The question that now confronts Pakistan’s constitutional soul is not just whether the judiciary should be independent, but whether that independence still serves the people. With the government introducing the 27th Constitutional Amendment Bill, following on the heels of the already controversial 26th Amendment, this question has acquired new urgency. For the first time in Pakistan’s history, the very design of judicial independence is being renegotiated in Parliament, and with it, the meaning of justice itself.
The 26th Amendment, passed in October 2024, was presented as an effort to “restore efficiency” and “ensure accountability” in the judiciary. However, it shifted the balance of power decisively towards the executive by restructuring the Judicial Commission of Pakistan, adding parliamentarians, and reducing the number of judges in the body that appoints superior court judges.
It introduced “inefficiency” as a vague ground for judicial removal, empowered a parliamentary committee to choose the Chief Justice from among the three most senior judges, and enabled politically influenced “constitutional benches.” The International Commission of Jurists (ICJ) called the 26th Amendment “a blow to judicial independence and the rule of law,” warning that it contravened Pakistan’s obligations under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR).
Now, a year later, the government has tabled the 27th Amendment Bill, a far more sweeping proposal that would fundamentally alter Pakistan’s judicial structure. The Bill seeks to create a new Federal Constitutional Court (FCC) to assume the Supreme Court’s constitutional and fundamental rights jurisdiction. Its judges would be appointed by the President on the advice of the Prime Minister, their retirement age increased, and all pending constitutional petitions before the Supreme Court transferred to this new court. Judges who refuse transfers between courts could be deemed retired.
Critics warn that if passed, the 27th Amendment would dilute the Supreme Court’s authority, place constitutional adjudication under direct executive influence, and weaken the separation of powers guaranteed by Article 175(3). Supporters, however, hail it as an overdue “restructuring” to make courts more efficient and responsive.
A judiciary that stands apart from politics but fails to serve people loses relevance. Yet a judiciary that serves the people through obedience to power loses legitimacy
But the pattern is unmistakable: both amendments, though wrapped in reformist language, have redrawn the judiciary’s boundaries in ways that consolidate executive power rather than disperse it. Yet beyond the politics of institutional control lies a deeper moral and philosophical dilemma:
Is an independent judiciary still meaningful if its independence does not translate into justice for the people? Independence is not an end in itself. It is a safeguard, a necessary distance between law and power, ensuring that justice is administered without fear or favour. But when courts grow slow, opaque, or disconnected from ordinary citizens, independence risks becoming a ritual of self-preservation. Justice must be impartial, yes, but also accessible and alive to the realities of those it serves.
The tragedy begins when rulers weaponise this truth, using public frustration over slow or elite-driven courts to justify political control in the name of reform. Every generation of Pakistan’s power elite has done this. General Zia claimed to Islamise justice; General Musharraf claimed to modernise it; now, civilian governments claim to democratise it through “parliamentary supremacy.” Each time, judicial independence was eroded, and justice did not improve. Because justice administered by the executive is not justice, it is policy.
The 27th Amendment Bill now poses an extraordinary constitutional paradox. If enacted, it would create benches formed under a new framework to interpret the validity of that very framework, a situation that violates a principle older than any constitution: nemo judex in causa sua: no one can be a judge in their own cause.
Across the democratic world, nations have struggled and evolved to balance judicial independence with public accountability. In the United Kingdom, judges are appointed through an independent commission that insulates them from political pressure while ensuring transparent procedures. In the United States, life tenure protects judges from executive retaliation, but public scrutiny through open hearings and written judgments keeps the bench answerable.
In India, the judiciary has exercised broad autonomy and even self-appointment powers, yet continues to face debate over “judicial overreach” and the limits of activism.
In Germany and France, judicial councils include both judges and legislators, but their procedures are transparent and bound by clear criteria, a model of balance, not capture.
Pakistan’s current trajectory diverges sharply. What began as calls for reform has evolved into executive redesign, an experiment reminiscent of Turkey and Hungary, where governments captured the courts through constitutional amendments under the guise of efficiency.
The philosopher Montesquieu warned that liberty is lost when judicial and executive powers unite. But even he understood that separation is not about institutional pride; it is about protecting citizens from arbitrary will. Independence without purpose is vanity; interference disguised as reform is tyranny.
A judiciary that stands apart from politics but fails to serve people loses relevance. Yet a judiciary that serves the people through obedience to power loses legitimacy. The challenge, then, is to preserve freedom from interference while ensuring responsibility to justice, not to the government of the day.
Pakistan’s judges now face a defining choice. Will they defend the Constitution as its guardians or manage it as its caretakers? If they resist, they uphold not only their institution but the people’s last defence against arbitrary rule. If they yield, independence will survive only as a ceremonial word in a preamble already stripped of meaning. The executive, too, must recognise that justice cannot be enforced through control. Public frustration with judicial delay is valid, but reform cannot come by subordination. The answer lies in transparent appointments, digitisation, judicial training, and access reforms, not in constitutional centralisation.