The General Who Became King: Pakistan’s Democracy in Mourning
By: Raja Zahid Akhtar Khanzada
When The New York Times, in its May 2025 edition, declared General Asim Munir as “Pakistan’s most powerful man,”
it was not merely an analysis—
but a global recognition that real rule in Pakistan no longer comes from elected assemblies,
but from those shadows that breed and spread within the barracks.
“Pakistan’s Most Powerful Man Steps Out of the Shadows to Confront India”
This was not just a headline of a news report,
but a mirror that laid bare Pakistan’s political landscape before the whole world.
When these shadows of power stepped forward,
the world realized that here, the shadow of the uniform has become deeper than the light of the Constitution.
It was not just a commentary,
but a warning, that in this state, power is not gained through the gun,
but through a psychological stranglehold of fear, silence, and obedience.
And when a general is called “an unelected king in the guise of democracy,”
it is not just a critique of a military role,
but an open satire on the helplessness of parliament, the expediency of the judiciary, and the hypocrisy of the media.
This sentence is also a whip across the faces of those Pakistani politicians
who today are clapping as they crown a new dictatorship but tomorrow, these same people will be remembered in history as traitors to democracy.
Sometimes, global media holds up a mirror and this time, that mirror was so clear
that we were afraid to look at our true reflection.
Mr. General Asim becoming Field Marshal is like the climax of a film
in which the hero, the villain, the director, and the censor board are all the same person. It seems as if Pakistan’s history is not repeating itself , but repeating its wounds.
Where once there was supremacy of the Constitution, now there are only medals, badges, and ceremonial salutes.
Where the value of democracy was once spoken, now the throne is occupied by the uniform.
But this time, something is different… something new.
In the uniform, there isn’t just power but a halo of sanctity, which has placed it above fault and beyond question.
Truly, this is a Field Marshal who neither brought victory in war nor protected any border Rather, he has occupied only one battlefield , the battlefield of narrative,
Where media bowed, judiciary hesitated, and politicians placed a hat on their own conscience.
In Pakistan, the gates of parliament are now no less than a stage.
Where every actor holds a script, and that script is written on some desk in GHQ. What kind of Field Marshal is this ? who fought no war in a battlefield, but kept fighting in newsrooms? Who never mounted a tank, but stormed Twitter?
Whose greatest conquest was gaining control of a banner at some political rally in Pakistan?
This position was neither given nor earned. It was manufactured by those politicians who have become puppets in his hands. Just like someone announcing the birth of a child and saying:
“Today, we have created our own father.”
It is said that Imran Khan made a mistake by colliding with the institutions. But perhaps it was this very mistake that made him a question of history. When everyone was chanting the rosary of “Yes Sir,”
He said “No.”
He accepted imprisonment, but refused to bow his head. Today, he is in jail. But his narrative is alive Because narratives are not imprisoned, Narratives do not become elegies, Narratives become resistance.
Imran Khan made mistakes,
Yes, he did , but he did not remain silent. When flattery echoed in the halls of power, He was the only voice that echoed dissent. When others said “Yes Sir” and broke their pens,
He wrote truth on the walls of the room.
Today, he is shackled in chains,
But his narrative is free. And narratives are never bound. He has not found purification through courts, He has attained it through his resistance.
The day he unveiled the face of the establishment,
That very day he ceased to be just a politician. He became a symbol… A symbol of standing against oppression.
Now whether he is in prison or in a palace, The walls no longer matter to him Because he is now a narrative.
And narratives… do not become elegies, They become resistance.
On the other side, where does Bhutto’s party stand today?
The one that gave the people awareness, taught them to fight oppression, and turned the vote into power. Today, that same party, once considered a symbol of resistance,
Stands silently in the court of power,
Carrying the funeral of its founder’s ideology on its shoulders.
Bhutto’s soul must surely be restless today, That the caravan to which I once showed the destination of democracy,
That very caravan today wanders in the desert of self-interest.
Are these the inheritors of my ideology?
Those who sold their conscience to purchase loyalty to the uniform?
Those who could not remain loyal to their lands and rivers,
How will they remain loyal to the nation?
In the halls of the National Assembly and Senate now, there is only one fragrance. The fragrance of obedience, compromise, and silence.
Politicians are standing in line:
Some for the promise of a ministry,
Some for the price of release,
Some just so their next turn isn’t taken away.
These are the same people who, until yesterday, used to say:
“We do not trade on principles!”
And today… Principles have become their most valuable merchandise.
Look over here ! Asim’s uniform has been given the throne,
And the nation has been handed ration cards. One hand holds the baton, the other the constitution,
And in between lies the silence of the judiciary,
The caution of the media,
And in the eyes of the public, that dream. Which once was shown by Quaid-e-Azam,
Now plays on the screen of ISPR.
Such is the marvel of time. It turns thrones into lessons of regret, and prisons into symbols of honor.
Remember this
The Field Marshal who today wears the “Medal of Salvation,”
Will tomorrow be known in history by the “Medal of Shame.”
The politicians who today are blinded by enmity against Imran Khan,
They fail to realize that they have mistaken boots for crowns.
The political-military alliance that today tramples on public rights,
Will tomorrow be marked as a stain in history.
Today’s silence will become tomorrow’s uprising.
Today’s medal will become tomorrow’s badge of disgrace.
Who knows , maybe tomorrow’s history books will write:
“This was the time when politicians sold democracy,
And made the army boot their flag.”
And when the uniform becomes the throne,
Whether it is Zardari or Shehbaz,
Bilawal or Fazlur Rehman,
MQM or other self-interested ones
All become mere pawns on the chessboard, Whose moves are decided by someone else.
We saw Ayub, endured Zia, forgot Musharraf. And now we are watching Asim being made Field Marshal.
But alas… This salute is not for awareness, It is being given to apathy.
Now perhaps even history will not forgive us. That we saw all of this,
Understood it too…
And still only clapped.
This is the wonder of time, It has the art of turning thrones into warnings,
And prisons into symbols of honor.
Today, those rulers who sit upon seats of power, Who, in enmity against Imran Khan, buried their own principles, Perhaps they don’t realize
That tomorrow’s generations will remember them as “constitutional thugs”.
Those who kept chanting slogans of democracy,
But took refuge in the shadow of military boots.
Decline never comes with explosions
It comes silently, on tiptoe,
When uniforms are crowned, and courts are made into stamp pads.
When the throne belongs to the uniform. Then politicians, be it Zardari or Shehbaz, Bilawal or Maulana Fazlur Rehman, MQM or anyone else
All become just chess pawns,
Whose moves are written by the general’s finger,
And over whose silence we clap hands, Hammering the final nail into the coffin of history.
This nation has always lived in the shadow of victors. But shadows are never lanterns,
They give no light, nor show any path.
Who knows…
Maybe tomorrow’s history will be the same one. That the establishment has been writing since 1947?
And our generations will read only that truth. Which was not written with a pen, but imposed with power.
A truth…
In which the constitution is silent,
The conscience is mute,
And only the uniform speaks.
