Pakistan may be approaching one of those rare moments in its history when the choices before it are no longer about who wins the next election, but whether the country itself can be made to work.
For nearly four decades, two political families have dominated the country’s civilian power structure. Governments have changed, alliances have shifted and political slogans have been reinvented, but the families at the centre of power have remained remarkably constant.
When the father dies, the daughter steps forward. When the wife dies, the husband assumes the mantle. When one brother retires, another brother steps in. And when the family needs another seat of power, the daughter takes control of the country’s largest province. Now the third generation is being prepared to inherit the political throne. This is not democracy in its healthiest form. It is hereditary politics masquerading as democracy.
The disturbing part is not merely that political dynasties exist. It is that after almost forty years of their dominance, Pakistan is in a worse state than it was when they began their political journey.
The country has a young and rapidly growing population, but millions of its children remain outside school. Pakistan has the world’s largest populations of out-of-school children—despite sizeable allocations for education in public budgets. What does that tell us about the quality of governance?
Our hospitals struggle. Our universities struggle. Our young people struggle to find jobs. Our economy repeatedly requires external bailouts. Our justice system moves at a glacial pace. Our bureaucracy remains largely designed around controlling citizens rather than serving them. And perhaps most painfully, there appears to be an extraordinary disconnect between those who govern Pakistan and those who live in it.
This is where Field Marshal General Asim Munir’s historic responsibility begins. He may be the last realistic opportunity Pakistan has to undertake fundamental reforms before the country’s institutional decay becomes almost impossible to reverse.
This is not an argument for another dictatorship. Nor should it be interpreted as an endorsement of permanent military rule. Pakistan has experimented with that before. The argument is much simpler: the existing political, administrative and judicial system has failed to deliver, and merely changing the occupants of political offices will not fix it.
Pakistan needs structural reform. A country captured by dynasties For almost forty years, the Pakistan People’s Party and Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz, under the leadership of the Bhutto-Zardari and Sharif families, have been among the country’s most powerful political forces.
The problem is that both have increasingly come to resemble family enterprises rather than modern democratic political institutions. Political succession is treated almost like inheritance.
The son succeeds the father. The daughter succeeds the father. The husband succeeds the wife. One brother retires and another brother steps in. A daughter takes charge of the country’s largest province. The grandchildren are introduced into politics while still young enough to have spent much of their lives away from the realities faced by ordinary Pakistanis. It is difficult to find another serious democracy where the question of who governs is so frequently answered by looking at a family tree.
The problem is not simply who occupies a particular office. The deeper problem is the absence of institutional succession. Political parties that should produce leadership from within society instead keep recycling the same surnames. Meanwhile, the country they seek to govern has been sinking deeper into poverty, debt, institutional dysfunction and hopelessness.
Their defenders will point to individual projects and periods of economic growth. They will remind us of roads, power plants, infrastructure projects and social programmes. But governance should ultimately be judged by outcomes. And the outcomes are deeply troubling.
Pakistan’s education crisis is perhaps the clearest indictment of successive governments. A country with one of the world’s largest populations of children continues to have one of the world’s largest out-of-school populations, despite substantial public spending allocated to education. That is not simply an education problem. It is a governance failure.
If governments cannot ensure that children attend school after decades of political rule, what exactly have those governments been governing? And those who do attend public schools frequently receive an education that leaves them poorly prepared for a modern economy. The privileged send their children to elite private schools or overseas universities. The children of ordinary Pakistanis are left to compete with vastly inferior opportunities. The result is a country that is wasting its greatest resource: its people.
The economic story is equally depressing. Pakistan has repeatedly gone to the IMF, negotiated rescue programmes, imposed temporary austerity and then returned to the same structural weaknesses that caused the crisis in the first place.
The tax base remains narrow. Exports remain inadequate. State-owned enterprises continue to drain public resources.
Energy-sector problems persist. Productivity remains low. And ordinary Pakistanis pay the price.
For the salaried middle class, inflation has eroded purchasing power. For the poor, basic necessities increasingly consume most of their income. For young graduates, a university degree is no guarantee of employment. Yet the political elite continues to live in a different Pakistan.
