of the formal economy. Finance Minister Mohammed Yisr Barnieh called it a message to the world—that Syria is back in business.

The turning point came on May 13, when U.S. President Donald Trump, during a landmark visit to Riyadh, announced the lifting of sanctions on Syria. Ten days later, the U.S. Treasury issued General License 25, permitting transactions with Syria’s new transitional government, headed by President Ahmad Al-Sharaa. The EU swiftly followed with a coordinated suspension of its own sanctions regime. In less than two weeks, Syria went from pariah to partner in the eyes of global policymakers.

The momentum is not only diplomatic. Gulf states are stepping up. On Saturday, Saudi Foreign Minister Prince Faisal bin Farhan Al Saud, speaking from Damascus, announced a joint initiative with Qatar to help fund salaries for Syrian civil servants. These are the sorts of actions that turn ceasefires into recoveries.

And yet, despite these gains, Syria’s path forward still faces one last—and deeply entrenched—obstacle: the PKK-affiliated administration in northeast Syria, branded to the world as the Autonomous Administration of North and East Syria (AANES), and militarily represented by the PYD and SDF.

Let’s be candid. For years, Western governments, NGOs, and think tanks have celebrated the AANES as a “progressive” alternative in Syria. But the reality on the ground tells a much darker story. Despite controlling vast natural resources, receiving billions in foreign aid, and enjoying unprecedented U.S. military protection, the AANES has delivered little more than corruption, repression, and instability.

Entire Arab and Assyrian communities have been displaced under their watch. Basic services remain in disrepair. Youth conscription, political detentions, and even child recruitment are not allegations—they are documented practices. Many in Raqqa, Deir Ezzor, and Hasakah view the AANES not as a government but as an occupying structure—an extension of the PKK’s transnational project, not a legitimate representative of the Syrian people.

This is not just Syria’s internal issue. It’s a regional problem. The longer these entities maintain their grip, the harder it becomes to achieve a unified, sovereign Syrian state capable of rebuilding and reconciling.

To its credit, the transitional government in Damascus has not responded with vengeance. President Al-Sharaa has focused on restoring institutions, rebuilding national infrastructure, and pursuing a post-conflict political identity that moves beyond sectarianism. But these efforts will remain incomplete until all Syrian territories are returned to accountable, sovereign administration.

In this context, the reopening of the U.S. embassy in Damascus sends a powerful signal. Newly appointed American envoy Thomas Barrack—who also serves as the U.S. ambassador to Turkey—raised the American flag over the embassy for the first time since 2012. He praised Syria’s new leadership and openly discussed the prospect of peace between Syria and Israel—once a diplomatic impossibility. Barrack noted that the Caesar Act sanctions must now be repealed by Congress, describing President Trump as impatient with sanctions that obstruct reconstruction.

None of this should be mistaken for instant success. The Syrian state remains fragile. Public sector wages are still well below the cost of living. Corruption, while being addressed, is not yet defeated. And sectarian wounds—especially those left by clashes between pro-Assad remnants and local communities—will take time to heal.

But from my perspective as a European political analyst, this is the first time in years that Syria’s future feels negotiable rather than doomed.

To my Arab readers: Syria’s recovery is not just symbolic—it’s strategic. A stable, unified Syria is essential for regional security, refugee returns, and long-term economic integration.

To Western policymakers: the failed experiment of non-state actors ruling eastern Syria must end. It did not bring democracy. It brought dysfunction. The time has come to support a Syrian solution, not a Kurdish separatist detour funded by Western guilt and strategic confusion.

The Syrian war broke the country. But the outlines of recovery are finally emerging. The world has a choice: engage constructively—or prolong the suffering under the illusion of alternatives that have long since collapsed.