The Silence That Resists: A Call for Restraint

What is won by force is as transient as the colours of a sunset.

—Dean Acheson

The Silence That Resists

Recall 1989, when the Berlin Wall crumbled— not through the thunder of bombs, but by the gentle force of hands unmaking oppression. It exemplified the power of a collective, silent resolve for freedom. Today, Pakistan is gripped in a different kind of hush— one not of triumph, but of tense anticipation. This silence, heavy and unbroken, hovers like a held breath, a moment suspended between repression and release.

“In republics,” Machiavelli wrote, “there is greater vitality. They do not forget, indeed cannot forget, their lost liberties.”[1] Pakistan’s silence is not cowed obedience; it is a quiet resistance, shaped by the fragility of unfulfilled self-determination—a force as enduring as the principles upon which the state was conceived. This tension reflects a deeper dissonance: a state whose sovereignty clashes with the people’s aspirations, as they do not yet see its power as their own or its values as their voice.

A Call for Restraint

What can a clenched fist hold but its own rage? As the grip tightens, the foundational grains of trust slip away like sand through fingers. History is clear: governance by force alone is self-defeating. The Soviet Union disintegrated not because of external duress but because it crushed the aspirations of its people. The Arab Spring surged through regimes that mistook fear for loyalty. Today, Pakistan’s crisis stems from a damaging trifecta: institutional overreach, civilian paralysis, and judicial compromise.

Military courts, claiming necessity, encroach upon civilian matters, eroding democratic accountability. A weakened civilian leadership creates a vacuum readily filled by martial assertion. The judiciary, beset by overt and covert pressures, falters, leaving citizens uncertain where freedom ends, and fear begins. Such measures may momentarily suppress dissent, but at a high cost. Without dialogue that includes all voices—from the provinces to the press—Pakistan cannot hope to secure its future. The justification is always the same: necessity. Extraordinary times, we are told, require extraordinary measures. Yet, how many “exceptions” can a democracy survive before it ceases to be one at all?

Before World War I, Europe’s atmosphere of mistrust and latent conflict escalated into immense catastrophe. Leaders, consumed by military plannings, failed to discern the tactical from the strategic —a lesson of great importance for states currently facing internal strife.[2]

If wisdom prevails, might the state recognise that the most strategic action could be restraint? As Henry Kissinger observed in White House Years, military force, unless directed at a military target, often misfires—at best, a short-lived show of force; at worst, a catalyst for deeper instability. Restraint, conversely, tempers immediate force with foresight and legitimacy, converting authority from coercion to consensus.

Consider Anwar Sadat’s 1973 offensive: a measured military move pivotal for peace talks, which ultimately redefined Egypt’s regional role. Similarly, the Marshall Plan, initiated by Dean Acheson, wielded American economic strength not to dominate but to rebuild war-torn Europe, fostering trust and alliances that endure to this day.

Even Machiavelli, often misinterpreted as a proponent of tyranny, warned that arbitrary authoritarianism stirs resentment, threatening both military power and political virtue. Restraint, he argued, is the precondition of pragmatic governance. As a testament to this principle, Augustus, the first Roman Emperor, chose conservation over destruction. By sparing the Senate, he solidified his authority. Conversely, Napoleon’s unrestrained campaign against Spain marked a descent into overreach, estranging allies and hastening his downfall. History not only celebrates the strategic but also warns against the perils of excessive ambition.

The establishment finds itself ensnared in this dilemma, having become more than the guardian of the state but less than its rightful ruler. If it believes it has “crossed the Rubicon” by escalating its control, there remains time to recalibrate.

Restraint, properly understood, is not retreat—a concept misunderstood by those who view politics solely through the prism of immediate tactical gains. It is the mark of enduring authority. It is the ability to discern when to act and when to withhold action. By investing in persuasive institutions, the state can transition from brute force and towards genuine legitimacy.

At this moment, Pakistan’s silence is fraught with both peril and promise. The silence of today is not the end of Pakistan’s story—it is the pregnant pause before a nation finds its voice. Let it not be an obituary, but a prelude to renewal. Only then can the colours of this sunset give way to the dawn of a new chapter.