The generals of Islamabad and their Zionist daydream

The generals in Islamabad—ever resplendent in starched uniforms and an exaggerated sense of self-importance—are once again casting furtive glances toward Tel Aviv. Their ambition? To inch closer to the sanctum of global approval, to gain access to the corridors of Zionist power and, perhaps, to be recognised as respectable players in an increasingly transactional world order. For a cadre so obsessed with “strategic depth,” their diplomatic trajectory often resembles not strategy but supplication.

This is not merely a matter of curiosity or engagement. It reflects a deeper pathology: a blend of opportunism, insecurity, and postcolonial mimicry that has long defined Pakistan’s military and bureaucratic elites. The push for normalisation with Israel is not grounded in democratic deliberation or national interest. It is a top-down enterprise, cultivated in air-conditioned conference halls, Western think tank circuits, and discreet backchannel rendezvous in Gulf capitals—worlds apart from the lived experiences and moral sentiments of ordinary Pakistanis.

This infatuation isn’t new. It reached farcical proportions during 2019–2020, when parts of the Pakistani media—habitually lethargic in covering domestic injustice, poverty, or state repression—suddenly became animated in their praise of Israeli technology, agriculture, and “shared democratic values.” It felt as if some invisible editorial hand had descended from Mount Herzliya. The usual suspects—retired military officers, neoliberal commentators, and urbane NGO functionaries—rallied to declare normalisation not only desirable but inevitable.

In the background, the Abraham Accords were being carefully choreographed by Washington and Tel Aviv, hailed as diplomatic breakthroughs while Arab autocracies were nudged, coaxed, or compelled into smiling photo ops. Yet the crown jewel—the real geostrategic trophy—was always Pakistan: nuclear-armed, Muslim-majority, and governed by elites perpetually craving Western validation.

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Into this mix entered Pakistan’s national security establishment with its preferred toolkit: coercion, manipulation, and an increasingly liberal-friendly vocabulary. Selling normalisation to a deeply pro-Palestinian public required more than realpolitik. It required a narrative facelift. Enter the urban liberal intelligentsia—those fluent in the language of global capital and moral relativism—tasked with rebranding capitulation as “pragmatism.” Dissent was recast not as a principled position, but as retrograde, anti-Semitic, or hostile to globalisation.

This was more than disingenuous—it was insulting to public memory.

Because the Pakistani people had not forgotten. They had not forgotten Gaza, Jenin, or Sheikh Jarrah. They remembered the children buried under rubble, the olive groves torched by settlers, and the suffocating siege that has strangled Palestinian life for decades. No amount of cyber-startups or desalination plants can whitewash the realities of apartheid and occupation.

So, when the state attempted to rebrand normalisation as a path to modernity, the public called their bluff.

And, to the dismay of Rawalpindi’s brass, Prime Minister Imran Khan refused to play along. Despite being ushered into power with the quiet blessing of the military, Khan demonstrated rare autonomy on the question of Israel. He repeatedly and unequivocally rejected normalisation, citing the occupation of Palestinian territories and the moral imperative to support the oppressed.

Khan may not have articulated a comprehensive critique of Zionism or Western imperial structures, but he recognised a red line when he saw one. Under his administration, Pakistan upheld a principled stance: there would be no recognition of Israel so long as Palestinians remained besieged and stateless. In an age of transactional diplomacy, such a position was not only rare—it was radical.

Unsurprisingly, it unsettled more than just Islamabad’s elite. It likely irked Washington, Tel Aviv, Riyadh, and Abu Dhabi—actors with whom Pakistan’s military leadership had been quietly exploring “realignment” and “shared interests.”

What followed bore the hallmarks of a political takedown. Khan was ousted, arrested, and prosecuted in a series of trials that many observers—domestic and international—have likened to kangaroo proceedings. He now languishes in a high-security prison, a facility usually reserved for violent offenders. The official narrative attributes his downfall to legal violations and political unrest. But to anyone reading between the lines, the specter of international pressure—especially from the Zionist-Western axis—is difficult to ignore.