Perhaps nothing illustrates that disconnect better than the fascination of our political elite with London. When the two major political families need to consult, negotiate or settle important political matters, London has often appeared to be a more convenient meeting place than Islamabad.
What message does that send? Pakistan seems to be the place where power is exercised, while London is where important decisions are discussed. Their critics accuse members of these families of accumulating enormous wealth and maintaining assets abroad. Some of these allegations remain matters of political controversy or legal dispute and should ultimately be determined through credible investigation and due process. But the larger question is not even about individual bank accounts. It is about belonging.
If your children live abroad, your family spends much of its time abroad, your assets are concentrated abroad and your preferred destinations for healthcare, education and leisure are abroad, what does Pakistan mean to you?
For too many members of the elite, Pakistan appears to have become a place where political power can be exercised and wealth accumulated, while the benefits of a comfortable life are enjoyed elsewhere. Pakistan cannot remain a playground and money-making machine for a privileged few.
Perhaps the most unforgivable failure has been the apathy towards the suffering of ordinary citizens. The Pakistani does not wake up worrying about political engineering in Islamabad. He worries about the electricity bill. The mother worries about whether she can afford her child’s school fees. The father worries about finding employment for his son. The patient worries about whether a government hospital will treat him. The young graduate worries about whether he will have to leave Pakistan to build a future. The shopkeeper worries about taxes. The farmer worries about the cost of fertiliser and electricity. And the family living on the edge worries about whether it can afford its next meal. This is the Pakistan that political elites too often fail to see.
If General Asim Munir wants to leave behind a meaningful legacy, he must think beyond political arrangements and address the three pillars on which the state itself rests.
First, Political Reform. Pakistan needs to seriously consider replacing its failed parliamentary model with a presidential form of government. For decades, parliamentary politics has produced unstable governments, fragile coalitions, horse-trading and a political culture dominated by hereditary families rather than institutions. A directly elected president with a fixed mandate could provide stability, clear accountability and continuity of policy, while a strong parliament, independent judiciary, free elections and constitutional checks would prevent the presidency from becoming authoritarian. At the same time, political parties must cease functioning as family properties, with leadership passed from father to daughter, husband to wife or brother to brother. Pakistan also needs genuinely empowered and directly elected local governments so that power reaches the citizen instead of remaining concentrated in Islamabad and provincial capitals. The objective should not be to decide who gets to rule Pakistan, but to create a system in which nobody can own Pakistan.
Second, administrative reform. Pakistan’s colonial bureaucracy must be transformed into a professional, performance-driven public service. Districts and municipalities must have real authority, resources and accountability. Government officials should be judged by what they deliver to citizens—not merely by how long they have served.
Third, judicial reform. A judicial system where ordinary cases can continue for years or decades cannot deliver justice or create confidence in the state. Justice delayed is justice denied, and Pakistan cannot build a modern economy without reliable rule of law.
General Asim Munir will eventually leave office. Every military chief does. Every prime minister does. Every political dynasty eventually fades. But Pakistan remains. That is why his success should not be measured by how long his influence lasts, how many political opponents he defeats or how powerful the establishment becomes. It should be measured by whether Pakistan becomes a country capable of functioning without depending on powerful individuals. A country where a poor child’s talent matters more than his father’s connections. Where a young graduate can find a job without knowing a politician. Where a patient can enter a hospital without knowing someone inside. Where a citizen can go to court and expect justice within his lifetime. Where government offices exist to solve problems rather than create them. And where political leadership is a public service—not a family inheritance.
Pakistan’s younger generation is already losing faith in the country. Many see their future elsewhere. If fundamental reform fails again, the country will become increasingly unlivable—not just for the young, but eventually for everyone except those wealthy enough to buy their way out of its failures.
This may therefore be Asim Munir’s last chance—not to rule Pakistan, but to reform it. He should resist the temptation to think merely in terms of his tenure or his regime. History will judge him not by how powerful he was, but by what he did with that power.
He should make sure that this nation does not fail this time. He must think beyond his regime, beyond his tenure and beyond himself—and act for Pakistan, for its ordinary people and for the generations yet to come.
