Fighting entropy

“Men are qualified for civil liberty, in exact proportion to their disposition to put moral chains upon their own appetites”, wrote Edmund Burke in the summer of 1791. French rage had brought the Bastille down two years prior, and by now the Revolution was in full swing. Burke, many miles away in Westminster, was concerned that the moral ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity were at risk of being drowned in the unchecked chaos of revolutionary zeal. “It is ordained in the eternal constitution of things,” he continued, “that men of intemperate minds cannot be free. Their passions forge their fetters.”

Burke’s predictions materialised in the blood-soaked streets of Paris. Louis XVI’s beheading was but the beginning. Soon, rival factions turned on one another and Robespierre’s guillotine claimed its own allies. The revolution, devoid of discipline and direction, was consumed in the fires of its own ambition.

The lesson was clear: harnessing public anger in the absence of strategy births only chaos. Movements that fail to define their goals and discipline their ranks risk becoming the architects of their defeat.

That lesson seems lost on both the PTI and the state, which remain locked in a zero-sum game. Neither seems to know their end goal. Both seem content to linger in their death spiral. For the PTI, the objective is not narrative dominance but securing the freedom of action necessary to contest and win elections. For the state, victory is not mere control over state machinery but the unravelling of adversarial narratives that undermine its influence. Their current strategies, no matter how loudly proclaimed or forcefully executed, are moving them further from their objectives.

That, in part, owes to consistently poor situational awareness. The PTI believes its political freedom is being systematically curtailed, its capacity to act eroded. This is true. What is missed by them is that their adversary is more python than cobra – the measures taken against them are not designed to defeat them outright but to suffocate them slowly.

Nothing exemplifies this strategy more than the 26th Amendment, which has weaponised judicial appointments, turning the process into a tool of political leverage. The International Commission of Jurists, in a uniquely scathing message, said it “erodes the judiciary’s capacity to independently and function as a check against excesses by other branches of the state”, preventing it from “protect[ing] human rights.” For the PTI, which has leaned heavily on judicial interventions to shield its leaders and challenge state overreach, this amendment is not mere reform – it is a slow, calibrated narrowing of its freedom of action.

The federal cabinet’s approval of governor’s rule in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa follows the trend. The official rationale is familiar: accusations of provincial resources being funnelled into political resistance. But the underlying message is unambiguous. This is not merely an administrative action; it is an attempt to sever the party’s connection to its grassroots, neutralise its provincial leadership, and render it organizationally inert. Whether or not governor’s rule is enacted, the intent is clear: freedom of action is no longer a given. The PTI must fight for every inch of it.

The PTI’s survival hinges on more than charisma and defiance. Its reliance on Imran Khan has been its greatest strength and its most glaring weakness. Decentralised networks, local leadership and horizontal collaboration are the fundamental pillars of sustainable resistance in the face of suppression. The party has no such network, no such leadership, no such collaboration structures. It is centralised, reactive, and overly dependent on a single leader.

This can be fixed. Empower regional cadres with genuine autonomy, not symbolic titles. Grant their leaders the authority to act independently, mobilise resources, and adapt strategies to local contexts. Otherwise, they will remain a following rather than the movement it aims to be, incapable of enduring the absence of its leader.

Because mobilisation requires more than broad slogans and rallies. The PTI’s support base is vast, but a passive base is a liability. "Unless there is coercion or some other special device to make individuals act in their common interest”, writes Olson in ‘The Logic of Collective Action’, even rational individuals may not work towards collective goals. The party’s leadership is disorganised, chained by inertia, and increasingly torn with factionalism.

Under such circumstances, the base can’t act in their common interest – this necessitates the devolution of key roles to those more capable. That new class of leadership must be given clear, actionable roles: managing protests, running voter registration drives, or organising community outreach.

