Give Peace a Chance

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“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will be as one,”

India and Pakistan cannot build prosperous futures while feeding a militarised rivalry that drains their economies and empowers unelected actors. It is time to return the generals to the barracks and give peace a chance.

India and Pakistan sit on one of the world’s most militarised borders, armed to the teeth, suspicious to the bone, and trapped in a political imagination where peace is treated as a weakness rather than a civilisational necessity. The two nations have allowed militarism to become the dominant grammar of their politics, draining resources that should have gone to their people and strengthening the power of unelected actors who thrive in perpetual hostility.

At the centre of Pakistan’s political storm stands Munir Khan—the most powerful man in the country, a dictator in everything but name. He commands the levers of politics with an authority that Pakistan’s elected leaders never possessed. His rise was not inevitable; it was engineered through patronage, political manipulation, and the backing of powerful international allies who see Pakistan as a strategic asset rather than a sovereign society. From a quiet protégé to a man who dictates Islamabad’s every whisper, Munir Khan is the face of a system that has normalised military dominance in civilian life.

Yet his power is brittle. It is not built on capability, legitimacy, or public trust, but on the fragile scaffolding of political loyalty and international indulgence. His popularity in the White House may appear solid, but American favour—especially under the trivial, unpredictable politics of Donald Trump—is the most unreliable foundation upon which a general can build his throne. It takes only one shift in Washington’s strategic priorities for such alliances to crumble.

His greatest insecurity is visible in his treatment of Imran Khan, who remains imprisoned not because he poses a threat to national security, but because he threatens the military’s stranglehold over politics. Imran Khan commands a street legitimacy that no general can replicate. The Pakistani public may criticise him, but they recognise him as a leader created by votes, not barracks. Military rulers can bully institutions, but they cannot manufacture the moral authority of a people’s mandate.

Yet Pakistan is not alone in normalising military dominance. India too has drifted deep into a militarised mindset, where dissent is equated with disloyalty, Kashmir is governed through force rather than dialogue, and defence budgets balloon far faster than social welfare. Both countries now celebrate military achievements as markers of national pride, while their citizens endure unemployment, agrarian distress, crumbling healthcare, and corrosive inequality. India speaks endlessly of “Viksit Bharat” and Pakistan of “Stabilisation,” but both governments treat peace as a luxury rather than a foundation for development.

The tragedy is that peace between India and Pakistan is eminently possible—if only the political imagination could transcend militaristic nationalism.

The Price of Rivalry

As of December 2025, global military spending has crossed $2.46–$2.56 trillion. India and Pakistan contribute significantly to this world of armed insecurity:

India’s FY 2025–26 defence budget has risen by 9.5%, with a major push toward modernisation and indigenous weapon manufacturing. Nearly one-quarter is spent on pensions, and another 26% on new weapon acquisition.

Pakistan’s FY 2025–26 defence budget surged by 20%, reaching $9 billion, excluding a separate pension bill of $2.6 billion. Salaries, procurement, operations, and infrastructure dominate the allocation.

These numbers reflect the priorities of ruling elites, not the needs of ordinary people.

For every drone purchased, a school remains underfunded.
For every submarine upgraded, millions go without adequate healthcare.
For every missile tested, a farmer contemplates suicide on both sides of the border.

Militarism has not secured peace – it has institutionalised hostility.

A Different Destiny Is Possible

Imagine if the same engineers who design unmanned aerial vehicles designed irrigation systems for farmers in Sindh and Maharashtra.
Imagine if scientists who perfect missile guidance technologies applied their brilliance to climate-resilient agriculture or affordable medical devices.
Imagine if defence corridors became green-tech corridors, and military research shifted even marginally to human development.

The subcontinent could be transformed. If India and Pakistan redirected even a fraction of their defence budgets into agriculture, housing, education, gender equality, renewable energy, and healthcare, South Asia would become a region of stability, not volatility. But peace is not simply an economic question. It is a political choice.

Militarism as the Enemy of Democracy

Munir Khan represents a long pattern in Pakistan where generals rule either directly or indirectly for decades. Their presence in politics casts a long shadow over democratic institutions, the judiciary, the media, and civil society. This model thrives on conflict—especially with India—because hostility justifies military dominance. It is no coincidence that calls for détente or regional cooperation are politically dangerous in Pakistan.

India, meanwhile, has seen an ideological shift where muscular nationalism has become central to electoral politics. The idea of peace with Pakistan is often framed as appeasement, especially in a media landscape that sensationalises conflict and demonises dialogue. Kashmir remains a wound, festering under heavy militarisation rather than meaningful engagement.

The political economies of both states benefit from tension. Peace threatens the interests of arms lobbies, ideological hardliners, and security establishments accustomed to unchecked power.

But the People Want Peace

Ordinary Indians and Pakistanis do not dream of missiles; they dream of stability, jobs, dignity, affordable living, and predictable futures for their children. They do not fear each other; they fear hunger and unemployment. They do not hate each other; they have simply been denied the opportunity to meet, speak, and humanise one another.

As Simon and Garfunkel remind us, “the words of the prophets” are written on ordinary walls—not in military headquarters, not in Parliament, not in Washington or Beijing, but in the hearts of people who simply want to live free of fear.