In late April 2025, the serene valley of Pahalgam was shattered by a brutal terrorist assault that claimed the lives of twenty-six innocent pilgrims, an attack swiftly blamed on militant networks backed across the border in Pakistan. The outrage that swept through India in the wake of that massacre—followed by immediate diplomatic expulsions, shutdown of airspace and cross-border transport, and escalating rhetoric on both sides—once again laid bare the fraught relationship between civilian authority and military power in South Asia.
As both sides mobilise troops along the Line of Control and international mediators call for calm, the Pahalgam tragedy underscores how deeply the shadow of the uniform still looms over South Asian politics. It also raises the urgent question of whether India’s decades-long experiment in civilian supremacy can withstand the pressures of a resurgent security crisis—and whether Pakistan’s recurring reliance on military rule will ever give way to strong, accountable civilian institutions. This single, devastating incident in a mountain hamlet thus becomes more than an episode of terror; it crystallises the enduring struggle over who truly commands power in two of the world’s most populous nuclear states, and what that contest means for peace, democracy, and the lives of millions on either side of the border.
India’s Tight Grip on the Sword
In New Delhi’s civil-military story, the first chapter was written by Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister. Fresh from independence and the horrors of Partition, Nehru was determined that India would never slip into dictatorship, especially not at the point of a gun. He famously told the first chief of army staff to remember that the Indian Army was answerable to Parliament, not to any political party or leader.
The result was a culture of military restraint. No Indian coup was even attempted, unlike in Pakistan where officers grabbed power in 1958, 1977 and 1999. During the Emergency of 1975, when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi suspended civil liberties, the world wondered if India’s army would step in. In fact, the Army Chief at the time, General T N Raina, firmly declined to be used in political fights. When the government asked for troops to help with political rallies or internal controls, Raina refused. He later explained that the army must stay out of politics. Indian soldiers remained focused on their borders, not marching on Parliament.
On Indian Republic Day, troops are annually seen doing their parade down New Delhi’s central road under the watchful eyes of their civilian leaders. This image of disciplined soldiers in service of democracy has been cultivated since 1947. It was not inevitable. There were moments of tension: after 1962, Indira Gandhi worried the expanded army might feel unrestrained. She responded by diversifying military units and raising large paramilitary forces to handle internal security so that the army’s role stayed external. Over time, successive leaders kept the army firmly under civilian oversight.
Budgetary control became a key tool. All major weapons purchases and procurement decisions were placed under the Defence Ministry – answerable to ministers and lawmakers. In 2001, India set up the Defence Acquisition Council, which requires civilian approval for any big-ticket military buy. Today, projects like jet fighters or tanks must pass layers of democratic vetting. India has also pushed for domestic arms production: programs under the “Make in India” or “Aatmanirbhar Bharat” campaigns aim to keep the country’s growing military spending within industries run by civilians. By tying the army’s gains to national goals – building factories, creating jobs – India’s leaders ensure that generals expand their powers only with political blessing.
This single, devastating incident in Pahalgam is more than an episode of terror; it crystallises the enduring struggle over who truly commands power in two of the world’s most populous nuclear states, and what that contest means for peace, democracy, and the lives of millions on either side of the border
Beyond rules and budgets, India has built strong civilian institutions that earned public trust. The Election Commission, the Supreme Court, and the Parliament have largely functioned independently, making it hard for any military figure to claim a popular mandate. The combination of institutional design and political culture has yielded a noteworthy record: in 75 years, India has never been ruled by a general. The army remains hugely respected, but it maintains an image of apolitical professionalism. For the everyday Indian, the army is seen as a protector of the country, not a player in its internal power games.
Pakistan’s Security State
Across the border, the story unfolded very differently. Pakistan’s early history was marked by acute dangers and uncertainties. Its founder, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, ruled for only a short time before dying of illness in 1948. The first Prime Minister, Liaquat Ali Khan, inherited a country just born out of communal violence, cut off from half its population by geography. Almost immediately, Pakistan found itself in a shooting war with India over Kashmir.
