Why there is no lawyers’ movement in Pakistan today

In 2007, live television turned a sacked chief justice into a national uprising that ended Gen Musharraf’s rule. A lawyer who marched then, and resigned from the Supreme Court in protest last year, explains why that isn’t happening now.

Athar Minallah 

Published July 13, 2026  

The Lawyers’ Movement of 2007-2009 is considered one of the most significant episodes of civic mobilisation in the country’s history. What began as a dispute over the suspension of the chief justice of Pakistan evolved into a nationwide campaign to challenge Gen Musharraf’s rule.

The reinstatement of a handful of deposed judges was symbolic. Its true importance lay in restoring the Constitution, ending a decade of dictatorship, facilitating the return to democratic governance, and reaffirming the principle that political authority must derive from the will of the people, rather than from unelected centres of power.

The conventional explanation given for the movement’s success focuses on lawyers, judges, and political parties. All three groups played a role, but this reasoning overlooks a fundamental factor: the movement’s ability to transform a constitutional dispute into a compelling national narrative.

Understanding why that happened explains why no comparable lawyers’ movement exists today, despite continuing debates about constitutionalism, judicial independence, and the rule of law.

When it began, of course, the 2007 Lawyers’ Movement was hardly a mass uprising. In those days, most Pakistanis had little direct engagement with judicial politics. The turning point came when private television channels began providing continuous live coverage of protests, court proceedings, and political developments. For days, weeks, and months, prominent lawyers such as Aitzaz Ahsan, Muneer Malik, Hamid Khan, Tariq Mehmud, and Ali Ahmad Kurd addressed audiences live on television, openly challenging the authority of Gen Pervez Musharraf, who simultaneously held the offices of president and chief of army staff. He had underestimated the impact of live visuals.

This was unprecedented. Millions of Pakistanis watched lawyers criticise the country’s most powerful institutions in realtime. Rallies, arrests, police actions, and courtroom developments were broadcast live, transforming what might otherwise have remained a professional dispute on a national political cause.

The significance of this media environment cannot be overstated. Political movements succeed not simply because grievances exist, but because they become visible, shared, and emotionally resonant. Live television allowed citizens to witness events as they unfolded, turning isolated protests into a national conversation. Images of the chief justice being manhandled by police, unarmed lawyers in their black coats resisting arrest, the violence in Karachi on May 12, 2007, and, later that same evening, Gen Musharraf displaying his arrogance by raising his fists and declaring victory, transformed a constitutional dispute into a moral drama that was beamed into millions of living rooms.

An often-overlooked aspect of the movement is that, in its initial months, the judiciary itself did not immediately emerge as a united institution of resistance. Following the chief justice’s suspension in March 2007, judges continued functioning within the existing judicial framework. Between March and November, however, the movement gathered extraordinary momentum through relentless media coverage and sustained public mobilisation. Twenty-four-hour television transformed lawyers into national figures and judicial independence into the defining constitutional issue of the day. As public support intensified, judges increasingly found themselves at the centre of a national constitutional struggle. When emergency rule was imposed in November 2007 and judges were required to take the oath under the Provisional Constitutional Order, many refused. By then, they understood that they would be seen as villains if they joined the other side.

The movement also arrived at a particular time within the broader political context. By 2007, Pakistan had experienced almost a decade of Gen Musharraf’s rule, for which public fatigue had become increasingly evident. Many Pakistanis, irrespective of political affiliation, were thus receptive to demands for constitutional restoration and democratic change. Gen Musharraf had also largely lost the support of key foreign allies, many of whom appeared to believe that their principal strategic interests had already been secured.

A further important factor was the alignment of political parties. All major political parties eventually converged on a shared minimum demand: restoration of the judiciary and genuine democracy. Their common objective of restoring democracy transformed what began as a professional protest into a broad constitutional movement and greatly facilitated mass mobilisation. The violence of May 12, 2007 and its visuals telecast live further alienated the few political parties that continued to support Gen Musharraf, deepening his political isolation.

