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On one hand, Pakistan cries foul over Kashmir, framing itself as a champion of Kashmiri rights. On the other hand, it refuses to grant even basic dignity to the very people living in the territories it controls. Gilgit-Baltistan, despite its strategic importance and rich cultural identity, has been treated like a buffer zone.
I’ve never been to Gilgit. I haven’t walked the streets of Muzaffarabad or spoken face to face with families living under the gaze of the Pakistani military. But over the past few years, I’ve seen enough, especially on platforms like X, to recognise a pattern that’s too loud to ignore. When people from these regions write, it’s not with the detached voice of political commentators. It’s with the urgency of those who feel cornered. They’re not shouting into the void. They’re shouting into a silence that Pakistan has deliberately created. Every now and then, a video surfaces. A young man from Skardu speaking about land being taken without consent. A woman in Muzaffarabad confronting a local official about electricity cuts and water shortages. Elderly residents protesting outside administrative buildings, holding signs no one in Islamabad seems willing to read. These aren’t rare incidents. They are the rule, not the exception. And yet, Pakistani news channels don’t report them. Their pain, their frustration, their protests are brushed off as disturbances, or worse, foreign conspiracies.
Let’s be clear about one thing. Gilgit-Baltistan and so-called Azad Jammu and Kashmir are not autonomous. They never have been. The illusion of “azadi” that Pakistan likes to parade around every time it brings up Kashmir in the international arena is a smokescreen. There is no self-governance. There is no real political representation. There is only control, exercised through bureaucracy, military presence, and a constant sense of fear. People in these regions do not have the same constitutional rights as citizens in Pakistan’s provinces. They do not elect representatives to the National Assembly. They cannot hold Islamabad accountable in any meaningful way. When they protest, they are beaten. When they organise, they are surveilled. When they speak too freely, they disappear. The recent wave of discontent in Gilgit-Baltistan tells us something that Pakistan’s establishment is desperate to deny. The people are tired. Tired of being exploited for their natural resources while their own homes go without electricity. Tired of being used as a pawn in a geopolitical narrative that treats their lives as secondary to symbolism. Tired of watching their sons disappear and their grievances being buried under bureaucracy or military files.
What makes it worse is the double game. On one hand, Pakistan cries foul over Kashmir, framing itself as a champion of Kashmiri rights. On the other hand, it refuses to grant even basic dignity to the very people living in the territories it controls. Gilgit-Baltistan, despite its strategic importance and rich cultural identity, has been treated like a buffer zone. Not a home, not a region with its people and aspirations, but a bargaining chip. And then there’s the silence from civil society within Pakistan. A handful of journalists have tried to report the truth about what’s happening in GB and PoK, but their voices are quickly drowned out, if not outright silenced. Most political parties steer clear of the issue. Human rights groups are either too intimidated or too compromised to speak up. For all the talk about democracy and justice in Pakistan, this issue remains one of its darkest blind spots.
The world doesn’t hear about Gilgit-Baltistan because Pakistan doesn’t want it to. It’s easier to keep the region quiet, both literally and figuratively. No mobile services in some areas. No international media access. No open debate. But the silence is starting to crack. The internet may be censored, but it’s not sealed. Voices are rising, slowly but steadily, and they’re calling out the hypocrisy. You don’t need to be an expert on borders or geopolitics to see what’s wrong. You just need to listen to the people who live there. Their stories aren’t polished. They’re raw. And that’s what makes them real. This article isn’t just a critique of Pakistan’s policy. It’s a reminder that beyond the maps and speeches and grandstanding, there are people. People who’ve lived too long in the shadow of broken promises. And the more Pakistan tries to suppress them, the louder their discontent will grow.
The Hollow Illusion of Autonomy
When the Gilgit-Baltistan Empowerment and Self-Governance Order was introduced in 2009, it looked like progress. The region got a 33-member assembly, a Chief Minister, and a Governor. But the details reveal something else. Real power didn’t come with it. The federal government retained the real authority. Islamabad’s Prime Minister could override laws. The local assembly was kept on a leash. Constitutional rights remained elusive. By 2018, even these slight freedoms were rolled back. The so-called Gilgit-Baltistan Order removed powers from the local council, once a link between the region and federal law, and handed unchecked authority to the Prime Minister alone. The region’s judiciary was muzzled, legislative autonomy stripped. All this happened with zero public debate, despite a Supreme Court stay order. Polling on the ground reflects the result. Nearly 80 percent of youth surveyed said they were unhappy with this undefined constitutional status. Close to half demanded full recognition or provincial status. And three-quarters believed their local leaders were more loyal to mainland parties than to the people of Gilgit-Baltistan.
Protests in the Freezing Cold Make That Point Clear
Last winter, when subsidised wheat jumped from Rs. 12 to Rs. 36 per kilogram, protests erupted everywhere, from Skardu to Hunza to Gilgit. Sit-ins went on for weeks in freezing weather. Citizens mobilised through the Awami Action Committee, demanding price rollback, transparency in food distribution, and honest governance. The protests weren’t just about bread. They became about basic dignity. Hundreds stood their ground in Yadgar-i-Shuhada long after media attention faded. At the same time, local rallies took aim at other grievances, including electricity cuts, unfair tolls on the Karakoram Highway, blacklisted traders, soaring taxes, and poor schooling. One protest slogan said it all: “You build roads for CPEC, but deny us electricity to power our homes.”
Demographic Engineering That Fuels Resentment
The issue goes deeper than governance. Pakistan has deliberately eroded the demographic fabric of these regions. Abolishing the “State Subject Rule” in 1974 meant outsiders could buy land. Over time, large tracts were allotted to military personnel and settlers from Punjab or Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Locals see this as an attempt to dilute their identity and control. Estimates show that areas once Shia-majority are now seeing significant increases in non-locals, with locals feeling robbed of their history.
Why This Quiet Crisis Deserves More Attention
We ignore this at our peril. Gilgit-Baltistan may be out of sight for most of Pakistan, but it sits at the gateway of CPEC. It holds water, resources, and geography. Its people aren’t just numbers; they’re resilient voices being stifled. The political rights they’re demanding are not radical. They want what every citizen elsewhere in Pakistan automatically receives. The right to be represented. The right to raise power tariffs without fear. The right not to have their identities diluted by outsiders. I may not have walked their streets, but I know this: when you see neighbour after neighbour writing about the same frustrations, from Skardu to Hunza to Diamer, it’s not drama. It’s desperation. It’s real. And only a government that fears them would choose to levy and control over conversation and rights.
The writer is a student activist and can be reached at soulofkashmir1@gmail.com
