UNLIKE other countries, where constitutions falter amid debates on textual gaps and interpretive ambiguities, Pakistan’s failure has been in ceding power to those not sanctioned by the Constitution to wield it. Ours is a clear, progressive and structurally sound document; its weaknesses stem not from deficiencies but from the state’s unwillingness to uphold its provisions.

The 1973 Constitution lays down a classic tripartite structure balanced by the separation of powers. The idea is simple: ambition must counteract ambition, and checks must exist against overreach. It never contemplated the surrender which we find at every defining moment in Pakistan’s history. From justice Munir’s infamous ‘doctrine of necessity’, which justified the dissolution of the first Constituent Assembly in 1954, to the judicial validation of multiple military coups in the Dosso, Nusrat Bhutto and Zafar Ali Shah cases. The executive, for its part, has not only extended the tenures of military chiefs but has often boasted about being ‘on the same page’.

There are those within the judiciary, parliament and executive who have resisted this surrender, as in the Asma Jillani case. However, the collective institutional behaviour over decades indicates a silent but sustained consensus among a majority of Pakistan’s constitutional organs on the establishment’s indispensability to the preservation of the power structure, an unspoken agreement that underscores the Constitution’s failure.

This phenomenon is undergirded by a romanticisation of heroism that thrives outside the Constitution. In both politics and pop culture, we are enamoured of figures who transcend the law to right wrongs, the lone wolf, the saviour who breaks the rules to save the day. Hollywood, Bollywood, novels, and real-world strongmen, from Zia to Putin, repeatedly teach us that the hero is not bound by law, only by his mission. Trump now stands as yet another iteration of this troubling ideal. Such heroism may suit kingdoms, but it has no place in a democracy.

We need someone who chooses the slower, harder path.

Many of our problems stem from the fantasised extra-legal heroism. This is evident in instances such as ‘honour killings’ and extend to the broadest possible exhibition of those playing hero through martial laws or hybrid set-ups. Sometimes it takes the form of judicial activism, sometimes it is executive overreach. All this leaves Pakistan to deal with ‘heroes’ not contemplated as such by the Constitution, resulting in the obstruction of the working of organs tasked with specific functions.

There are exceptions when illegality may align with a higher moral calling under the celebrated doctrine of ‘illegal but the right thing to do’. The US constitution itself replaced the Articles of Confederation without proper authorisation. The Declaration of Independence was technically treason against the British Crown. The Israeli capture and trial of Adolf Eichmann defied international norms but served a higher call of justice. In Pakistan’s context, the 1998 nuclear tests defied global pressure but were seen as vital for national security. The Lawyers’ Movement in 2007, though in defiance of bans on public protest, was a principled stand for constitutio-nal supremacy.

But how do we distinguish between principled illegality and extra-constitutional adventurism? The test lies in answering a simple question: is the Constitution truly incapable of handling the crisis at hand? Despite its myriad challenges, Pakis­tan has rarely fa­­ced a constitutio­nal crisis so severe in its history so as to justify martial law, the suspension of fundamental rig­h­­ts, or the re­­­sort to extra-cons-titutio­n­­al governance. From Balochistan’s griev­ances to political polarisation in Islamabad, from economic meltdown to insurgencies, no crisis, except perhaps East Pakistan’s secession, has demanded a departure from democratic principles. Even that tragedy was precipitated not so much by constitutionalism, as its denial.

If the Constitution is clear and self-sufficient, why do we still seek saviours outside it? Until we uphold the structure that binds us, democracy will remain deferred, accountability selective, and the state at war with itself. Somebody needs to rise above the rubble to be a constitutional hero — not another messiah who wants to bend the system in the name of fixing it. We need someone who chooses the slower, harder path, one that calls for preserving the Constitution, honouring its limits, and insisting on the independence of all three organs of state. It won’t be glamorous. It won’t make headlines. But it’s the only way to pull Pakistan back from crisis, to end the cycle of chaos, and to restore the rule of law as the nation’s unshakable foundation.

The writer is a law student.

Published in Dawn, October 21st, 2025