But it is not enough to distribute tasks. Mobilisation requires emotional resonance. Cognitive liberation, as conceived by McAdam, suggests that for movements to succeed, individuals must recognise injustices and believe in their capacity to effect change. The PTI must connect its message – justice, reform, democracy – to the tangible realities of its supporters. A farmer should see electoral reform as the path to fair crop pricing; a labourer should see it as a guarantee of fair wages. Abstract ideals must translate into personal stakes.

The bridging of ideals to tangible problems opens up the opportunity for the PTI to attack problems that are not tied to its ongoing struggle with the state. Small victories are the fuel of sustained resistance. “A series of wins at small but significant tasks", Karl E. Weick argued in ‘Small Wins’, "often snowball into broader and more lasting reforms.” Incremental successes create psychological momentum, turning isolated achievements into collective confidence. Each win reinforces the narrative of a movement gaining ground, transforming the perception of struggle into a perception of progress.

“Frames are mental structures that shape the way we see the world”, George Lakoff wrote in ‘Don’t Think of an Elephant’. These frames influenced the “goals we seek, the plans we make, the way we act.” The PTI’s frame – focused on abstract ideals like “true democracy” – lacks precision and personal resonance. A more effective narrative must tie those ideals to concrete goals and delivery systems. These frames must not only inspire supporters but also disarm critics. A coherent, relatable narrative can counteract the state’s efforts to portray PTI as destabilising, positioning it instead as the only force capable of restoring balance.

The state’s challenges are less numerous but no less complex. Its arsenal of coercion – arrests, censorship, disruption of protests – has secured short-term control but at the cost of long-term legitimacy. The problem is the state doesn’t seem willing to acknowledge the existence of its adversary.

Max Weber, in ‘The Theory of Social and Economic Organization’, argued that "the basis of every system of authority, and correspondingly of every kind of willingness to obey, is a belief”, which lends "prestige" to those exercising authority. Force without trust fractures power, turning dominance into a fragile facade. Yielding to the PTI risks emboldening adversaries while suppressing dissent too heavily burns through the trust that sustains its influence. It is a precarious balance, one that grows more unstable with each passing day.

At the heart of the issue is that all coercive strategies risk self-defeat. “The initial military repression directed against the rebels achieved for the militants what they had been unable to achieve for themselves”, said Andrew Mack in ‘Why Big Nations Lose Small Wars’, “namely, the political mobilization of the masses against [the state].” But it was not merely the masses that turned hostile. Because coercion birthed mass mobilisation, the state had to resort to escalating the scale of its activities. “The progressively greater human, economic, and political costs”, Mack summarised, “[led] to the loss of [the state’s] political will [to continue operations].”

The state must pivot from coercion to a model of dialogue. Allowing peaceful dissent – facilitated through trusted mediators – can reduce tensions without undermining authority. But dialogue is not just the bandying of words. It is a strategic choice, for it allows the state to restore the legitimacy it has lost.

Because legitimacy is not mere abstraction; it is an earned value. When institutional action does not align with the narrative, the institution itself weakens. The establishment must prevent abuses within the ranks of its affiliates, align its actions with constitutional principles, and demonstrate a commitment to the standards it demands of others. To avoid this, it must reposition itself not as a mere arbiter of power but as a stabilising force aligned with national ideals. This requires action as much as rhetoric. This is not an act of weakness but of preservation. Without public trust, even the strongest institutions crumble.

For all that it may surprise both of them, the PTI and the state have one consistent common adversary: entropy. Lasting change arises from sustained pressure, not dramatic gestures. The PTI must evolve into a movement capable of surviving beyond cycles of electoral opportunity and leadership crises. The state must recognise that its legitimacy, and therefore its effectiveness, depends not on dominance but on public faith, cultivated through collaboration and restraint.

Resistance and governance demand strategy, discipline, and the humility to adapt. The PTI must build a foundation that outlasts the charisma of its leader. The state must step back, not to retreat, but to restore balance. For both, the choice is clear: adapt or unravel.

The writer is a student of law at King’s College London. He can be reached at: salar.rashid@kcl.ac.uk