Today, the political landscape is markedly different. Except for one major political party, most others are perceived to have accommodated themselves to prevailing centres of power, weakening their capacity to serve as independent drivers of constitutional and democratic mobilisation. The principal opposition party, despite commanding substantial public support, is widely seen as politically and organisationally constrained. Its leadership remains incarcerated, its organisational structure fragmented, and its ability to act as a unifying national force significantly diminished. There is a widespread perception that recent constitutional and legal changes, including the 26th and 27th Amendments, have further strengthened the coercive apparatus. Unlike in 2007–09, there is no unified political front capable of reinforcing or amplifying a nationwide constitutional movement.

Youth and young lawyers also played a critical role. Senior leaders themselves were committed and led by the idealism of the young, whose determination discouraged compromise at crucial moments. Thousands of younger lawyers organised rallies, travelled across cities, and maintained the movement’s momentum for nearly two years. Effective movements require leadership, but they also depend upon committed participants willing to assume personal risk.

Equally important was the culture of the legal profession. Before the Lawyers’ Movement, bar associations functioned differently. Although elections were contested, they were generally fought over professional integrity, institutional independence, and the welfare of the legal profession rather than overt partisan loyalties. The organised bar retained a strong institutional identity rooted in constitutionalism and the defence of judicial independence.

The establishment had also not regarded the organised legal profession as a significant political challenge. Consequently, it had made relatively few inroads into the internal politics of bar associations. When the confrontation over the judiciary emerged, the bars were therefore able to respond with unusual unity and institutional coherence.

Slogans amplified mobilisation. Demands such as Dastoor ki baladasti (supremacy of the Constitution) and Adliya ki bahali (restoration of the judiciary) were accompanied by more emotive expressions such as Riyasat hogi maa ke jaisi (the state will be like a mother). Crowds openly chanted slogans directed at the dictator’s regime, and these scenes were broadcast live by private television channels into millions of homes. The fact that such slogans could be aired live on national television was itself extraordinary. Together, these broadcasts transformed constitutional language, political dissent, and public protest into a vocabulary that ordinary citizens could understand, identify with, and embrace.

The movement combined grievance with hope. While opposing undemocratic rule, it presented an aspirational vision of justice, constitutionalism, and dignity. That combination enabled it to resonate far beyond lawyers and political elites.

The absence of a comparable lawyers’ movement today reflects the disappearance of many of these conditions. Contemporary Pakistan differs fundamentally from the environment that existed between 2007 and 2009.

The most obvious difference is the media landscape. During the movement, private television channels powerfully amplified dissent. The same channels that broadcast lengthy speeches against a sitting general and provided uninterrupted coverage of anti-establishment protests are now widely perceived to operate within much narrower limits.

Whether due to formal restrictions, informal pressures, commercial considerations, or self-censorship, sustained live broadcasts openly challenging powerful institutions have become almost unimaginable on mainstream private television. Equally important is the perception that the media’s institutional role has changed. During the lawyers movement, many journalists regarded themselves as participants in a broader struggle for constitutionalism and media freedom. Today, that visible institutional resistance is far less apparent. The institution that once helped construct a national narrative of resistance is now widely seen as less able to perform that function.

This matters because movements depend upon visibility. Without shared public exposure, grievances remain fragmented and rarely develop into collective causes.

A climate of fear has increased the perceived cost of mobilisation. Reports of pressure, restrictions on dissent, and intimidation have reinforced the perception that political participation carries greater personal risk, making collective action considerably more difficult. The authority meant to serve the people is instead perceived as being used to silence them.

The legal profession has also undergone profound change. The unity that once characterised the bar associations is no longer evident. Many observers argue that bar politics has become increasingly shaped by partisan affiliations and factional interests rather than shared institutional principles. Over the past two decades, the establishment has also had considerably more opportunity to cultivate influence within a range of institutions, including segments of the legal profession.

