Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves (Abraham Lincoln); this warning resonates uncomfortably in Pakistan’s political history, with political imprisonments becoming a recurring instrument of governance. Barely a year after independence, Pakistan witnessed its first political imprisonment, when in 1948 Bacha Khan – a prominent Pashtun leader – was arrested and charged with sedition for allegedly conspiring against the state.
The practice of political incarceration was entrenched most starkly between 1977 and 1988 under the military rule of Zia-ul-Haq. This period marked one of the most severe phases of political repression in Pakistan’s history, with the imprisonment and eventual execution of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, alongside widespread arrests of political workers during the Movement for the Restoration of Democracy. What, then, was the crime? Bhutto was convicted of the alleged assassination of a political opponent, a charge that led to his execution in 1979.
Yet in 2024, forty-four years later, the Supreme Court of Pakistan acknowledged that the requirements of a fair trial and due process had not been fulfilled in his case. Reflecting on that failure, then Chief Justice Qazi Faez Isa observed: “We must, therefore, be willing to confront our past missteps and infallibility with humility in the spirit of self-accountability and as a testament to our commitment to ensure that justice shall be served with unwavering integrity and fidelity to the law.”
The words were solemn, even historic, but they invite an uncomfortable question. At the time this acknowledgement was made, former PM Imran Khan had been arrested on 5 August 2023, along with numerous senior members of his party. The contrast is difficult to ignore: does institutional introspection extend equally to the opposition, or only safely to the government? If justice is to be served with “unwavering integrity,” it must not depend on whether one sits on the treasury benches or in opposition; otherwise, the promise of accountability risks becoming retrospective symbolism, while those currently out of favour endure incarceration, deprivation, and the slow erosion of their fundamental rights.
However, it must also be acknowledged that Imran Khan was no saint in office. During his truncated tenure from 2018 to 2022, the same machinery of incarceration was deployed against his political adversaries. Khan’s central campaign plank was to cleanse Pakistani politics of corruption, a crusade he anchored to the denunciation of two dynastic families that have dominated the political arena since the 1990s, namely the Sharif family and the Bhutto Zardari family.
This trajectory soon manifested in a flurry of references by the National Accountability Bureau and other prosecutions that ensnared senior leaders of the PML-N and PPP. Prominent figures, including Shehbaz Sharif, Maryam Nawaz, Nawaz Sharif, and Asif Ali Zardar,i were arrested and subjected to conditions that their supporters decried as humiliating and punitive rather than judicially necessary.
Pakistan’s history shows that political imprisonment is not the excess of one regime but a recurring instrument of power, deployed by civilians and dictators alike, and justified in the language of accountability or national security
Nawaz Sharif’s prolonged detention saw his health deteriorate with multiple heart and kidney ailments, and complaints of restricted access to his personal doctors. Maryam Nawaz alleged that surveillance cameras were installed inside her prison cell, including in the bathroom; she faced further enduring degrading conditions, and despite being lodged in the same jail as her father, she was permitted to meet him only once a week. It was further alleged that she was unwell yet returned to jail before completing medical treatment.
Similarly, Shehbaz Sharif — a cancer survivor suffering from chronic back pain — was reportedly made to sleep on the floor in Kot Lakhpat jail during his early days of detention. In this light, Lincoln’s words cut sharply: if political imprisonment becomes the tool of choice for settling scores, it is no wonder that, following Khan’s ouster in a 2022 no-confidence vote, his opponents’ turn to wield the same instruments of state power ensued — leading, ultimately, to Khan’s own arrest in August 2023.
As of now, Imran Khan has spent over 900 days in detention, with recent reports raising serious concerns about his treatment. A submission before the Supreme Court of Pakistan by Barrister Salman Safdar on 12 February 2026 alleges that he has lost 85% vision in his right eye due to delayed medical attention by prison authorities. The report further describes cramped 8x10 ft living quarters, poor ventilation, extreme heat, mosquito infestation, and restricted communication with his sons — conditions said to have adversely affected both his physical and mental health, with him being “deeply disturbed” and in a “perturbed” mental state.
Whether one supports or opposes Khan is beside the point; the treatment of any detainee must be measured against the law. Article 9 of the Constitution of Pakistan protects the right to life — a term the superior courts have interpreted to include dignity, health, and humane existence. Additionally, Article 14 guarantees the inviolability of the dignity of man, a protection that does not evaporate at the prison gate. Articles 10 and 10A further secure safeguards as to arrest and the right to due process.
Read together, they impose a positive obligation upon the state to ensure that incarceration does not become degradation, and that punishment does not mutate into neglect or humiliation. Internationally, Pakistan’s commitments reinforce these guarantees. As a party to the ICCPR, it is bound by Article 10, which mandates that all persons deprived of liberty be treated with humanity and with respect for their inherent dignity.
The Convention against Torture prohibits cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment, while the United Nations Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners (Nelson Mandela Rules) require adequate medical care, ventilation, sanitation, and regular family contact. These are not abstract ideals; they are minimum standards of a civilised legal order. Ignoring this becomes a constitutional question and a test of whether the state is governed by law or by the temper of those temporarily in power.
Pakistan’s history shows that political imprisonment is not the excess of one regime but a recurring instrument of power, deployed by civilians and dictators alike, and justified in the language of accountability or national security. From Bacha Khan to Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, and from Nawaz Sharif to Imran Khan, the names change, but the pattern remains.
The Supreme Court’s 2024 acknowledgement in Bhutto’s case was a rare institutional admission that due process had faltered, but its true significance lies in whether that lesson is applied in the present, not merely memorialised in retrospect. Political incarcerations must cease to function as tools of governance, and no detainee should be stripped of basic constitutional and human rights; otherwise, we risk repeating a dangerous precedent: condemning today what we rationalise in the moment, only to apologise decades later.
If Pakistan is to move forward, it must ensure that accountability is transparent, trials are fair, prison conditions are humane, and the law operates as a shield for rights — not as a weapon of political convenience.