By | Kamran Ashraf Bhat
It was an unassuming Monday morning, January 20th 2025, when the Supreme Court of Pakistan convened. The courtroom was packed—lawyers, journalists, and legal observers buzzed with anticipation. A storm was brewing, and everyone in the room could sense it. The tension had been mounting for weeks, but today was pivotal. What unfolded was nothing less than a microcosm of a broader struggle: the fight for the judiciary’s soul against the creeping shadows of government control and military influence.
The 26th Constitutional Amendment, passed under a veil of strategic ambiguity, had fundamentally altered the judicial landscape. It had done more than just elevate Chief Justice Yahya Afridi, the junior-most judge, to third in seniority and ultimately to the top judicial post. It had systematically restructured the judiciary, ensuring the government and its military allies retained a firm grip on the courts. This Monday, the ramifications of that power play came crashing into the Supreme Court’s chambers.
The day began with an unusual absence of supplementary cause lists. By the time the benches were occupied at 9:30 AM, murmurs were already spreading—why had key cases been removed from the docket? Leading the day’s proceedings was Justice Mansoor Ali Shah, a senior, independent jurist known for his unwavering commitment to constitutional principles. To his left sat Justice Ayesha Malik, a principled and fearless judge who had made waves for her dissenting judgments. Justice Shah wasted no time addressing the elephant in the room.
“What is the justification,” he demanded, his voice firm, “for these cases being reassigned without a written judicial order?” His words reverberated through the courtroom.
The cases in question included high-stakes disputes—labor rights, tax challenges, and even constitutional matters—all critical to the public. But they had been abruptly transferred to the constitutional bench, headed by Justice Amin-ud-Din. Justice Shah and his colleagues, blindsided by this move, sought clarity. Their queries were met with deflection from the court registrar and a stunning revelation: there was no written order authorizing the reassignment.
The courtroom atmosphere turned electric. Justice Ayesha Malik, typically reserved, erupted. “Since when does a research officer decide which cases we hear? Where is the legal precedent for such blatant overreach?” Her frustration mirrored the shock rippling through the room.
The constitutional bench, now wielding immense power, was a direct product of the 26th Amendment. Its composition—carefully curated by the government—was seen as a mechanism to stifle independent judicial voices. Chief Justice Afridi, whose promotion was secured by the amendment, stood accused of being complicit in this quiet coup. His alliance with Justice Amin-ud-Din, another government-favored appointee, had raised eyebrows. Together, they seemed determined to undermine the judiciary’s independence, ensuring cases were heard by benches more aligned with the executive’s interests.
Justice Shah did not mince words. “A judicial order cannot be undone by administrative fiat—not by the Chief Justice, not by any committee,” he declared. His indignation grew as the registrar failed to produce any documentation justifying the changes. Instead, it became clear that the reassignment was orchestrated through verbal directives—a practice that Justice Shah lambasted as an affront to the rule of law.
In the audience, whispers grew louder. The implications of this power struggle were staggering. The 26th Amendment had not only disrupted the judiciary’s seniority system but had also emboldened the government to treat the courts as an extension of its administrative machinery. The military’s role, though unspoken, loomed large. For decades, Pakistan’s armed forces had exerted influence over civilian institutions, and the judiciary was no exception. The amendment was widely viewed as a calculated move to install judges who would rubber-stamp decisions favorable to the military and its allies in government.
The drama reached its peak when Justice Ayesha Malik was handed a document purportedly explaining the reassignment. As she read it, her expression hardened. “This is absurd,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “An administrative committee claims the power to override judicial orders. This is not governance; this is subjugation.”
Justice Ayesha Malik echoed her outrage. “This committee,” she said, referring to the group responsible for the reassignment, “does not have the authority to overturn judicial orders, let alone transfer cases wholesale to a handpicked bench.” She pointedly questioned how two committee members—Chief Justice Afridi and Justice Amin-ud-Din—could wield such unilateral power.
But the most shocking moment came when the registrar admitted that no minutes of the committee meeting were available, nor was there a signed order. This revelation solidified what Justice Shah had feared all along: the judiciary was being systematically hollowed out, its authority eroded by backroom deals and informal diktats.
As the day wore on, the judges deliberated over their next steps. Justice Shah announced contempt of court proceedings against the officials responsible for this debacle. A show-cause notice was issued to the registrar, signaling the bench’s intent to fight back. But even as they pushed for accountability, the sense of foreboding remained.
For Justice Shah, Justice Malik, and their like-minded colleagues, the stakes are existential. The 26th Amendment represents more than just a reshuffling of judicial hierarchies; it is a direct attack on the judiciary’s ability to act as a check on government power. By promoting pliable judges and sidelining independent voices, the amendment has created a judiciary increasingly subservient to the executive and its military backers.
As Monday’s session concluded, one thing was clear: this was not a battle about procedure or protocol. It was a fight for the judiciary’s survival. The events of the day laid bare the stark reality of Pakistan’s judicial crisis. The question now is whether Justice Shah and his allies can withstand the combined might of the government and military, or whether the courts will succumb to the silent chains being fastened around them.
For Pakistan, the answer will shape not just the judiciary but the very future of its democracy.
About the Author: Kamran Ashraf Bhat is an alumnus of Bahcesehir University’s Department of Cinema and Television in Istanbul. A former Executive Editor of Daily Inside Kashmir, he now serves as the CEO of Spotlight Media Organisation. Mr. Bhat specializes in writing on geopolitical, geostrategic, environmental, and social issues.