Perhaps the most significant change lies within the bars themselves. It is no secret that many lawyers privately acknowledge what they regard as a serious erosion of the rule of law and judicial independence. Many believe that the judiciary has become increasingly subject to the influence of unelected power centres, often acting through the constitutional façade of an elected parliament. Yet these concerns have rarely translated into sustained institutional resistance. Instead, there appears to be a degree of resignation — and, in some quarters, tacit acceptance — that this is now the prevailing constitutional order. The reality may be widely understood within the profession, but few institutional voices are prepared to challenge it publicly.

Cases involving lawyers such as Imaan Mazari and Hadi Ali Chattha are frequently cited in this context. The muted response from representative legal bodies manifests the difference between today and the collective activism displayed during the Lawyers’ Movement.

There is another, perhaps more ironic, reason why the public is reluctant to place the same trust in judges and lawyers today. The success of the Movement raised immense public expectations that the restored judges and lawyers would fulfil their promise of making the Riyasat like a mother for its people. Regrettably, many believe those expectations were not met. The judges and lawyers became the principal beneficiaries of a struggle sustained by the sacrifices of ordinary citizens. The ninety innocent lives lost during the movement were gradually forgotten, while the idealism of countless young lawyers was left frustrated.

Instead of using the opportunity to transform the justice system, particularly at the district level where ordinary citizens seek justice, the restored judiciary was widely perceived to have reverted to many of the same institutional practices that had existed before the movement. Genuine reform, made possible by the extraordinary public support for the judiciary, never materialised. For the common citizen, little changed. That disappointment has inevitably weakened public trust in both judges and lawyers.

The broader lesson extends beyond Pakistan. Political movements are rarely driven by facts alone. They depend upon narrative, visibility, organisational cohesion, favourable political conditions, and emotional resonance. The Lawyers’ Movement succeeded not simply because lawyers protested or judges were restored, but because it transformed judicial independence from an abstract legal issue into a compelling national story that millions of Pakistanis could identify with.

Today, nearly every condition that made that transformation possible has changed. The media no longer possesses the same freedom to amplify dissent, bar associations are more fragmented and increasingly shaped by partisan politics, collective institutional resistance has weakened, and political parties no longer provide a unified constitutional platform. Constitutional concerns remain, but the institutional and political ecosystem that once transformed those concerns into a nationwide movement no longer exists.

Throughout history, lasting constitutional transformation has been brought about by political leadership rather than by judges or generals. The Lawyers’ Movement was never merely about restoring a handful of judges to office. Its larger purpose was the restoration of the Constitution, democracy, and the principle that the will of the people must prevail.

It was the political leadership—not judges or lawyers—that ultimately had to make the Constitution work in letter and spirit. For more than seven decades, Pakistan has witnessed repeated cycles in which political leaders aligned themselves with centres of power, celebrating when their opponents became victims, only to forget their own persecution when they later returned to office with the support of those very centres of power. In the end, it has always been the will of the people that has suffered.

The Lawyers’ Movement succeeded because, at that historic moment, political leadership demonstrated the resolve to honour the Charter of Democracy. That spirit created the possibility of building a state that cared for every citizen, especially the weakest and most vulnerable.

The success of the Lawyers’ Movement is too often measured by the restoration of the deposed judges rather than by its far greater achievement: ending nearly a decade of Gen Musharraf’s rule and paving the way for the restoration of constitutional democracy through a freely elected parliament after the unprecedented mass mobilisation that culminated in the 2008 general elections. The reinstatement of the judges was largely symbolic. Ironically, the restored judges were later widely perceived as contributing to the weakening of the very parliament that represented the movement’s greatest constitutional success. That role, however, deserves separate discussion.

Today, the reality is widely recognised. Regrettably, political leaders who have sworn to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution now openly take pride in governance through a hybrid system rather than under the Constitution itself. The greatest responsibility, therefore, rests with the political leadership because it has voluntarily assumed the duty of leading the nation.

What Pakistan needs today is not another Lawyers’ Movement but the collective spirit that once united political leaders, judges, lawyers, journalists, the media, civil society, and ordinary citizens. It needs a movement to make the Riyasat a mother for every citizen, to break the shackles of elite capture, restore the supremacy of the Constitution, and ensure that the will of the people alone governs the country.

