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.

By adopting Chinese technology, Pakistan has effectively imported the architecture of one-party authoritarianism and repurposed it for its own military-led state.

In today’s interconnected world, surveillance has become the defining tool of authoritarian power. For decades, whispers of phone tapping, hidden cameras, and intercepted letters formed part of the political folklore in Pakistan. Opposition leaders complained about bugged hotel rooms, journalists spoke of mysteriously leaked recordings, and ordinary citizens lived with the suspicion that their conversations were never entirely private.

But what was once fragmented and clumsy has now been consolidated into a sophisticated and institutionalized state machinery of repression. Today, Pakistan’s rulers command a surveillance and censorship apparatus capable of monitoring millions at home. And at the heart of this system lies a troubling partnership with China, the global architect of digital authoritarianism, which has become Pakistan’s model and its main supplier.

Beijing’s Digital Spy Trade in Asia

The Pakistan-China collaboration on domestic espionage aligns with the broader framework of the Digital Silk Road, Beijing’s effort to export its technological dominance alongside its governing philosophy. As China extends its influence through infrastructure projects and military ties, it also exports the invisible infrastructure of repression.

Chinese firewalls, intercept systems, and biometric databases become complementary products. Pakistan, indebted to Chinese investment and strategically reliant on Beijing’s support, has proven to be one of the most eager markets. China is not merely exporting a surveillance technology, but an ideology of the state’s overarching control over society.

The cornerstone of this collaboration is the Web Monitoring System 2.0 (WMS 2.0), introduced in 2023. According to a recent Amnesty International report, the system is fueled by Chinese company Geedge Networks and hardware from the state-owned China Electronics Corporation. It functions like a smaller version of Beijing’s own Great Firewall, capable of deep-packet inspection, VPN detection, website blocking, and real-time throttling of online traffic.

This is not mere censorship; it is preventive digital warfare, designed to identify dissent before it can mobilize. By adopting Chinese technology, Pakistan has effectively imported the architecture of one-party authoritarianism and repurposed it for its own military-led state.

Alongside WMS, Pakistan has also integrated sophisticated European-based technology to conduct mass surveillance of personal communication devices. Pakistan’s armed forces and its notorious spy agency, the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), use the Lawful Intercept Management System (LIMS) to track the population’s digital activities through Pakistani telecommunications providers.

In practice, European states have legal and technical safeguards that prevent law enforcement agencies from exploiting this technology. The absence of such safeguards in Pakistan, however, empowers the government to spy on more than 4 million people at any given time. Instead of utilizing LIMS for targeted monitoring of terrorist groups within Pakistan, the state conducts indiscriminate and illegal surveillance of Pakistani citizens to suppress dissent and free speech.

Indiscriminate Surveillance over Targeted Monitoring

Pakistan’s government insists such powers are needed for national security, but the pattern of use tells a different story. The true targets are not terrorists or foreign spies; they are Pakistanis who dare to dissent. Journalists in Pakistan describe how private WhatsApp calls mysteriously leak, or how investigative reports are quietly spiked because editors fear their communications are being monitored.

Human rights defenders, particularly those campaigning against enforced disappearances, speak of constant digital harassment. Activists in Balochistan and among the Pashtun community in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa find their social media posts flagged, their movements tracked, and in some cases, their family members kidnapped by intelligence agencies.

Even judges have accused the ISI of using secret surveillance to interfere in judicial proceedings.

In each instance, surveillance serves less to protect citizens than to protect the military from accountability.

Nowhere are the costs more visible than in Balochistan, Pakistan’s most resource-rich but also the most impoverished province. Pakistan’s state breakdown on civil rights activists and the military oppression of Balochis have left the region marginalized for decades. For years, large districts of Baluchistan have been cut off from the internet entirely. These blackouts are not temporary inconveniences; they stretch on for months, even years, leaving entire communities digitally silenced.

As human rights watchdogs have documented, the blackouts often coincide with military operations, enforced disappearances, and crackdowns on protests. Families searching for missing relatives are unable to mobilize, activists cannot get their message out, and international attention is blunted by the lack of communication. In this context, WMS 2.0’s ability to block VPNs and throttle platforms is not a neutral tool but an active weapon of repression.

The Digital Silk Road Meets Rawalpindi

The Chinese role in Pakistan’s state surveillance is not merely a trade of technology, but a political partnership.

Beijing gains a strategic partner whose governance increasingly resembles its own, while Pakistan gains tools of repression that strengthen military control in areas like Balochistan and KPK, where anti-Pakistan sentiments remain strong. Pakistan’s strategic reliance on China now extends beyond roads and ports into the intimate sphere of its citizens’ communications. This alignment is ideological as it normalizes the view that dissent is treason and citizens exist to be managed, not represented.

This is why Pakistan’s surveillance state matters beyond its borders. When a fragile democracy like Pakistan adopts the Chinese model, it sends a message to other countries that repression can be imported, and authoritarian technology can be globalized. The spread of systems like WMS 2.0 is not just a Pakistani issue; it is a challenge to the very idea of digital freedom worldwide. What is tested in Balochistan today may be exported to Central Asia or other parts of the world tomorrow.

Takeaway

The track record of Pakistan’s current civil-military regime paints a bleak picture of the country’s future. It can continue down the Chinese path, perfecting the machinery of digital authoritarianism while hollowing out its democratic promises. Or it can confront the reality that surveillance without oversight is not security but tyranny.

That would mean empowering courts to enforce warrant requirements, demanding transparency from telecom companies, and refusing to import technologies designed to silence. Yet Pakistan is far from this path, given its recent trajectory on political representation and its crackdown on former Prime Minister Imran Khan.

For now, the temptation for authoritarian rule in Islamabad and Rawalpindi appears irresistible. Surveillance is cheap when subsidized by Beijing and comes in handy when backed by military power. Moreover, it is politically convenient to silence opposing voices en masse. But in choosing this path, Pakistan risks not only violating the rights of its citizens but eroding the very legitimacy it seeks to protect.

The firewall may shield those in power from criticism today, but it will also trap them in a model of governance that cannot tolerate transparency, accountability, or debate. The verdict is clear that Pakistan’s surveillance state is not merely domestic. It is the Great Firewall of China with Pakistani characteristics, assembled in Islamabad, and tested in Balochistan.