The militarisation of Pakistan coast surveillance outposts selective enforcement, and a narco-economy in the shadows

Pakistan has expanded security posts and patrols along the Makran coast, selling them as anti-smuggling upgrades. New task forces, coastal checkpoints and sea patrols are meant to choke off narcotics, fuel and people trafficking. Yet a growing body of public evidence points the other way--even as the state builds more outposts, smuggling thrives and credible reports suggest elements within the security system are part of the problem. In practice, militarised infrastructure can hide collusion and rent-seeking behind the language of “surveillance” and “protection”. 

The context is a booming drug flow in waters off Balochistan. UN research describes the Indian Ocean “southern route” that runs by the Makran coast, long used for Afghan heroin and now for methamphetamine, often moving on small dhows with cargoes passed at sea. The EU’s drug agency notes an uptick in containerised shipments direct from Makran as traffickers diversify. These are low-bulk, high-value cargoes that need little port infrastructure to move. 

Pakistan has also promoted new sea-borne security to reassure investors and partners under the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor. In 2016, the navy stood up Task Force-88 to guard Gwadar and nearby sea-lanes, with warships, marines, drones and shore sensors. The Pakistan Maritime Security Agency (PMSA) advertises counter-narcotics and anti-smuggling duties as core functions, and official briefings tout “fool-proof security” for CPEC sea routes. On land, local and international observers describe a dense web of checkpoints and fenced zones across Balochistan’s coast. 

Seizures show the scale of the trade despite this footprint. In October 2025, Combined Maritime Forces and the Pakistan Navy intercepted a stateless dhow carrying methamphetamine and cocaine, then—within days—announced another haul worth almost a billion dollars. Islamabad also touts periodic coast-guard operations against narcotics and arms in Gwadar and Pasni. The message is clear: the narco-economy operates in the same waters and districts where new outposts and patrols now stand. 

Two hard questions follow. First, are these posts actually equipped to do the job? A recent Dawn analysis argues that Pakistan’s lead maritime enforcement bodies still lack basic kit—from fast patrol boats to drones and persistent radar—limiting real-time interdiction. Hardware gaps turn many checkpoints into document stops rather than intelligence-led interdiction points, which smugglers can game. 

Second, and more serious, are parts of the system protecting the very trade they are meant to stop? In 2023, Pakistan’s caretaker interior minister publicly acknowledged that some members of the security forces had taken part in cross-border smuggling, adding that those caught would face court-martial and jail. National and international outlets reported the same remarks, which followed a broader state crackdown on illicit commerce. Such statements are an unusual admission and align with longer-standing research noting allegations against the Frontier Corps of involvement in smuggling and corruption in Balochistan. 

There are case-level examples, too. In 2020, a Pakistani investigation reported by national media linked a retired Frontier Corps officer to a fuel-smuggling racket in Sindh. While one case does not define a system, it underlines a recurrent pattern: where officers control roadblocks, fuel depots or coastal tracks, the opportunity for rent-seeking—and for protection of illicit cargo—expands. 

Human rights observers add a broader warning about how militarisation works on the ground. Human Rights groups and UN experts have documented heavy securitisation, enforced disappearances and sweeping checkpoints in Balochistan, especially around protest waves since 2024. An NGO submission to the UN Human Rights Council describes the entire 700-kilometre coastal belt as heavily militarised with fenced zones and constant checks. The picture is of a security-first model that controls civilians tightly, but does not stop the steady rise in maritime drug seizures just offshore. 

Put together, the pattern looks like this. The state builds new outposts and announces new forces to fight trafficking. Yet enforcement capacity remains patchy, and senior officials concede some personnel are part of smuggling networks. In that environment, militarised infrastructure can become a shield for selective enforcement: trucks and boats pay the right people and pass; dissidents and ordinary travellers bear the checks. The infrastructure signals order while enabling a protection economy underneath. 

Fixing this requires more than more posts. First, move from presence to performance: publish monthly, port- and district-level data on searches, interdictions, prosecutions and convictions, not just seizures. Second, harden oversight: put mixed civilian-military teams under judicial and parliamentary review on coastal interdiction, with protected channels for whistle-blowers in the PMSA, coast guards and Frontier Corps. Third, invest in sensors and mobility rather than concrete—fast boats, AIS/radar fusion, and drone coverage tied to an intelligence-led tasking model. These reforms should be judged against UNODC and EU indicators of southern-route traffic, so that claimed “upgrades” can be tested against actual narcotics flows. 

The stakes are high. If militarisation remains a facade--posts without capacity, patrols without accountability--Pakistan’s coast will keep serving as a convenient corridor for organised crime. Honest officers and local communities will pay the price, while protection rackets prosper. Transparent performance data, independent oversight and real sea-control tools are the only way to turn surveillance infrastructure from camouflage into a cure.