It is time for truth and reconciliation. The choice is clear: continue repeating the failures of the past, or finally learn from our mistakes, honour the constitutional promise made to the people, and build a state governed, in both letter and spirit, by the will of its actual stakeholders — the people.

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Header image: Pakistani riot police confront lawyers during a protest in Lahore in November 2007. — AFP

PAKISTAN’S WINDING ROAD TO THE BOMB

Farhatullah Babar 

Published January 11, 2026

EOS/DAWN

LONG READ

Zulfi kar Ali Bhutto (left) pictured alongside Munir Ahmad Khan (centre) and Dr Abdus Salam (right) during the inauguration ceremony of the Karachi Nuclear Power Plant (Kanupp) on November 28, 1972 | PAEC



BHUTTO’S SUMMIT WITH SCIENTISTS

I had not yet joined the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission (PAEC) and was working as an information officer in the Press Information Department (PID), where each information officer is responsible for servicing the media needs of one or more ministries.

On a cold January day in 1972, a colleague in the PID responsible for media projection of scientific organisations talked about a planned meeting of the country’s scientists. President [Zulfikar Ali] Bhutto had called the meeting to frankly discuss what role they could play in national defence and security, he said. Where and when it was to be held, he was not sure. It would be at some undisclosed secret venue, he said.

He also said that prominent scientists and engineers had started arriving in Islamabad, waiting to be taken to the conference venue, which was known only to a few. There was confusion about the venue. When the word spread that it would be held in Quetta, some scientists actually travelled there, making their own private arrangements. In the morning, a military aircraft airlifted a precious human cargo of scientists and engineers from Islamabad. But instead of Quetta, it landed at Multan. Those who had already arrived in Quetta were herded to Multan in a special Pakistan Air Force aircraft.

No one was sure of the conference’s purpose. Some excited scientists, before leaving their homes, only told their families that they would be out of station for a few days without disclosing where they were going. Having been personally invited by the head of state, everyone felt elated.

Even though the purpose had not been officially declared, there was a sense among the scientists that Bhutto wanted to salvage the country in the wake of the loss of East Pakistan. He wanted to seek the support of the scientific community and raise the morale of the people, they conjectured.

In January 1972, at a secret meeting, Pakistan’s top scientists were tasked by President Zulfikar Ali Bhutto with one objective: build an atomic bomb, no matter the cost. At the heart of this endeavour was Bhutto’s handpicked nuclear expert, Munir Ahmad Khan. For two decades, Munir Ahmed Khan worked behind a thick veil of secrecy, building key nuclear structures in a race against time, sanctions and even smear campaigns. In Beyond the Bomb: Munir Ahmad Khan and Pakistan’s Nuclear Odyssey, Farhatullah Babar details the story of the unsung architect of Pakistan's atomic programme. Eos presents, with permission, excerpts from the book recently published by Lightstone Publishers…

In private conversations, they recalled that Bhutto outlined his views on foreign and security policies in his 1969 book The Myth of Independence. As a minister in [Gen] Ayub [Khan]’s cabinet, he had failed in his mission to make Pakistan nuclear. But now he was the president himself, and a great opportunity was knocking at his door.

Pakistan had not only suffered defeat at the hands of the Indian army, but it had also lost half of the country and more than half of the population. China also had not applied pressure on India’s border, and Pakistan had suffered a permanent strategic loss by the cessation of East Pakistan.

The Multan Conference was aimed at inspiring the scientists and engineers to commit themselves to delivering. The Chief Scientific Adviser to the president, Dr Abdus Salam (later Nobel Laureate), was also on board the special flight from Islamabad. A younger colleague later recalled Dr Salam saying, “I think they are going to make us bite the dust.”

Excitement grew as they neared Multan. An army bus was waiting to collect the cream of scientists as they disembarked in Multan. Shamiaanas covered the spacious lawns of Nawab Sadiq Qureshi’s — a PPP [Pakistan Peoples Party] leader and Governor of Punjab — residence in Multan, to host the first-ever face-to-face meeting between scientists and the country’s president.