The result was a classic “security state” model. Pakistan invested heavily in defence, often at the expense of civilian institutions. Schools, factories, and hospitals received a much smaller slice of the budget. In the 1950s and 1960s, generals ran the country’s most important hospitals and universities while still in uniform. The army’s motto became one of guardianship: no civilian leader was strong enough to stand alone. As one longstanding Pakistani politician would remark decades later, in Pakistan the military was seen as the only unifying force in a fragmented country.
In Pakistan’s early decades, every major political crisis was followed by military intervention. The first army chief, General Ayub Khan, took power in a 1958 coup, promising to save Pakistan from incompetent politicians. He was followed by General Yahya Khan, who continued this trend. In 1977, General Zia-ul-Haq overthrew elected leader Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, and in 1999, General Pervez Musharraf ousted Nawaz Sharif. Each time, the justification was similar: only the army could prevent chaos or defend the country’s honour.
But this cycle had deeper roots than individual leaders. At partition, the British had unbalanced the forces: the newly created Pakistan army was dominated by men from West Punjab, who held most of the senior posts. East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) and other provinces felt sidelined. That imbalance hardened regional resentments and gave West Pakistani generals a big political advantage over civilians. It also left Pakistan’s political class disorganised. The Muslim League – Pakistan’s founding party – was structured top-down, not built on strong democratic institutions. While India’s Congress party had mass support and branches in every region, Pakistan’s League was weaker and more factional.
The mix of an ambitious army and fragile politicians created what Pakistanis came to call “the establishment.” This informal club included generals, but also powerful bureaucrats, some judges, and business elites. Together they would make big decisions behind the scenes. Often, elections in Pakistan have been held under the watchful eyes of military intelligence, with certain candidates quietly disqualified or campaigns limited. It became widely believed that one could not be a serious politician without the army’s nod of approval. In fact, in the 1980s and 1990s, several leaders deliberately courted the generals: they sought army support to win elections, and in return they agreed to keep defence spending high and not challenge military interests.
Even in the economy and society, the army’s footprint grew. There are factories and businesses in Pakistan run by retired generals, from cement plants to sugar factories. Many senior bureaucrats began their careers in the military or maintained close ties to it. In cities like Islamabad and Rawalpindi, the neighbourhoods around army cantonments became some of the most exclusive, blurring the line between military and civilian life.
Importantly, Pakistan’s geopolitics also reinforced the army’s position. For decades, the United States and other powers saw Pakistan’s army as an ally against jihadist threats or a counterweight to India. Pakistan’s officers were trained abroad, received generous foreign aid, and enjoyed the prestige of international military partnerships. This external backing often buffered them from domestic criticism. When civilian politicians complained about military overreach, the generals could point to their track record fighting wars or terror, which bolstered public trust in them as protectors.
By the 1990s and 2000s, Pakistan’s pattern was clear: behind every civilian government lurked the possibility of a general’s intervention. When crises struck – wars, economic collapses, or mass protests – politicians often appealed to the generals for help or at least acquiesced when the army said, “hand us the reins.” The country’s Constitution was amended to suit military leaders (for instance, granting the army chief more powers), and when those leaders stepped down, they typically retained influence over the next government. Even when a general eventually returned power to an elected leader, it was usually on terms written by the military.
Despite facing numerous challenges, India’s decades-long commitment to civilian supremacy over its military stands as a testament to the power of strong, independent institutions in safeguarding democratic principles
When Soldiers Rule: Coups and Courts
Pakistan’s history of military rule reads like a tense thriller. In 1958, barely a decade old, Pakistan saw its first General — Ayub Khan — impose martial law and rewrite the constitution. He ruled for over a decade, telling Pakistanis he had saved the country from bankruptcy and war. When he was finally pressured out, it was another general, Yahya Khan, who took over and oversaw Pakistan’s breakup in 1971 (East Pakistan becoming Bangladesh) before ceding to civilian rule in 1972.
In 1977, a crisis over a disputed election led General Zia-ul-Haq to oust Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Zia ruled for a decade under strict martial law, using Islam as a rallying point and purging dissidents. After Zia’s death in a plane crash in 1988, civilians took over briefly, but stability was short-lived. In 1999, General Musharraf marched in a helicopter to topple Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif, who had fired him as army chief. Like his predecessors, Musharraf promised quick elections and a tough stance on terrorism; instead, he ruled for eight years, eventually stepping down in 2008 under popular pressure.
