This year marks fifty years since the establishment of the Supreme Court of Azad Jammu & Kashmir. The jubilee is a moment to celebrate the endurance of an institution that has kept the idea of the rule of law alive in a contested land. But anniversaries also demand reflection. What does it mean for a region to have its own Supreme Court, yet still remain in constitutional limbo after more than seven decades of existence?
The story of Pakistan-administered Jammu and Kashmir (PaJK)’s judiciary cannot be separated from the larger story of Jammu & Kashmir—its political history, its fractured sovereignty, and the unfinished business of partition. To understand the present, we must retrace how this region has been shaped by law and power.
Kashmir was not an invention of 1846, nor of 1947. Its political identity stretches back centuries. The Valley sustained a unique culture and polity from early Hindu and Buddhist rulers to Rinchan Shah, the Ladakhi prince, who embraced Islam in 1320 and was accepted as king by Kashmiris themselves. The Sufis and Syeds of Central Asia rooted Islam into local society, making it a voluntary and enduring transformation rather than a forced imposition.
Foreign rule began with the Mughal conquest in 1586, followed by the Afghans, Sikhs, and finally the British. In 1846, after defeating the Sikhs, the British sold Kashmir to Gulab Singh of Jammu under the Treaty of Amritsar.
From that moment, the “State of Jammu & Kashmir” existed as a political entity—but it was stitched together by force, not by choice.
This artificial state included Jammu, Ladakh, the Valley, Poonch-Mirpur, Muzaffarabad, and Gilgit-Baltistan. Its cohesion came not from a shared identity but from the despotic authority of a Hindu ruler over a Muslim-majority population. The Valley became the heart of resistance, while other regions largely submitted to whichever sovereign held power.
Compulsion to join India or Pakistan
With the partition of British India in August 1947, all princely states were compelled to join either India or Pakistan. Independence was never a legal option, as clarified by British notifications in August 1947.
Jammu & Kashmir was in a peculiar position. For six days in March 1846, between the Treaty of Lahore and the Treaty of Amritsar, it was effectively a British colony. On that basis, it should have been referred to the Boundary Commission at partition, just like Punjab and Bengal. With a 97 per cent Muslim majority, its natural destiny was to join Pakistan. That chance was missed.
When British paramountcy ended on 15 August 1947, Maharaja Hari Singh lost legal authority to rule. The people of Poonch, Mirpur, Muzaffarabad, and Gilgit-Baltistan rose against him, declaring an independent government on 24 October. India’s claim of accession, secured two days later through a contested Instrument, was shaky from the start.
The first war ended with a UN-brokered ceasefire on 1 January 1949. The ceasefire line left PaJK and Gilgit-Baltistan under Pakistan’s control, the Valley and Jammu under India’s. Lord Mountbatten himself conceded that accession must be confirmed by the will of the people. UN resolutions in 1948 and beyond promised a plebiscite.
Those resolutions remain unimplemented to this day. Meanwhile, Pakistan and PaJK signed the Karachi Agreement of April 1949, handing defence, foreign affairs, currency, and communications to Pakistan, while Gilgit-Baltistan came under direct Pakistani administration.
India wasted no time. By 1950, it had incorporated its controlled territories into its constitution, claiming the entire state. Article 370 provided a façade of autonomy, hollowed out by successive presidential orders until the coup of 5 August 2019, when the special status was revoked altogether.
PaJK and Gilgit-Baltistan: obligations without rights
Seventy-seven years later, PaJK and Gilgit-Baltistan live in a constitutional contradiction.
Their people carry Pakistani passports and national identity cards.
They serve in Pakistan’s armed forces and die on its borders.
Their constitutions enshrine loyalty to accession with Pakistan.
Yet, legally, they are not citizens of Pakistan. They have no seats in Parliament, no representation in the Senate, no say in federal decision-making.
In PaJK, one-third of legislative seats and one-quarter of government jobs are reserved for refugees in Pakistan, leaving locals disadvantaged. In Gilgit-Baltistan, two successive assemblies have unanimously demanded provincial status. Both regions contribute taxes, soldiers, and loyalty, but are denied full rights.
This is not just a legal anomaly—it is a lived injustice. Young men from PaJK and GB fight and fall in Pakistan’s wars, but their families cannot vote for the leaders who decide matters of war and peace. Teachers and doctors serve under Pakistan’s flag, yet their rights remain “provisional.” Such contradictions weaken the bond of trust between citizen and state.
Why does Pakistan hesitate?
Three options lie open to Pakistan:
Amend Article 257 of the Constitution to recognise PaJK and Gilgit-Baltistan as provinces pending a final settlement.
Let Parliament admit them into the federation on terms it deems fit.
Interpret Article 1’s phrase “territories otherwise included in Pakistan” to cover them pragmatically.
Would this truly harm Pakistan’s case at the UN? India incorporated “its” Kashmir into its constitution in 1950, without waiting for resolutions. Pakistan, by contrast, clings to ambiguity. Officials sometimes even describe PaJK as “foreign,” a claim India eagerly cites. This hesitation is less about law and more about politics. As the Persian saying goes: When unwilling, excuses abound.
Judiciary’s uneasy path
The golden jubilee of the Supreme Court invites us to recall its own contested journey. It grew from the Board of Judicial Advisers of 1939 into a full Supreme Court in 1975. Over the years, its judges have extended jurisdiction through liberal interpretation, keeping the idea of the rule of law alive.
But the court has also suffered political interference. Chief Justices have served for years in an “acting” capacity. Salaries have been set below those of counterparts in Pakistan, and later corrected after protest. At times, juniors with little experience have been elevated over seniors. Even I was passed over when a judge with only twenty days’ service in the court was appointed Chief Justice.
These episodes are not mere personal grievances—they reflect a deeper truth. When a people have no representation in the federation, their institutions are treated as subjects, not equals.
India justifies its hold through the Instrument of Accession. Pakistan counters rhetorically, but undermines its own case through ambiguity. At times, Islamabad calls PaJK “independent,” sometimes “foreign,” sometimes “jugular vein.” This shifting language confuses friends and empowers adversaries.
The reality is simpler: PaJK and GB are integrated into Pakistan in every practical way. Denying this in the constitution does not strengthen Pakistan’s case—it weakens it. It alienates its own people while gifting India ammunition.
Road ahead
Relying on UN resolutions alone is futile. Power lies in economic strength, political stability, and diplomatic influence. Pakistan must focus on consolidating itself at home to project credibility abroad. PaJK and Gilgit-Baltistan can be part of this strength, but only if recognised as full partners.
The stakes are not abstract. These regions sit at the junction of India, China, and Afghanistan. They are the gateway to CPEC. They are rich in water, minerals, and strategic depth. To leave them in constitutional limbo is to weaken Pakistan at its most sensitive frontier.
The demand of their people is simple: dignity. They seek recognition as citizens, not subjects. They want a voice in the federation they already serve and defend.
The Golden Jubilee of the Supreme Court should not be reduced to a ceremonial commemoration. It is a reminder of the unfinished business of providing rights to people. For fifty years, this court has dispensed justice in a land suspended between sovereignty and struggle. For seventy-seven years, its people have carried Pakistan in their hearts but not in their constitution.
Clarity is not only possible—it is necessary. Recognising PaJK and Gilgit-Baltistan within Pakistan’s constitutional framework would not erase the international dispute. It would simply acknowledge the lived reality of millions who are already Pakistani in every way but law.
The choice is stark: continue in ambiguity, or embrace principled clarity. Only the latter will strengthen Pakistan, dignify its people, and prepare it for the challenges ahead.
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