The conference brought together science luminaries from all over the country, including the chairman of the PAEC, the versatile and outspoken Dr I.H. Usmani. Professor Abdus Salam had also flown in from abroad. The attendees also included Munir Ahmad Khan, a nuclear engineer with international credentials. He had flown in from Vienna, where he was in charge of the nuclear power and reactor division of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA).

It was a historic moment in Pakistan’s journey toward nuclear development. Scientists and engineers took turns addressing pressing issues in science and technology, with particular focus on how quickly Pakistan could achieve atomic capability. Criticism voiced at the conference ranged from lamenting the misallocation of funds for building physical infrastructure to issues with trained manpower and a lack of planning and motivation. Some voiced concerns about bureaucratic red tape, while others passionately demanded respect and recognition.

After several scientists had spoken, Bhutto rose to speak. The chatter in the pandal stopped. There was a pin-drop silence as eager eyes turned towards him.

Bhutto began his address by recalling with anguish the surrender and national humiliation in December 1971 and vowed to restore the lost national honour. He then told the audience that he had invited them to seek their help. He addressed them directly, face-to-face, and excited them. Only a month earlier, Pakistan had witnessed its darkest hour: the secession of East Pakistan, now Bangladesh, following a humiliating defeat in the Indo-Pakistani war. The nation’s wounds were fresh, its pride shattered. Amidst the ruin, Bhutto’s speech kindled in the gathering the spark of resolve that would forever alter the trajectory of Pakistan’s history.

Bhutto’s words resonated with the scientists. In Multan, he was not merely outlining a policy; he was igniting a movement. Masterfully blending pragmatism with patriotism, he quoted from history. He spoke about the transformative power of nuclear technology, instilling enthusiasm in the audience. He cited India’s steady march toward atomic capability as both a challenge and a provocation. Pakistan’s survival in the regional power matrix required a matching response.

Dr Mujaddid Ahmed Ijaz (extreme left), Munir Ahmad Khan (centre) and Dr Abdus Salam (extreme right) at the International Nathiagali Summer College on Physics and Contemporary Needs (INSC) in 1976 | Ijaz Family Archives



When the crowd of scientists was sufficiently charged, Bhutto directly asked how they could help meet the threat to the nation’s security. India possessed not only superiority in conventional weapons, it was also building nuclear weapons.

“Can you meet India’s nuclear challenge?” He asked them, promising “all the resources you may need.” He had challenged the scientific community at a time of the lowest national morale, and the scientists were ecstatic.

Curiosity was replaced by enthusiasm. The enthusiastic ones believed they could do it even if some of their colleagues disagreed. The atmosphere was electric, tinged with the weight of what lay ahead.

As the discussions unfolded, the pandal crackled with ideas, projections, and debates about feasibility, resources and time frames. The scientists understood that achieving nuclear capability was no small feat — it was a herculean task and a willingness to defy all odds — but they were ready. There were a few who were sceptics, also mindful of the technical roadblocks, but a shared sense of purpose united all.

MORE THAN A CONFERENCE

Scientists fell over one another to convince the president they could deliver on the promise. The president was amused as he watched them engage in a shouting match. “Yes, yes, sure, we can deliver,” the scientists shouted back in unison, almost like children on a playground, a scientist later recalled.

When a scientist claimed that Pakistan had already reached a “take-off stage” in the nuclear field, Bhutto said, “There is no such thing as the take-off stage. Either we take off or we are left behind.”

President Bhutto deplored that we had been left behind in almost every aspect of national life, especially in science, technology and education.

How long will you take to deliver, he asked them. The scientists did not expect such a pointed question from the head of state. Already charged with enthusiasm, the meeting turned into near pandemonium. Scientists made claims and counterclaims about how soon it would be done.

Some said it would take five years; others thought it would take longer. The overenthusiastic claimed to do it in less than a year, while the realistic ones said at least five years were needed. Everyone was eager to catch Bhutto’s attention.

