The Indo-Pak war: recklessness and diversion in the service of pharaohs 

It began, as it so often does, with a blast in Indian-occupied Kashmir. A terrorist attack—brutal, tragic, and all too familiar—left carnage in its wake. Without missing a beat, the Indian government did what it has made into a political reflex: it pointed its righteous finger at Pakistan, evidence optional. The mechanics are well-rehearsed by now. Accusation, moral outrage, flag-waving nationalism, and, when the mood permits, cross-border military aggression. This time, the mood most certainly did.

Airstrikes followed—this time not limited to the usual tit-for-tat at the Line of Control but deep into Pakistan proper, including parts of Pakistan-administered Kashmir. Civilian deaths have mounted, although that uncomfortable detail tends to be buried under India’s ever-reliable justification that it was simply targeting “terrorist camps,” a euphemism that has become so broad and so elastic it might as well include public schools and tea stalls.

Indian television anchors, seemingly dressed for combat from the safety of their studios, sprang into action like patriotic automatons. Hashtags trended faster than investigations. “Nation Wants Revenge” screamed across the screens, leaving no room for nuance, skepticism, or the mildly inconvenient question of proof. Newsrooms transformed into war rooms. Studio lights dimmed for dramatic effect. Maps were flashed. Generals were summoned. One could almost forget that no formal declaration of war had occurred.

Pakistan, of course, returned fire—verbally and militarily. Islamabad claimed to have downed a few Indian jets in retaliation, though the truth remains elusive in the fog of war. Propaganda thrives, cameras are carefully aimed, and “sources” with impeccable vagueness whisper stories that nobody can independently verify. Welcome to subcontinental geopolitics, where the truth is always the first casualty—and often the least mourned.

But as the situation teeters dangerously on the edge of full-blown conflict, it’s not just missiles being launched. Questions, too, are being hurled—most notably the old but vital one: cui bono? Who benefits?

The reflexive answer might seem obvious. No one benefits from war, right? War is chaos, destruction, mutually assured devastation. But history, in its grim consistency, reminds us that some do indeed benefit—if not from the war itself, then certainly from the threat of one. War, or the whiff of it, has an uncanny ability to reset political narratives, to unify discontented populations under the illusion of patriotism, and to divert attention from domestic decay to external danger. It’s political sleight of hand—look over there, not here.

Let’s begin with the most obvious magician: Narendra Modi. At the helm of a virulently right-wing Hindutva movement, Modi knows precisely how to stoke nationalist fervor. His base thrives on images of strength—preferably aimed at the Muslim “other,” with Pakistan always ready to serve as the obliging foil. For Modi, the script practically writes itself: an external enemy, a righteous cause, and the thrilling spectacle of retaliation. The cheers of his base drown out the groans of the unemployed, the disillusioned, the poor. Who needs good governance when you can have good old-fashioned jingoism?

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Like other populist strongmen of our age—Erdogan, Netanyahu, Bolsonaro—Modi has understood that nationalism is the last refuge not just of scoundrels, but of stalled economies and bad headlines. Whether it’s unemployment, communal violence, or a tanking rupee, the answer is always conveniently parked across the border. And when in doubt, summon the bogeyman of “cross-border terrorism.” It’s a versatile prop—easily weaponized, rarely scrutinized.

But across the border lies a more complex tragedy, and arguably, a more desperate play. Pakistan’s military establishment—long accustomed to wielding disproportionate power over the state—now finds itself in unfamiliar territory: hated. Not just by the usual suspects in Balochistan or Sindh, but by Punjab, its traditional heartland of support. Why? Because over the past three years, the generals have been singularly obsessed with crushing the political movement led by former Prime Minister Imran Khan—Pakistan’s most popular political figure in decades.

The generals deposed him, imprisoned him, and brutalized his supporters in ways that have shocked even those desensitized to Pakistan’s cyclical repression. They banned his party from elections, censored his speeches, and imprisoned thousands of his supporters. Journalists were abducted in the dead of night; social media was shut down like an unruly teenager’s Wi-Fi. The military, once smug in its image as a disciplined and incorruptible “guardian of the nation,” has now revealed itself to be just another power-hungry mafia with tanks.

This strategy, however, has backfired spectacularly. The military’s once-pristine image—carefully cultivated as a selfless, incorruptible institution—now lies in tatters. The narrative of “corrupt politicians versus patriotic soldiers” has collapsed under the weight of torture cells, censorship, and sheer incompetence. Even the military’s old toys have turned against it: the Afghan Taliban, once seen as Islamabad’s strategic depth, now treats the Pakistani state with open contempt and, at times, open hostility.

Economically, Pakistan is gasping. Inflation is sky-high. The rupee is in free fall. The country’s foreign reserves barely stretch to cover a few weeks of imports. The IMF dangles bailout tranches like a schoolmaster waving detention slips. Meanwhile, generals continue to gobble up land, control real estate empires, and expand their business frontiers—because, after all, what’s national collapse to a man who owns golf clubs in every province?

So what’s an embattled junta to do? Well, if all else fails, manufacture unity. And nothing unites a fractured, angry population like the promise of a good old-fashioned war with India. The logic is cynical, but brutally effective: resurrect the specter of existential threat, and suddenly the generals are no longer villains. They’re saviors. The nation must “set aside its differences,” we are told, and rally behind its “defenders.” Convenient, isn’t it?

Let’s be clear: whether the original attack in Kashmir was a false flag, a convenient coincidence, or a tragic act exploited after the fact, the result is the same. The Pakistani military—reviled, isolated, and paranoid—now gets a reprieve. For the first time in years, it doesn’t have to obsess over a looming internal revolt or the roar of angry protestors outside its gates. It gets to play its favorite role: the besieged but valiant guardian of the homeland. And that, for them, is worth its weight in martyred civilians and ruined cities.

It’s also worth noting the role of the media-military complex in both nations, which acts less like a watchdog and more like a ventriloquist’s dummy. In India, journalists-turned-nationalist-evangelists deliver monologues so fiery they could double as missile launches. In Pakistan, press freedom is a myth told to children. Television channels are routinely shut down, editors threatened, anchors abducted. The “fourth estate” has become an estate sale—sold to the highest bidder in uniform.

All this unfolds against the backdrop of nuclear deterrence—the ultimate absurdity. Two nations armed to the teeth, both led by men who view war as a political instrument rather than a last resort. The threat of annihilation, paradoxically, creates room for conventional skirmishes under the belief that neither side would dare escalate too far. It’s like playing Russian roulette with a nuclear warhead—comforting only to those who never plan to pull the trigger themselves.

This is not to downplay the recklessness of India’s actions or the reality of rising tensions. The prospect of war between two nuclear-armed states should terrify us all. But it’s precisely because the stakes are so high that we must see through the fog and recognize the political calculus at play.

Neither Modi nor the Pakistani generals care about peace. They care about power. They care about staying in charge, not staying alive. And if stoking nationalism, inciting war, or sacrificing civilians can delay their day of reckoning, they’ll do it with a smile and a speech about patriotism.

In the end, the most sobering truth may also be the most banal: elites don’t fear war nearly as much as they fear their own people. Accountability, transparency, democracy—these are the real threats to entrenched power. And when the choice is between nuclear fallout and domestic reckoning, too many regimes will always reach for the launch codes rather than the constitution.

Because to them, patriotism is not a shared love of country—it’s a shared hatred of scrutiny.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.