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.

This duality—preaching unity while practicing duplicity—has become Pakistan’s diplomatic hallmark.

When the Taliban stormed into Kabul in August 2021, Pakistan’s powerful intelligence chief, Lt. Gen. Faiz Hameed, appeared at the Serena Hotel and assured journalists, “Everything will be okay.”

His confident smile captured Islamabad’s belief that decades of strategic maneuvering had finally paid off. Pakistan, long accused of nurturing the Taliban, assumed it would now wield decisive influence over its western neighbor.

Four years later, those hopes have turned to ashes. The Taliban’s rise, once hailed in Islamabad as a geopolitical triumph, has become a source of profound insecurity and humiliation.

The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), emboldened by its ideological kin in Kabul, has unleashed a deadly insurgency across Pakistan’s tribal belt. Hundreds of Pakistani soldiers have been killed in cross-border raids. The Taliban, despite Pakistan’s past support, has refused to curb the TTP.

The so-called “strategic depth” has instead exposed Pakistan’s strategic shallowness. A state that once boasted of controlling its proxies now finds itself hostage to them. The illusion of regional mastery has dissolved into a grim reality: Pakistan is isolated, insecure, and rapidly losing credibility.

Weaponizing Refugees

Having failed to tame the Taliban, Pakistan turned its frustration toward Afghan civilians. In October 2023, Islamabad launched the Illegal Foreigners Repatriation Plan (IFRP), targeting nearly 1.7 million undocumented Afghans. For decades, Afghan refugees had lived, worked, and raised families in Pakistan. Suddenly, they became scapegoats for Islamabad’s security failures.

By mid-2025, more than 600,000 Afghans had been deported in what international observers described as one of South Asia’s largest forced repatriations in decades. Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch chronicled chilling stories of police harassment, arbitrary detentions, and family separations.

Pakistan justified the campaign as a counterterrorism measure, accusing Afghan refugees of harboring TTP militants. But analysts saw it differently: an act of political retribution against the Taliban regime. Kabul condemned the deportations as a breach of international law and accused Islamabad of deepening Afghanistan’s humanitarian catastrophe.

This was more than just a border dispute—it was a symptom of Pakistan’s broader malaise. A state that once prided itself on being a refuge for the oppressed had turned into a place of fear and hostility. The moral cost of Islamabad’s Afghan policy was now unmistakable.

Airstrikes and Escalation

Pakistan’s response extended beyond deportations. Under the guise of pursuing TTP sanctuaries, it began conducting airstrikes inside Afghan territory.

In April 2022, bombings in Khost and Kunar killed 47 civilians, mostly women and children. Similar attacks followed in March and December 2024, targeting Paktika and Khost. In January 2025, fresh strikes were launched along the volatile Durand Line. Over a hundred civilians have died since 2021, according to regional monitors.

Each operation fuelled anger and anti-Pakistan protests across Afghanistan. The Taliban government condemned the attacks as violations of sovereignty, accusing Pakistan of hiding its failures behind a counterterrorism narrative.

By 2025, Pakistan’s western frontier was once again aflame—only this time, without American troops to share the blame. The Afghan war that Islamabad once believed it had outsourced had come home, exacting both human and diplomatic costs.

Diplomacy as Deception

The crisis reached a symbolic peak in September 2025, when Islamabad hosted the “Towards Unity and Trust” conference under the South Asian Strategic Stability Institute.

Despite the event’s conciliatory title, the Taliban government was conspicuously excluded. Instead, the gathering featured anti-Taliban activists and politicians, turning what was billed as a dialogue into an exercise in diplomatic provocation.

Just days later, Defense Minister Khawaja Asif labeled Afghanistan an “enemy state”—a stunning reversal from Pakistan’s earlier rhetoric of “brotherhood.”

This diplomatic whiplash mirrors a deeper inconsistency at the heart of Pakistan’s foreign policy. It speaks of a nation perpetually caught between ambition and insecurity, between Islamic solidarity and realpolitik.

Even its domestic realities now echo this hypocrisy.

In early October 2025, a story broke that underscored how deeply investor confidence has eroded under the current administration. Out of 23 oil and gas exploration blocks offered for bidding, no local or foreign bids were received for 22. The only bid came from Mari Gas, and even that was for a small block with negligible output.

Taimur Saleem Khan Jhagra, Pakistan’s opposition leader, wrote “investors know this is an illegitimate govt,” saying no company—foreign or domestic—was willing to invest in a country “without rule of law.” He accused the government of driving away foreign direct investment through arbitrary governance, economic mismanagement, and political repression.

This episode is emblematic of Pakistan’s larger credibility crisis. When even domestic energy firms shy away from state-backed ventures, the problem is not market dynamics—it is a collapse of trust. The same lack of accountability that defines Pakistan’s regional duplicity now poisons its economic foundations.

The Iran Paradox and the Palestine Hypocrisy

Pakistan’s double-dealing extends far beyond its Afghan misadventure.

In June 2025, Islamabad publicly condemned U.S. airstrikes on Iran’s nuclear facilities, declaring solidarity with Tehran. Yet, only days earlier, Army Chief Gen. Asim Munir had met privately with Donald Trump, reportedly discussing “regional stability.” In a surreal twist, Pakistan went on to nominate Trump for the 2026 Nobel Peace Prize, effectively undercutting its supposed alignment with Iran.

This duality—preaching unity while practicing duplicity—has become Pakistan’s diplomatic hallmark.

The same contradictions stain its stance on Palestine. While Pakistani leaders have long professed unwavering support for the Palestinian cause, history tells another story. During Black September 1970, Brigadier Zia ul-Haq, later Pakistan’s military ruler, helped Jordan crush the Palestine Liberation Organization, a massacre that claimed thousands of lives.

In July 2025, Pakistan awarded the Nishan-e-Imtiaz to U.S. CENTCOM Commander Gen. Michael Kurilla, despite his role in coordinating American military support for Israel during its Gaza operations.

At the UN General Assembly’s 80th session, Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif met Daniel Rosen, head of the American Jewish Congress, signaling a quiet but unmistakable outreach to pro-Israel circles.

For a country that brands itself the guardian of Muslim causes, the hypocrisy is striking. From Amman to Gaza, Pakistan’s leaders have consistently traded principle for expediency.

A Consistent Inconsistency

Across every theater—Afghanistan, Iran, Palestine, and even its own energy sector—a single pattern emerges: Pakistan’s promises collapse under the weight of its own contradictions.

It seeks influence in Kabul but alienates Afghans through bombings and deportations. It pledges brotherhood with Tehran while courting Washington. It proclaims solidarity with Palestine while decorating America’s military commanders. And now, it claims to welcome foreign investment while creating an environment so lawless that even local companies refuse to bid.

In the end, Pakistan’s gravest betrayal is not of its neighbors, but of itself. The erosion of credibility abroad mirrors the decay of governance at home. As investors flee, allies distance themselves, and insurgents advance, the message is clear: a nation that manipulates every alliance eventually stands alone.

For decades, Pakistan’s generals and politicians have built policies on the illusion of control. The Afghan gamble was meant to cement regional influence; instead, it has exposed a state adrift, distrusted by friends and foes alike.

The “everything will be okay” optimism of 2021 now rings hollow. For Pakistan, everything is decidedly not okay—and the world, finally, has stopped believing its promises.

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