When a young engineer jumped and almost shouted, “Five years, Your Excellency, five years!” Bhutto asked him to sit down.

On the dais, the chairman of PAEC, Dr I.H. Usmani and Dr Salam looked at each other. As a young scientist claimed that they could make the bomb in three years, Usmani nudged Professor Salam, sitting next to him, with his elbow.

Usmani, the pioneer of nuclear energy in the country, believed that Pakistan was a long way away from acquiring nuclear capability. “We will never be able to make it, we do not have the infrastructure,” he whispered in his ear, Salam later recalled to me.

When Salam asked him whether he disapproved of the quest to go nuclear, Usmani told him, “How can I refuse the president anything? I am only trying to be realistic.”

Usmani then said, “Listen, morally I can disagree with a nuclear weapon, but I will not. I know what Bhutto wants and I want to help him.”

Usmani then rose on his seat.

“With all respect, Mr President,” he said, “but I think that we should look into the eye of truth.”

At present, Pakistan does not possess a thing that justifies the optimism in this pandal, he said. “We do not have any metallurgists or a steel industry.” Usmani had the courage to speak his mind in front of the president and a charged crowd of enthusiastic scientists.

Perhaps Dr Usmani was not wrong. As head of the organisation for a decade, he knew better. There was no infrastructure in place needed to go nuclear. It took more than a decade after the Multan Conference for Pakistan to conduct its first cold nuclear tests, in March 1983, and complete its nuclear fuel cycle projects.

(Left to right) Professor Ishfaq Ahmad, Ghulam Ishaq Khan, Gen K.M. Arif and Munir Ahmad Khan at the cold test site | Beyond the Bomb


A young engineer was keen to speak but was ignored each time he raised his hand to ask for the floor. Just as the next speaker was about to take the floor, Bhutto, pointing towards the young engineer, said, “No, no, that man over there.”

“Mr President, all I want to say is that we have a research institute in PINSTECH [Pakistan Institute of Nuclear Science and Technology] at Nilore. Local people call the nearby bus stop ‘Nilore Bum Factory.’ They believe that the atom bomb is the saviour. They also hope that the bomb will be produced in this building. But what are we doing here? We can make it if tasked,” he said.

Bhutto listened intently.

The young man was Sultan Bashiruddin Mahmood, later the first project director of the uranium enrichment project at Kahuta and much more.

As the scientists differed over how soon the bomb could be made, Bhutto raised his hand and stretched out three fingers. Everyone was silent. He wanted the bomb made in three years. All eyes had turned to him.

“Can I have this from you in three years?” he then asked. “Yes, yes,” the scientists responded in chorus, vowing not to disappoint him.

The Multan conclave of scientists marked the starting point of Pakistan’s strategic nuclear programme. The dye was cast that day.

The Multan Conference marked the genesis of a long and arduous journey. Pakistan’s pursuit of nuclear capability was as much a battle against external pressures as it was a test of internal resolve. In the years that followed, the country faced a barrage of international sanctions, diplomatic isolation, and economic challenges. Yet, the vision set in motion that January day in Multan endured.

The Multan Conference remains a pivotal chapter in Pakistan’s history, its significance extending beyond the realm of nuclear technology. It set Pakistan on a path that continues to shape its identity and policies.

More than a chatter of enthusiastic scientists, it was a solemn promise to deliver. More than a conference, it was a defining moment.

BHUTTO SELECTS MUNIR AHMAD KHAN

Amidst fervent exchanges at the Multan Conference, President Zulfikar Ali Bhutto once again raised his hand to signal that he had an announcement to make. The chatter in the pandal fell silent, all eyes fixed on him.

Turning towards Munir Ahmad Khan, seated on the podium, Bhutto declared, “From today, Munir Ahmad Khan will be the new chairman of the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission.” Munir Ahmad Khan was thus entrusted with the responsibility of advancing the nuclear programme, aligning it with Bhutto’s bold vision.

