In recent months, Pakistan-administered Jammu and Kashmir (PaJK) has witnessed a groundswell of popular anger not seen in decades. From the town centres of Mirpur to the mountain villages near Neelum, ordinary citizens have rallied behind the Joint Awami Action Committee (JAAC), a coalition that has emerged as the voice of long-ignored grievances.
Its calls for reform, ending elite privileges, revisiting power agreements with Pakistan, and scrapping reserved assembly seats for Kashmiri refugees settled across the border, have found traction in every corner of the region.
This has left the traditional political class rattled. Many leaders, sensing the depth of public frustration, cautiously echo elements of the JAAC’s demands. Yet in the same breath, they dismiss the movement as a destabilising force. Their language has grown harsher by the day: “traitors,” “Indian-funded,” and even calls for “major operations” to crush dissent. Instead of engaging a broad-based, disciplined movement, mainstream politicians appear bent on delegitimizing it.
The JAAC has now announced a full lockdown across PaJK on September 29, 2025. A detailed 38-point charter of demands backs the call. These include:
Abolishing the perks and privileges of the ruling elite.
Ending the 12 assembly seats reserved for refugees from Jammu and Kashmir now settled in Pakistan.
Re-negotiating hydropower agreements to ensure local benefit.
Establishing an international airport.
And implementing reforms already promised last year but never carried out.
In May 2024, the government formally accepted some of these demands. Yet nothing moved beyond paper. A committee meant to review elite privileges was never even formed. Instead, reports of new perks being added only deepened the sense of betrayal.
The demand that has stirred the sharpest debate is the elimination of 12 legislative seats for refugees from Jammu and Kashmir who now live in Pakistan. For years, politicians across the spectrum have voiced support for this reform.
Raja Farooq Haider himself, a former prime minister of PaJK, long argued against these seats. Yet it was under his own tenure that they were granted constitutional protection—an irony not lost on the public.
Chaudhry Yasin of the Pakistan People’s Party went a step further recently, alleging the JAAC is funded by India and insisting that “not a single point of their agenda can be accepted.” Such accusations have only widened the gulf between politicians and citizens. For many, the charges smack of desperation from leaders who sense their hold on power slipping.
The JAAC has spread far beyond city rallies. It has set up networks at the ward and union council levels. Its organizational reach now penetrates daily life to such an extent that even a brief strike call is enough to paralyze administration. For mainstream parties, the timing could not be worse. General elections are due in July 2026. With public sympathy flowing almost entirely toward the JAAC, veteran politicians fear humiliation at the ballot box.
That fear explains the shrill rhetoric. When Haider thunders about a “big operation” or Yasin charges “foreign funding,” they are not only attacking the JAAC—they are grasping at political survival.
Observers believe that to contemplate a crackdown at a time of unprecedented public unity would be reckless. Across PaJK, resentment has already reached boiling point. Ordinary people complain of being used as pawns, denied a fair share of hydropower revenue, and shut out of decision-making that affects their daily lives.
The government in Muzaffarabad is in no position to crush the movement on its own. Even within the bureaucracy and police, sympathy for the JAAC runs deep. Several officers privately admitted in recent gatherings that they would hesitate to act against the protesters. If Islamabad were to intervene militarily in support of the local government, it would only fan the flames further.
On the streets and online, critics of the JAAC are already branded as “state collaborators.” The movement has succeeded in casting itself as the authentic voice of the people, while politicians and the state are seen as obstacles to justice. Any attempt at repression under these conditions risks mass defiance—and possibly bloodshed.
Echoes of 2002
The diaspora factor makes the stakes even higher. More than 1.5 million people from PaJK live in Europe, many deeply engaged with politics back home. Already, social media is flooded with messages of solidarity. If Islamabad opts for confrontation, the diaspora could mount protests on a scale unseen since 2002, when Mirpuris rallied abroad during the Mangla Dam extension. Then, even under a military dictatorship, Islamabad was forced to concede.
This time, the potential is far greater. It will not be only Mirpur, but every district of PaJK represented in London, Birmingham, Oslo, Brussels, and beyond. International headlines would inevitably cast Pakistan in a negative light, portraying it as crushing peaceful demands with brute force. At a moment when Islamabad is struggling with diplomatic isolation and economic fragility, such an image would be devastating.
The warning signs are unmistakable. To push PaJK down the path of repression would be to risk turning it into another Kashmir Valley: a place synonymous with alienation, disillusionment, and cycles of unrest. For decades, Pakistan has criticised New Delhi for failing to engage Kashmiri voices. To repeat the same mistake under its own administration would be politically suicidal and morally indefensible.
Instead, Islamabad has an opportunity to chart a different course. By engaging the JAAC in dialogue, acknowledging legitimate grievances, and implementing reforms already promised, it can transform the current moment of anger into one of renewal. Far from weakening Pakistan’s case internationally, such responsiveness would strengthen it, showcasing a democratic and inclusive approach to governance.
The clock is ticking. With elections less than a year away, mainstream parties face an existential test. They can either continue dismissing the JAAC as “foreign-funded,” clinging to outdated privileges and risking confrontation. Or they can recognize that the ground has shifted irreversibly, that ordinary people will no longer accept cosmetic changes.
Dialogue does not mean capitulation. It means acknowledging that public trust has been broken, and that only concrete steps—ending perks, revisiting power deals, scrapping refugee seats—can restore legitimacy. Failure to act risks plunging the region into unrest that will be harder to contain than any previous movement.
For Pakistan itself, the implications are sobering. A crackdown in Muzaffarabad will not remain confined to the mountains. It will reverberate in European capitals, on international television, and across global human rights forums. A heavy-handed approach would hand critics an easy narrative: that Islamabad, too, silences Kashmiri voices when they become inconvenient.
The choice is stark. Engage, listen, and negotiate—or unleash forces that could spiral out of control. PaJK stands at a crossroads. It can become a model of responsiveness within a fractured region, or it can stumble down the path of alienation that has haunted the Indian-administered Jammu and Kashmir, particularly the Kashmir Valley, for decades.
The lesson of history is clear: in Jammu and Kashmir, once the bond of trust between rulers and the ruled is broken, it is painfully hard to restore it now on both sides of the divide. Pakistan would do well to remember the lessons.
(Danish Irshad is a senior journalist from Pakistan-administered Jammu and Kashmir, based in Muzaffarabad and Islamabad.)
This news article has been edited to remove a byline which was inadvertently added.
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