As it fails the vulnerable, Pakistan’s legal system is institutionalizing injustice
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At its heart, the rule of law is not a slogan or a statute. It is a pact, a quiet understanding that binds the governed and the governors: no one — be it a king, general, politician, bureaucrat or individual — is above it. The idea isn’t new. From Hammurabi’s Code to the Magna Carta, and from Islamic jurisprudence to modern constitutions, the principle has always been the same — law exists to temper power, not to reinforce it.
As someone who has served in law enforcement for over three decades, I’ve seen both the promise and peril of this principle. When law is applied fairly, it gives dignity and order. When it isn’t, it creates a dangerous illusion — that rules exist only for the weak.
In societies where the rule of law is internalized, people stop at red lights in empty streets — not because they fear a traffic warden, but because they believe in the system. Law becomes a habit, not a hurdle. In Pakistan though, our legal system often operates as two: one for the powerful and one for the rest. It’s not a secret; it’s the way things are.
Take the treatment of religious minorities. A recent lynching in Karachi over a blasphemy allegation wasn’t an anomaly — it was a familiar horror. From Sialkot to Khanewal, similar tragedies have played out with chilling frequency. The 2024 Rights Observer report documents rising blasphemy cases, forced conversions, and systemic discrimination. Since 1990, more than 90 people— mostly minorities — have been murdered without trial. Many more remain behind bars, their fates suspended in legal limbo.
But what’s worse is who escapes the law. The agitators who incite mobs, or those who exploit faith for politics, rarely see the inside of a courtroom. Some hold public office. Others command airtime. The law is rarely blind in these moments— it sees exactly who stands before it and blinks.
As I reflect on decades in service, one truth stands tall: institutions may survive bad laws, but not selective enforcement. Once the idea of fairness dies, the rest is formality.
Syed Kaleem Imam
Stories like that of Arzoo Raja — a 13-year-old Christian girl allegedly abducted and forcibly converted in Karachi — or Shireen Masih — a sanitation worker who died after being denied hospital treatment — are reminders that justice can be disturbingly absent when it’s needed most. Hindu teenager Mehak Kumari was driven into hiding. Ahmadi professor Tahir Ahmad Naseem was gunned down in a courtroom while under state protection. These aren’t just individual tragedies — they’re a reflection of systemic neglect.
Yet, when the state wants to act, it can move with astounding speed. High-profile politicians are investigated with full media glare, cases are built overnight, and courtrooms become battlegrounds. Public money is poured into prosecutions — until one day, the charges are dropped. No explanation. No accountability. The law, in these instances, is not about justice. It is about timing. And when justice becomes a matter of convenience, it loses its meaning.
Pakistan isn’t alone in this struggle. In India, the legal system has increasingly mirrored majoritarian interests. Myanmar’s judiciary justified the persecution of the Rohingya. Iran continues to use its courts to bar Baha’is from education and work. What connects these examples isn’t the absence of law— but the presence of legal tools used selectively, often oppressively.
As Dworkin rightly put it, justice isn’t just about rules — it’s about integrity in how those rules are made, applied, and respected. When enforcement becomes a performance, trust collapses. And when people stop believing in justice, what remains is power without principle.
From my vantage point, the failures in Pakistan’s justice system are painfully familiar. Police are rarely trained to handle rights-based investigations. Political pressure, biased investigations, delayed prosecutions, and compromised courts are not exceptions — they’re patterns. Girls declared “willing converts” despite being minors. Witnesses silenced. Judges intimidated. It’s a legal system strained not just by caseloads but by cowardice.
Even more troubling is the silence. Law school’s avoid hard conversations about constitutional ethics. Police academies skim over human rights. Politicians invoke the law when it suits their narrative. The media tip-toes. Civil society is too often ignored — or worse, targeted.
And so, the question that lingers: who will bell the cat, now that it’s out of the bag?
Reform isn’t impossible, but it demands clarity and courage. Start with judicial independence. Free prosecutors from political interference. Equip police with real training on rights, religion, and ethics. Fast-track stalled reforms: the witness protection bill, hate speech regulations, and laws to prevent the misuse of blasphemy provisions.
Pakistan has signed multiple human rights treaties — from the ICCPR to the UN Declaration on Minority Rights. These are not just documents; they’re blueprints. But blueprints only matter if someone is willing to build.
If justice is seen as elastic — flexible for the few, rigid for the rest — it will eventually snap. And when it does, it won’t be the corrupt or the powerful who suffer first. It will be the poor, the unheard, the innocent — those for whom the law was supposed to be a shield, not a trap.
As I reflect on decades in service, one truth stands tall: institutions may survive bad laws, but not selective enforcement. Once the idea of fairness dies, the rest is formality.
The challenge now is simple, yet urgent: to reclaim the law before its absence becomes our norm. Because if the law doesn’t serve all — it will soon serve none.
-The writer is former federal secretary/IGP- PhD in Politics and IR-teaching Law and Philosophy at Universities. He tweets@Kaleemimam. Email:skimam98@hotmail.com: fb@syedkaleemimam
