By Prof. Junaid S. Ahmad
When the nation’s top general boards a flight to Washington not once, but twice within eight weeks, etiquette has clearly evolved into performance art. Picture Field Marshal Asim Munir—Pakistan’s newly minted five-star wonder, wearing a rank so rare it gathers dust in the history books—striding into Florida and D.C. with the easy grace of a monarch visiting his patron. The honeymoon? It’s not merely blooming; it’s a choreographed waltz, complete with matching smiles and carefully chosen photo backdrops.
This is not the casual diplomacy of “we should catch up sometime.” This is courtship, wrapped in starched fabric, stitched with nuclear thread.
Act I: Dinner, Diplomacy, and a Nobel Nomination
The first act unfolded in the famed Cabinet Room of the White House on a hot June afternoon. The U.S. President—yes, *that* one—shares a private lunch with Munir, the first such tête-à-tête in fifteen years. It had all the trappings of a diplomatic breakthrough, until the Field Marshal casually nominated his host for the Nobel Peace Prize. In the annals of foreign policy theatre, this was a rare flourish—equal parts flattery, opportunism, and political fan fiction.
This wasn’t just a power lunch; it was a scene straight out of a buddy-comedy script: “One serves salad, the other serves strategic compliance.” Everyone leaves the room convinced they are indispensable to the other’s future.
And then, barely six weeks later, Munir was back on a plane to the U.S.—not for a holiday or a conference, but for the next act in a drama that was starting to look like a touring production. This time, the backdrop was Tampa, home to CENTCOM headquarters, where he attended the retirement of one commander and the installation of another. Handshakes were exchanged with the earnestness of a man auditioning for “Most Reliable Ally,” while the Pakistani diaspora was treated to a sales pitch: invest in Pakistan, return to your roots, believe in the motherland.
From the outside, it looked like diplomacy. From the inside, it felt like déjà vu—repeated lines, the same stage, just a change of set dressing.
Act II: Nuclear Blackmail in the Sunshine State
But Tampa wasn’t where the fireworks happened. That was reserved for Florida’s softer shores, where Munir delivered what might be the most theatrical line of his career: “If we’re going down, we’ll take half the world with us.” Not whispered in a strategy session, not jotted in a private memo—said loudly, in public, on U.S. soil.
For anyone unsure, he made the point twice. Turning to India’s dams on the Indus, he promised their destruction with “ten missiles,” adding with unshakable confidence, “We have no shortage of missiles, Alhamdulillah.” In that moment, religious invocation met nuclear threat, a hybrid genre few had dared to attempt.
And then came the analogy that will follow him like a catchy but unfortunate jingle: India, he said, is a Ferrari speeding down a highway; Pakistan is a gravel-laden dump truck. The Ferrari might be sleeker, but if the dump truck collides, the Ferrari is finished. Somewhere in the crowd, a speechwriter surely high-fived himself. Somewhere else, a diplomat buried their face in their hands.
For Indian officials, this was more than rhetoric—it was a grotesque performance of irresponsibility. For Washington, it was theatre: a nuclear monologue delivered on borrowed stages, meant as much for the domestic audience back home as for any foreign listener.
Act III: Washington’s Quiet Checklist
Of course, the theatre is only the front stage. Behind the curtain, Washington’s script for Islamabad is less about applause and more about assignments.
First, Munir must play the role of fraternal defender of Iran in public, while keeping Balochistan primed for covert operations should Tehran become the next battlefield. In this drama, “brotherhood” is a costume; the real script is written in the shadows.
Second, he is to serve as the pliant foil to India’s increasingly independent streak. A brief border skirmish earlier this year earned Pakistan unusual praise from Washington—not because of any dazzling military maneuver, but because India has been testing Washington’s patience. From buying Russian oil without a hint of shame to cultivating relationships that make U.S. officials squirm, New Delhi has made clear it won’t be anyone’s obedient junior partner. Munir’s Pakistan, on the other hand, can be relied upon to play its part on cue.
Third, the relationship with China is to be kept on a short leash. Roads, ports, and railways under the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor are permissible; anything resembling strategic intimacy is not. And if the occasional attack in Balochistan derails a few projects? That’s just “geopolitical weather.”
Fourth, the crown jewel of the to-do list: undermine BRICS. The bloc—fast becoming a credible counterweight to Western economic dominance—is a thorn in Washington’s side. Pakistan’s mission, should it choose to accept it (and it has), is to be the polite saboteur: attend summits, offer handshakes, and plant seeds of suspicion between member states. The goal is as old as empire itself—divide, dominate, extract.
In this role, Munir is not just a Field Marshal; he is a geopolitical utility player, capable of being deployed against multiple targets without appearing to lead the attack.
Act IV: The Mirage of Sovereignty
Beneath the ceremonial glow, Pakistan’s military establishment operates as a state within a state—complete with its own business empire. Banks, factories, real estate developments: all part of a self-sustaining ecosystem known to critics as “Milbus.” This parallel economy ensures the military’s autonomy from civilian oversight, making it easier to align with external agendas without the inconvenience of parliamentary debate or public accountability.
When the military’s financial health depends more on its own enterprises than on the state budget, sovereignty becomes flexible. A foreign agenda can be accommodated if it doesn’t disturb the military’s internal balance sheet. And in Munir’s case, the Washington visits are not about asserting Pakistan’s independence—they’re about securing a place in a foreign-designed order, while preserving the domestic status quo.
The public may hear speeches about partnership and mutual respect. But the real currency in this relationship is obedience, dressed in the language of cooperation.
Act V: The Honeymoon’s True Price
Every honeymoon has a bill waiting at the end. In this one, Pakistan gets the optics of importance: a seat at the White House table, flattering remarks from U.S. officials, promises of military cooperation, and the warm embrace of America’s most influential lobbies.
In exchange, Washington gets a reliable middleman in South Asia: a nuclear-armed country willing to apply pressure on Iran, needle India, limit China’s reach, and play spoiler to BRICS. The fact that this arrangement is cloaked in the symbols of national pride—uniforms, medals, diplomatic banquets—only makes it easier to sell at home.
The problem is that honeymoons don’t last. The garland of roses begins to chafe, the music fades, and the partner once flattered finds themselves more bound than embraced. What today is presented as partnership may tomorrow be remembered as the moment sovereignty was traded for prestige.
Curtain Call: The Satrap’s Smile
Field Marshal Asim Munir is not the first Pakistani general to play the role of satrap, and he won’t be the last. But the speed and enthusiasm with which he has embraced it—the two visits in rapid succession, the nuclear grandstanding on foreign soil, the apparent eagerness to carry out Washington’s regional errands—mark him as a particularly willing participant in the arrangement.
Pakistan remains a country of staggering potential: the fifth most populous nation, rich in resources, positioned at the crossroads of Asia, and armed with a formidable nuclear deterrent. And yet, in the current script, it plays a role written elsewhere, its lines approved before they are spoken.
The satrap’s smile is wide, the epaulettes shine under the spotlight, and the applause is warm. But somewhere beyond the ballroom, the music changes. The strings grow taut. And when the tune shifts from waltz to march, the Field Marshal may discover that the honeymoon was never truly about love—it was always about leverage.
Prof. Junaid S. Ahmad teaches Law, Religion, and Global Politics and is the Director of the Center for the Study of Islam and Decolonization (CSID), Islamabad, Pakistan.
14 August 2025
Source: countercurrents.org