Bhutto’s faith in Munir Ahmad Khan seems to have been rooted in their past association, which began when Munir Ahmad Khan worked at the IAEA in Vienna. He had established himself as a distinguished nuclear engineer and shared a common vision with Bhutto about the role of nuclear technology for the country’s development and survival.

In December 1965, Bhutto, then Pakistan’s foreign minister, accompanied President Ayub Khan during an official visit to London. Bhutto orchestrated a meeting of Munir Ahmad Khan with President Ayub, aiming to persuade the latter to invest in nuclear reprocessing technology. Despite Munir Ahmad Khan’s compelling arguments, Ayub remained unconvinced, placing reliance on China’s “nuclear umbrella” in case Pakistan needed it. After the meeting, a disappointed Munir Ahmad Khan was reassured by Bhutto: “Do not worry—our turn will come.”

That turn came in 1972. Bhutto, now the president of Pakistan, positioned Munir Ahmad Khan as chairman of PAEC, signalling a new chapter in the pursuit of his ambition of making Pakistan a nuclear power.

Following Munir Ahmad Khan’s appointment, Dr I.H. Usmani, who had served PAEC with great distinction for over a decade, resigned from his position. While Dr Usmani laid the groundwork for scientific development, Munir Ahmad Khan was tasked with a transformative mission: to translate Bhutto’s vision of a nuclear Pakistan into reality.

In his address, Bhutto noted what he called a “process of erosion” which he said had set in the country as a result of the events of December 1971. He wanted it addressed urgently. In the realm of science and technology, he wanted to launch a “crash programme” to nurture indigenous talent. He wanted to create a pool of at least a hundred scientists, bringing home expatriate Pakistani talent, and instituting prestigious awards for the talented. He wanted to ensure that Pakistan’s nuclear ambitions were powered by its own people.

THE UNSUNG HERO

Munir Ahmad Khan’s emphasis on secrecy and a low profile was one of the reasons for his remaining unsung. But this was not the only reason. He remained unsung also because his criticism of the tendency to seek personal projection at the expense of the nuclear programme displeased a powerful lobby that cherished personal publicity.

He was uncomfortable when some contemporaries liked to advertise their achievements and flaunted nuclear capabilities, terming it irresponsible. He said that scientists, bureaucrats and generals in other countries do not publicly make tall claims about their capabilities. No scientist in India, Israel or any other country had publicly made such claims.

A former army chief publicly made some claims in the mid-nineties that appeared to him unwise. With carefully chosen words, he strongly criticised him in a newspaper article. He said that what the ex-army chief had said amounted to Pakistan making a fool of the US president for continuing to certify, on the advice of the US Embassy in Islamabad for three years from 1987 to 1990, that Pakistan did not have nuclear capability or a device. He predicted that such irresponsible rhetoric would cost Pakistan dearly.

Naturally, those in high places seeking personal publicity did not like it and turned against him.

When, in May 1988, Pakistan demonstrated nuclear capability, individual scientists in another organisation scrambled to claim credit for bomb-making, cherishing the spotlight. In doing so, some scientists excelled over others. The PAEC scientists were trained in his [Munir Ahmed Khan’s] nursery with a rigid code of restraint for two decades. They remained tight-lipped even at that time of national celebrations.

While there was no one to speak for him, his detractors had a field day. When he retired, he launched a vigorous campaign advocating to curb nuclear rhetoric. He and his associates in the PAEC paid a heavy price for this restraint. He endured all this with grace.

Despite his remarkable achievements in bringing Pakistan to the world nuclear map, he was not lauded. His achievements were not recognised during his lifetime. For 20 years, the cold nuclear tests that were carried out under his watch had remained a guarded secret.

He denied himself and the team limelight through self-projection, adhering to the strict secrecy codes. He did not advertise his achievements to safeguard the safety and security of the nuclear programme. He believed that advertising personal achievements would damage the programme by attracting adverse international response.

