The Pendulum State
Stuck in the Swing: Power Plays, Broken Promises!
Nations, like people, carry memory in their bones. And sometimes, that memory loops. Not in circles, but in swings—forward and back. In Pakistan, this rhythm has become its most familiar pattern. The shape of its democracy is recognizable but unfinished, constantly contested and rarely settled.
Pakistan was born from a political movement that promised representation, dignity, and voice. But as soon as the ink dried on partition maps, the machinery of state leaned in a different direction. Colonial structures—laws written to control; institutions built for obedience—were not dismantled. They were inherited. And in time, they reasserted themselves.
In 1954, a sitting assembly was dismissed not through violence, but through argument. The courts called it necessary. That word—necessary—opened a door that’s never quite been shut. What began as a legal justification became a habit. If democratic institutions became inconvenient, they could be paused. If elections empowered the wrong voices, the outcome could be adjusted.
Over time, this arrangement hardened. Elected governments entered office but never fully held power. Cabinets changed. Parliaments turned over. Yet some lines were never crossed. Policies that interfered with entrenched interests were quietly abandoned. Political parties that grew too bold were splintered. The rules of the game were visible, but not always consistent.
But power doesn’t sustain itself through rules alone. It needs stories. And the most enduring story was rewritten in the late 1970s and 80s. Under the banner of Islamization, national identity was narrowed. Schoolbooks no longer taught students about the Indus Valley or Gandhara. Regional cultures were treated as security risks. Heroes wore one face. Dissent wore another.
It wasn’t just a change in syllabus. It was a shift in the national mirror.
A more centralized identity blurred the space for democratic pluralism. Politics and religion mixed. Over time, this made the idea of electoral choice feel less like freedom and more like disruption.
Even civilian leaders absorbed this mindset. Political parties lost their ideological edges and drifted toward survival. Alliances were based less on vision, more on calculation. As Juan Linz once said, democracies can decay not only when they are overthrown, but when their defenders stop believing in the rules.
And yet, democracy in Pakistan never disappeared. It persisted in flashes—courtrooms packed with protesting lawyers, voters standing in line despite intimidation, journalists speaking through layers of pressure. As Anatol Lieven noted in Pakistan: A Hard Country, the state may wobble, but the people often do not. The strength of society keeps pulling the system back from collapse.
Still, the weight of the pendulum has grown heavier. In recent years, institutions have begun to overstep even their traditional boundaries. Courts have grown entangled in political battles. Electoral procedures are questioned before votes are even cast. Parties are stripped of their identities through legal and administrative decisions, leaving candidates scattered and citizens confused.
The state continues to prioritise control. National priorities reflect this. As Hassan Abbas observes in Pakistan’s Democratic Transition, resources flow toward sectors tied to institutional influence, while basic services like education and healthcare are left to make do. This is not just a matter of numbers. It is a reflection of belief—of what the state sees as worth protecting.
The impact runs deep. Young people feel disconnected from politics that does not speak to them. Marginalized communities grow skeptical of a system that rarely delivers. Citizens, when treated as mere observers in their own democracy, begin to withdraw—or resist.
Foreign powers have not helped this imbalance. In the years following 9/11, Pakistan was rewarded not for reform, but for reliability. Aid arrived, but with strings tied to security cooperation, not democratic development. The goal was stability, even if that meant empowering the very institutions that resisted accountability.
And yet, the chance for change remains. Pakistan has seen democratic moments before—imperfect, interrupted, but real. The public still shows up. The demand for justice hasn’t faded. The need for reform is not a matter of theory. It is a matter of survival.
The first step is clarity. Institutions must return to their lanes. The judiciary must not only be free on paper but protected in practice. Judicial appointments cannot become tools for influence. The courts must serve the people—not the powerful.
Elections must be credible. Tally discrepancies must not be brushed aside. Trust is hard-earned and easily lost. Technology can help, but the real solution lies in transparency and accountability.
Education must become a space for truth, not indoctrination. History should not be sanitized or weaponized. Students deserve a curriculum that reflects the complexity of the country they live in—not a version of it edited for loyalty.
Local governance must be restored—not just in spirit, but in funding. Districts and provinces need authority and resources, not symbolic gestures. And land reform must return to the agenda. Power that clings to land will always stand in the way of democracy that flows from the people.
Most of all, the political culture must change. Democracy is built not on winning, but on losing—and returning. If elections continue to be treated as existential battles, the system cannot hold. A party that loses must not fear dismantling. Leaders must not fear exile. Until defeat becomes normal, democracy will remain fragile.
Pakistan has the tools. It has the history. It even has the desire. But it also has a choice to make. The pendulum can keep swinging. Or the nation can decide to steady it.
Because a future cannot be built by managing decline. It must be shaped by collective courage—the kind that trusts its people enough to let them lead.