Each coup reshaped Pakistan’s political system. Judicial courts often found themselves validating these takeovers. For example, after Ayub’s coup, Pakistan’s Supreme Court “legalised” military rule by inventing a doctrine of necessity. Many lawyers and judges believed at the time that justices should not stand in the way of what the army claimed were national emergencies. This pattern repeated under other generals: judges effectively surrendered Pakistan’s democracy on the grounds that the generals would fix what years of democratic governance had broken. Only later have courts occasionally backed civilians — in 2007, Pakistan’s Supreme Court ruled that Musharraf’s imposition of emergency was unconstitutional, which helped force new elections. But even then, the pendulum tended to swing back toward military interests.
Electoral politics was another battleground. In the 1980s and 1990s, parties aligned either with the generals or against them. Those against the military risked jail or exile; those with the army’s favour often won elections more easily. Take the 1990 election, widely seen as rigged to favour Nawaz Sharif. Or the 2008 elections under Musharraf: in that case, the army surprisingly stayed neutral, allowing a freer vote which delivered a civilian government. Yet many say that neutrality itself was a carefully managed act by the generals to let the army claim credit for “restoring democracy” on schedule, and then maintain influence through friendly coalitions. By 2013 and 2018, retired army generals and intelligence chiefs openly backed candidates behind the scenes.
Even when not physically ruling, the army exerted dominance through economic and legal power. During his rule, Musharraf amended laws so that offenses against the army became criminalised – essentially making public criticism of military leaders dangerous. In recent years, Pakistan passed laws that put parts of the army’s vast business empire on a constitutional footing, and they even allowed military-run special courts to try civilians for certain crimes. These steps meant that even Pakistan’s civilian leaders have had to think twice before opposing the generals; the constitution and courts, which should protect democracy, sometimes looked more like tools of the army.
Meanwhile, Pakistan’s politics and governance often suffered. Elected governments struggled to manage the economy, implement reform, or create social programs, partly because big parts of the state were out of their control. Successive civilian ministers complained of two booted dictators in their offices: one in uniform who occasionally showed up to set policy, and the other on their feet. The phrase “democracy is on paper but military calls the tune” became a common lament.
Through it all, public opinion about the army has been a paradox. Surveys and elections suggest that Pakistanis generally want civilian rule. But when asked whom they trust most, many still name the generals over politicians – a reflection of persistent faith that the army can provide stability in chaos. This faith made possible something called “reactive militarism”: whenever civilian institutions appeared too weak to govern, popular demand for a ‘saviour’ heightened the generals’ justification for stepping in. Another term, “designed militarism,” describes when generals like Ayub actively plotted coups to shape Pakistan’s destiny. And “premeditated” campaigns like Musharraf’s show the military could be opportunistic, waiting until a moment of crisis to act.
Pakistan’s history is marked by a recurring pattern of military intervention in governance, highlighting the vulnerability of nascent civilian institutions when political systems are perceived as weak
Whose State? Institutions Under Strain
In India, Political parties of every stripe have declared loyalty to the flag, and voters have punished anyone seen as trying to enlist the army for politics. Over time, this broad consensus became a kind of iron law in India: civil government must remain supreme, the army only a defender.
Pakistan’s civilian side never managed the same consensus. Weak parties and rampant corruption eroded public trust in politicians. Judges in Pakistan sometimes leaned toward the military, especially when courts were too threatened or co-opted. A telling sign: after the 2007 emergency, when Musharraf suspended the constitution and arrested judges, the very next year new elections saw Pakistan’s Supreme Court actually endorse those polls and the elected government. But this victory was short-lived as courts later split over who was right and wrong in a chess game of political appointments. Even now, accusations fly that judges or bureaucrats act in favour of one general or another.
One striking contrast is how the two armies handled internal security. India, a large and diverse country with ongoing social challenges, chose to build huge paramilitary forces (the Border Security Force, Central Reserve Police, etc.) to deal with riots, insurgency, and communal unrest. Pakistan, by contrast, often left its regular army to do most security tasks. So, India’s soldiers rarely felt the temptation to see themselves as the nation’s police; they could train for international threats while others handled home issues. In Pakistan, the line between fighting terrorists or quelling protests and protecting the country’s borders has been blurry. Army generals fighting militants at home only reinforced the image that they were the ultimate authority on national survival.