Of course, this wasn’t the military’s first betrayal of the Palestinian cause. That dubious honour belongs to General Zia-ul-Haq, who in 1970 participated in the suppression of the Palestinian resistance during Black September in Jordan. Thousands were killed as Zia, then a relatively obscure officer, assisted the Hashemite monarchy in crushing the PLO. The man who later wrapped himself in the cloak of Islamization was once complicit in the massacre of fellow Muslims—at the behest of Arab autocrats.

That episode was not an anomaly; it was a precedent. Pakistan’s military elite long ago made a Faustian bargain: serve the interests of Gulf monarchs and Western patrons in exchange for dollars, prestige, and insulation from domestic accountability. In that calculus, Palestinian suffering has remained expendable.

Fast forward to the most recent Organisation of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) summit on Gaza. One might expect that, in the face of a live-streamed genocide, Pakistan would assert a position of moral clarity. Instead, Islamabad’s delegation treated the summit as if it were a technical seminar. Their standout achievement? Quietly lobbying to remove clauses that would have held Israeli officials accountable for war crimes. A low point, even by the standards of Pakistani diplomacy.

Israel took notice. Media reports from Tel Aviv celebrated Pakistan’s behind-the-scenes efforts. In a room filled with transactional politics, Islamabad appeared determined to outdo them all in moral equivocation.

Meanwhile, the Pakistani public was staging vigils, organising fundraisers, and marching in solidarity with Palestine. From the streets of Karachi to the hills of Khyber, moral clarity was not only alive—it was surging. And from his prison cell, Imran Khan released a statement through his sister, calling on Muslim-majority nations—especially Pakistan and Turkey—to form protection forces for Gaza and the West Bank. He even proposed a no-fly zone over Gaza, echoing norms of international humanitarian law that the so-called “international community” rarely enforces.

This was not an isolated remark. Khan had made similar appeals before, but this time it resonated more deeply. Why? Because it aligned with a rising public sentiment: that the Pakistani military—rather than suppressing journalists, student unions, and political activists—might one day consider defending actual victims of oppression.

This divergence has now crystallised into a deeper national contradiction.

READ: Pakistan condemns Israel’s new Gaza security corridors, Al-Aqsa raid

On one side stand the military, feudal elites, and their liberal apologists—those who see appeasing Tel Aviv and Washington as a strategic imperative. Their pundits dress up normalisation in economic and modernist vocabulary, even as Israeli bombs level hospitals. Their intellectuals preach caution, even as children are buried under rubble.

On the other side stand the people: a population that, despite relentless propaganda, remains morally grounded. They reject apartheid. They oppose genocide. And increasingly, they demand action—not just symbolic gestures, but meaningful resistance.

Calls for a volunteer army to defend Palestine may sound utopian to some, but they reflect a growing disillusionment with Pakistan’s security establishment. The question is no longer why the military is silent on Gaza. It’s why it continues to serve everything but the public will—whether in foreign policy or at home.

Because this is not just about Palestine. It is about the soul of Pakistan’s foreign policy. Will it remain scripted in Western capitals and proofread in Tel Aviv? Or will it finally reflect the ethical compass of its own people?

The values at stake—justice, solidarity, dignity, resistance—are not abstract. They were part of Pakistan’s founding narrative, however inconsistently upheld. And for much of the public, they remain non-negotiable.

History will judge. And when it does, it will not be kind to those who stood idle—or complicit—as a genocide unfolded. The military may still dominate the national narrative, but narratives are slippery things. They seep through cracks, they circulate digitally, and they gather force.

Across campuses, mosques, and social platforms, a new generation is asking dangerous questions: Why must our foreign policy serve imperial interests? Why is our media allergic to speaking truth about occupation? And why does our military continue to protect elite privilege while the world burns?

The answers are uncomfortable. But they are necessary.

So let the generals continue their overtures to Zionist power. Let the elite dream of tech partnerships and direct flights to Ben-Gurion. But they should know this: the public is not with them. The people are watching. They are remembering. And they are no longer silent.

If that reality unsettles Rawalpindi—so be it. Accountability begins with discomfort. And Pakistan, at long last, may be inching toward both.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.