In his memoirs, Professor Riazuddin, the quiet theoretician behind the bomb, has said: “All the strategic nuclear infrastructure was completed during the tenure of Munir Ahmad Khan as chairman of the PAEC. Thus, all the key elements, except uranium enrichment, were already in place, including conducting cold tests and building tunnels in the Chagai mountain for carrying out underground nuclear tests when needed. In spite of all this, he didn’t get the credit he deserved and remains an ‘unsung hero.’”

He had raised the bar of secrecy so high that it deprived his team of due recognition. When in office, he never mentioned in public the word “cold nuclear tests”, let alone reveal that it had indeed been successfully carried out way back in the early 1980s.

His detractors ensured that Munir was not honoured in his lifetime. While others were decorated with the highest civil award twice, Munir Ahmad Khan was denied it. [Asif] Zardari had long been aware of Munir Ahmad Khan’s work, since his wife, Benazir Bhutto, was prime minister. During his first term as president, he posthumously awarded the unsung hero in 2012 with the highest civil award, the Nishan-i-Pakistan. His family received the award.

In a world often seduced by the allure of spectacle, the power of restraint is the most profound virtue, but it does not come without a cost. Munir Ahmad Khan’s life and the price he paid demonstrated this truth. He exemplified it throughout his career in his disdain for self-promotion and his advocacy for nuclear discretion. His steadfast belief that nuclear capabilities must never be flaunted distinguished him as a leader of extraordinary foresight. He was willing to pay a price for it.

His ethical philosophy was that nuclear capability is not a status symbol but a grave responsibility. It needed strategic silence and avoiding rhetoric that could provoke adversaries or attract unnecessary global attention. He clearly understood that self-promotion in this sensitive domain was counterproductive and dangerous. The success of Pakistan’s nuclear programme lay in the collective effort of a well-knit team in complete secrecy, not in individual accolades.

He never sought cheap popularity, denied himself newspaper headlines, and declined to advertise the Commission’s achievements. He kept a low profile and disliked anyone making provocative, inflammatory statements to grab headlines.

The brandishing of nuclear capability was anathema to him. He believed that bravado, brandishing nuclear capability or advertising achievements did not serve the national interest. A natural consequence of this worldview was that he and his team were not acknowledged for their work.

His commitment to restraint placed him at odds with those in positions of power. But he was not deterred and continued to be vocal in condemning nuclear rhetoric. Later, when talking about the former army chief’s public statement, he said, “Farhatullah, it was more than a lapse in judgment; it was a breach of trust.”

He viewed such declarations as reckless and an invitation to international sanctions. He foresaw adverse diplomatic fallout and the damage it could inflict. His frustration stemmed not only from the immediate consequences but also from the long-term implications of eroding the trust of global powers.

Unfortunately, he did not live long enough to see the day when his warnings against the dangers of irresponsible nuclear behaviour proved true.

The world was shocked when, in 2006, Gen Pervez Musharraf disclosed in his memoirs, In the Line of Fire, how a clandestine proliferation network had been in existence in Pakistan for a long time, and blamed one lone individual for it. The network had actually been busted by the CIA in 2003, and Musharraf was forced to acknowledge it in his 2006 memoirs. Ignoring Munir’s warnings cost the nation dearly.

The legacy of restraint was both his formidable strength and a great burden. While it was meant to shield Pakistan’s nuclear programme from external threats, it also allowed his detractors to dominate the narrative. His posthumous recognition, with the highest civil award, was a bittersweet moment for his family and colleagues. It was a long-overdue acknowledgement of his role in placing Pakistan on the global nuclear map while also underscoring the quiet pain of a life spent in service without recognition.

His life is a powerful reminder of humility and restraint in leadership. When egos clash and ambitions run high, quiet dedication to the collective good is his enduring legacy. Prioritising responsibility over recognition and wisdom over bravado while remaining personally self-effacing shall resonate as his legacy.

Excerpted with permission from Beyond the Bomb: Munir Ahmad Khan and Pakistan’s Nuclear Odyssey by Farhatullah Babar, published by Lightstone Publishers

The writer is a former senator and served as the director of information at the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission (PAEC) under Chairman Munir Ahmad Khan

Published in Dawn, EOS, January 11th, 2026