In recent weeks, the simmering discontent in Pakistan-Occupied Jammu and Kashmir (PoJK) has erupted into a full-blown crisis, exposing the profound disconnect between Islamabad's claims of regional autonomy and the stark realities faced by the people living under its rule. What began as a series of protests over basic necessities has spiraled into a violent confrontation, drawing international scrutiny and raising uncomfortable questions about state repression, economic exploitation, and the global community's selective outrage.
The unrest, which intensified in late September 2025, was spearheaded by the Jammu Kashmir Joint Awami Action Committee (JAAC). According to reports from International Business Times and The Times of Israel, thousands took to the streets of Muzaffarabad, Rawalakot, Dheerkot, and Mirpur, demanding affordable electricity, subsidised flour, and a greater say in their own governance. Their grievances were not new—past years had seen similar protests over inflation, wheat shortages, and rising tariffs—but this time, the response from Pakistani authorities was swift and brutal.
Security forces moved in, imposing curfews and communication blackouts across major towns in PoJK. The crackdown escalated rapidly; at least ten civilians were killed and over a hundred injured when troops opened fire on unarmed demonstrators. As human rights analyst Michael Arianti wrote in The Times of Israel, "The valleys of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, often described as idyllic and scenic, are now drenched in blood." He described the situation as a "humanitarian crisis met with global hypocrisy," highlighting the world's silence in the face of such violence.
At the heart of the protests lies a deep sense of economic injustice. PoJK, despite generating nearly a third of Pakistan's hydroelectric power—thanks to major projects like the Mangla Dam on the Jhelum river—receives little benefit from its own resources. Locals are reportedly forced to pay ten times the production cost of electricity, while government officials and elites in Islamabad enjoy free power and fuel privileges. According to Arianti, "Pakistan owes the region at least Rs 370 billion in unpaid electricity royalties, but instead of repayment, Islamabad sends Rangers and federal police."
The JAAC's 38-point charter of demands included not only calls for economic relief but also for political reform. One of their central demands was the abolition of twelve "refugee" seats in the PoJK Legislative Assembly—positions filled by Islamabad's nominees representing people who live in Pakistan rather than PoJK itself. This, protesters argued, was emblematic of the region's lack of real autonomy. While PoJK is nominally self-governing, with its own legislature, president, and prime minister, the federal government in Islamabad retains decisive authority over most aspects of governance. Key administrative posts, from the chief secretary to senior civil servants, are filled with Islamabad's approval, and the "Ministry of Kashmir Affairs and Gilgit-Baltistan" acts as a formal conduit for federal control.
Political parties in PoJK, too, are largely extensions of Pakistan's national parties—Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI), Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N), and Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP). Locals complain that this arrangement leaves them at the mercy of Islamabad's political calculus, with little room for genuine local representation or dissent.
In the face of mounting protests, Islamabad dispatched a high-level delegation led by Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif's team to negotiate with demonstrators. The agreement to end the unrest was not announced by PoJK's local leaders, but by Pakistan's Parliamentary Affairs Minister Tariq Fazal Chaudhry—another sign, critics say, of where real power lies. As one observer noted in International Business Times, "A word added to the original name of an illegally occupied region does not render it free. Pakistan retains decisive authority over almost all aspects in the region, leaving its inhabitants at the mercy of Islamabad while maintaining a sham facade."
The violence and subsequent state crackdown have drawn condemnation from international human rights organizations. Yet, as Arianti sharply observed, the global response has been muted at best. "When a flotilla to Gaza was intercepted, it dominated headlines," he wrote. "But when Pakistani forces opened fire on Kashmiri Muslims—when ten and perhaps more were martyred—there was silence. No emergency UN session. No Arab League declaration. No European Parliament resolution." The Organisation of Islamic Cooperation (OIC), known for its vocal positions on conflicts in Gaza and Indian-administered Kashmir, has remained conspicuously silent on Pakistan's actions in PoJK.
Activists and analysts warn that the combination of economic neglect, political disenfranchisement, and military repression is fueling deep alienation among PoJK's residents. The risk, they argue, is not only further instability in Pakistan's northern territories but also the erosion of whatever legitimacy Islamabad claims over the region.
This crisis in PoJK is not occurring in isolation. According to reports from Daily Mirror and The Tribune, Pakistan's approach to dissent has grown increasingly repressive both at home and abroad. Under Army Chief Asim Munir, who has amassed significant power since 2022, the state's coercive reach has extended far beyond its borders. Journalists, activists, and political opponents in the diaspora—particularly those affiliated with former Prime Minister Imran Khan's PTI—have faced intimidation, surveillance, and even violence.
One of the most high-profile cases was the killing of senior television anchor Arshad Sharif in Kenya in October 2022, after he fled sedition charges and threats from the military. Kenyan courts ruled his killing unlawful, but justice remains elusive amid persistent suspicions of Pakistani military involvement. More recently, investigative reporter Ahmad Noorani faced retribution after publishing reports critical of Munir: his brothers were abducted in Islamabad, a colleague disappeared in Balochistan, and his YouTube channel was blocked in Pakistan.
PTI supporters in London, Toronto, and Washington have reported being photographed and profiled by embassy staff, receiving threatening phone calls, and having their families in Pakistan questioned by security agencies. In early 2025, Pakistani courts accepted petitions demanding action against PTI's overseas social media cells, accusing them of "inciting mutiny"—a move widely condemned by rights groups like Human Rights Watch, CIVICUS Monitor, and Amnesty International as a violation of international human rights obligations.
The repressive tactics have not gone unnoticed in Western capitals. In July 2025, a US congressional panel heard testimony on Pakistan's crackdown against exiled journalists and PTI supporters, warning of possible sanctions if the campaign continues. British MPs have raised similar concerns in Parliament regarding the intimidation of protesters outside Pakistan's High Commission in London.
Army Chief Munir, during visits to Western cities in 2024 and 2025, publicly derided PTI supporters abroad as "agents of chaos" and accused them of spreading "foreign-funded propaganda." By branding political opponents as existential threats, Munir has sought to legitimize state surveillance and legal harassment, both domestically and internationally.
Human rights organizations, including the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, have warned that the space for dissent has shrunk not only at home but also abroad, as embassies become instruments of surveillance and intimidation. The CIVICUS Monitor now labels Pakistan a "repressed" state, underscoring the severity of the situation.
As the crisis in PoJK and the wider campaign of repression continue, Islamabad faces mounting pressure—from its own citizens, from the diaspora, and from segments of the international community—to reckon with the costs of its policies. For now, however, the people of PoJK remain caught between the promise of autonomy and the reality of occupation, their voices stifled by a state determined to maintain control at any cost.