Of course, Pakistan has seen moments of pushback and hope. The late 1980s and 1990s brought alternating civilian governments, some of which tried to assert independence. Civil society – lawyers, journalists, teachers – have at times rallied against military excess (notably after Zia’s death, and during the Lawyers’ Movement in 2007-09, which pressured Musharraf into exile). These movements suggest Pakistan’s democracy was never dead, only deeply wounded. Today, Pakistan’s politics remains tumultuous, with complaints on all sides about who is really in control.
Even so, there are glimmers of change. The judiciary in Islamabad has grown a bit more independent, striking down some military overreach (though this can vary with the prevailing winds). Pakistan’s public has also shown a surprising appetite for civilian accountability: in 2008 and 2013, Pakistanis overwhelmingly voted for parties that pledged to curb the army’s influence. The challenge is whether their leaders can actually follow through.
Key Takeaways
India and Pakistan began life together but have travelled two roads of civil-military relations. India’s experiment has largely succeeded in aligning its military under civilian rule, even as it expanded into a major power. Pakistan’s has often faltered, as its army repeatedly took political control. Why this divergence? It traces back to those first years: India’s nationalists built a pluralistic state with competing centres of power, while Pakistan’s founders faced an existential siege mentality that empowered the generals. India’s democracy matured over decades with civilians learning to navigate crises. In Pakistan, each shock – war, economic downturn, or political scandal – fed the army’s narrative that only soldiers could rescue the nation.
The consequences are tangible. India today has a vibrant democracy with regular elections, visible accountability (from media freedom to tough questions in Parliament), and an army that answers to civilian ministers. The country’s strategic autonomy – choosing its own alliances and policies – reflects that independent line. Pakistan, meanwhile, still struggles with the tug-of-war between courts and generals, and civilian governments often need to placate the army to govern. Its foreign policy has sometimes aligned closely with military thinking (for instance, a focus on India and Afghanistan) and only recently begun to diversify.
Yet, neither country stands entirely alone. International pressures shape both. India’s growing clout means it can afford to keep the army in reserve, while global support for Pakistan’s military (by allies like the United States or China, for example) has historically given Pakistan’s generals leverage at home. That may be shifting too: as the world’s problems evolve, fewer big powers want to prop up military rule anywhere. In both capitals, civilian leaders know they must deliver on jobs, growth, and rights if they want to keep legitimacy.
The future of South Asia hinges on both India and Pakistan reinforcing the principle that a nation’s strength lies in a professional, apolitical military that defends its values without seeking to govern
For readers wondering what it all means, the story holds a key lesson: a healthy democracy needs its army to be professional but apolitical. The army’s job is to protect borders and support its country’s values – not to police its politics. India’s experience suggests that building strong, fair institutions (and trusting them) can check military ambition. Pakistan’s history shows the opposite: when governments look weak, generals can become kingmakers.
As the new generations of soldiers and citizens look ahead, both societies face choices. India must continue to guard against complacency – ensuring that even popular governments respect checks and balances so the army never finds an excuse to intrude. Pakistan will have to decide whether it can muster the political will and public support to truly place the generals on the sidelines. It may involve painful reckonings: strengthening elections against undue influence, reforming security forces, and teaching both civilian and military leaders that accountability is not weakness but strength.
In the end, the flags on that border have their stories to tell. The Indian tricolour flutters in a democracy that has endured test after test. The Pakistani flag flutters in a country still searching for its balance between guns and ballots. The future of South Asia’s peace and prosperity depends on both leaders and their armies learning the same lesson – a nation is the safest and strongest when its military defends it without ruling it.
Koomar Bihangam Choudhury is a UGC-NET and AIBE-qualified advocate with an LL.M. in IPR and Technology Law from Jindal Global Law School. He is admitted to the High Court of Patna and is preparing for doctoral research.
Tarun Yadav holds an LL.M. in Intellectual Property Rights from Jindal Global University and has published on patent law and civil-military relations
