The clash between Field Marshal Asim Munir and Imran Khan is not just a fight between two powerful men. It is a battle between raw state power and stubborn public support, and it is shaping the future of Pakistan. Munir now sits at the top of a system that has rewritten the Constitution to strengthen him. Imran sits inside a small cell in Adiala Jail after long sentences. Yet whenever a rumour spreads about him, thousands take to the streets, and the same powerful system begins to panic.
On paper, Munir looks unbeatable. The 27th Constitutional Amendment has made him Chief of Defence Forces until 2030, giving him control over the army, navy, and air force, as well as strong influence over the nuclear arsenal. He also enjoys lifetime legal immunity. The amendment weakens the existing courts by proposing a new constitutional court that many believe will be easier for the establishment to control. For years, Pakistanis said the army ruled from behind a curtain. Today that curtain is gone, and the face at the top is Asim Munir — a religious, strict general who believes he is defending the “Kalma state” from internal and external enemies.
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Imran Khan stands on the opposite side of this structure. Removed as prime minister in 2022, arrested in 2023, and handed long jail terms in corruption and other cases, he has been locked in Adiala Jail since August 2023. He is banned from contesting elections, his party’s symbol was removed in the 2024 polls, and many of his colleagues have been jailed, disappeared, or driven into exile. Yet his popularity has refused to collapse. For many Pakistanis, especially the youth, Imran has become a symbol of resistance to a system that protects generals and punishes elected leaders who challenge their authority.
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The events of 27 November showed how tense this clash has become. An Afghan outlet claimed that Imran had been killed in jail. Within hours, “Is Imran Khan alive?” became a national question, and crowds began gathering outside Adiala Jail. Only after this public pressure did authorities say he was “fully healthy” and still in custody. If the public trusted the system, such a rumour would have died. Instead, long silences about his health, blocked family visits, and secretive trials have created an atmosphere where any frightening rumour sounds possible.
At the heart of this conflict is a contrast between power and legitimacy. Munir has all the tools of state power — command of the forces, legal protection, political backing, and the security machinery. Imran carries something less visible but more dangerous to any ruler: a sense of legitimacy among millions who believe he is being targeted not for corruption but for challenging the military’s control over politics. Every time supporters are beaten outside Adiala Jail or peaceful protesters are detained, the belief grows that the state fears its own people more than any enemy. In this sense, each crackdown weakens Munir’s image instead of strengthening it.
There is also a powerful identity dimension. Imran is a Pathan with deep support in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and among Pashtuns across the Durand Line. Munir is a Punjabi field marshal at the top of a Punjabi-dominated establishment that controls Pakistan’s military, bureaucracy, and much of its economy. At a time when Pashtuns are angry about security operations, airstrikes in Afghan border areas, and the forced return of Afghan refugees during winter, jailing a popular Pashtun leader and going silent about his well-being sends a troubling message. For many, it is not just a legal fight but a reminder of ethnic inequality and mistrust.
The issue of Bushra Bibi has made things even worse. The bitterness between Munir and Imran goes back to 2019, when Munir, then ISI chief, is believed to have shown Imran evidence of alleged corruption involving Bushra Bibi. Soon after, Imran removed him from the ISI, and the relationship turned hostile. Today both Imran and Bushra have received heavy sentences, and she is reportedly being kept in isolation. To Imran’s supporters, the whole situation looks like a powerful general settling an old personal score with a former prime minister and his wife, using the full weight of the state.
From a moral and strategic point of view, Munir’s approach appears short-sighted. If he truly believed Imran was finished, he could have allowed open court hearings, live TV coverage, fair elections, and normal prison access. A transparent defeat in a free election would have harmed Imran’s political image far more than secretive trials and harsh crackdowns. Instead, by trying to erase him from national politics, the system has turned him into a martyr-like figure whose every rumour shakes the streets. This is not the behaviour of a confident state. It is the behaviour of a power structure that has all the authority but still cannot sleep peacefully.
Imran, however, is not without faults. His own government pressured opponents and media, and he also relied on the military when it suited him. Some corruption cases may have legal grounds. But justice must not only be done — it must be seen to be done. When trials look political and constitutional changes appear designed to protect one general, the message is clear: the law is not neutral. For a fragile country facing economic crisis, terrorism, and deep ethnic divides, this is extremely dangerous.
The real question is not just who wins between Munir and Imran. The deeper question is whether Pakistan can build a system where no general is above the law, no leader is erased through force, and no rumour can shake the entire nation overnight. If this is not achieved, the Munir–Imran clash will be remembered not as a personal rivalry, but as a warning about what happens when fear tries to crush popularity instead of facing it in a fair contest.