Imran khan’s health and the state’s responsibility?

It’s not about the prisoner’s health only its about Pakistan.

When a state holds a political leader in prison, it assumes a responsibility that goes beyond the enforcement of a court sentence. It assumes responsibility for the person’s safety, dignity and health. That principle should be beyond politics. In Pakistan, however, even a prisoner’s eyesight has become part of the country’s bitter political struggle.

The continuing controversy over Imran Khan’s health is therefore about much more than one man. It raises a fundamental question about the relationship between the citizen and the state: what happens to individual rights when political conflict becomes so intense that every state decision is viewed through the prism of partisan politics?

Imran Khan, Pakistan’s former prime minister and one of its most influential political figures, has been in prison since 2023 in connection with multiple legal cases. His supporters have repeatedly raised concerns about his health and access to appropriate medical care. More recently, particular concern has focused on his eyesight. Reports in early 2026 said that Khan had developed a retinal condition affecting his right eye. His family and political representatives questioned whether he had received adequate specialist treatment, while the authorities maintained that he was being properly cared for. A government-appointed medical board subsequently reported improvement in his eyesight.

The conflicting accounts should not be allowed to become another chapter in Pakistan’s political war.

There is a remarkably simple way to address the problem: independent medical assessment and complete procedural transparency.

If Khan is medically stable, independent specialists should be able to establish that fact. If he needs treatment, it should be provided without delay. If his family disputes the government’s medical assessment, credible specialists should be permitted to review it. There should be no political advantage in either concealing a medical problem or exaggerating one.

This should be obvious in any functioning democracy. Yet Pakistan’s political history makes it anything but simple.

For decades, political power in Pakistan has been accompanied by institutional confrontation. Governments have used legal and administrative mechanisms against their opponents, only to find themselves out of power and vulnerable to similar treatment later. Political parties that once demanded accountability have subsequently complained of victimisation when they became targets themselves. The result is a vicious cycle in which accountability is increasingly viewed through the language of revenge.

Imran Khan’s imprisonment has become one of the most visible manifestations of that crisis.

His supporters see him as the victim of an establishment-backed campaign to remove him from politics. His opponents argue that the cases against him are matters of law and accountability and that political popularity cannot place anyone above the law. Both arguments can be debated. Courts can determine questions of guilt and innocence. Voters can judge political performance. Parliament can debate constitutional questions.

But none of these arguments should determine the standard of medical care available to a prisoner. That distinction is essential.

The state has the authority, within the law, to imprison a person. It does not acquire unlimited authority over that person’s body or dignity. Detention restricts liberty, it does not erase humanity.

This principle becomes even more important when the prisoner is a former head of government. The treatment of such a person inevitably becomes a test of institutional maturity. The government may have legitimate reasons for keeping Khan imprisoned, but it should have an equally compelling interest in ensuring that his medical treatment cannot reasonably be portrayed as political punishment.

The irony is that transparency would serve everyone.

It would protect Khan from inadequate treatment. It would protect his family from uncertainty. It would reassure his supporters. And it would protect the government from accusations that medical care is being manipulated for political purposes.

Instead, Pakistan often chooses the opposite path. Official statements are followed by political counterstatements. Medical reports become partisan documents. Families make allegations. Governments issue denials. Social media turns uncertainty into outrage. And a question that should have been answered by doctors becomes another battlefield between political camps.

This is not merely a communications failure. It is an institutional failure.

A credible democratic state must have mechanisms capable of resolving such disputes without requiring citizens to choose which political side they trust.

Pakistan could establish precisely such a mechanism. High-profile prisoners could be examined by independent medical boards selected through transparent professional criteria. Prisoners could have access, where appropriate, to independent specialists. Medical records could be maintained according to professional standards, while necessary information could be shared with families and the courts. Where a serious disagreement arises, an independent medical opinion should be available.

Such safeguards should not be created specifically for Imran Khan. They should apply to everyone.

The ordinary prisoner matters too.

Pakistan’s prisons contain thousands of people whose health concerns rarely receive national attention. They may not have political parties, lawyers appearing on television every evening, influential families or millions of supporters on social media. Yet their right to humane treatment is no less important.

Indeed, the treatment of ordinary prisoners may be the more meaningful measure of the state’s commitment to human rights.

But Khan’s case provides Pakistan with an unusual opportunity. Because his imprisonment is already under intense national and international scrutiny, the government can demonstrate that the state is capable of separating political disagreement from humanitarian responsibility. That would require political courage.

A government does not become weaker by allowing an opponent proper medical treatment. It becomes weaker when it appears afraid of transparency. A government does not demonstrate authority by controlling every narrative. It demonstrates authority by allowing facts to withstand scrutiny. This is particularly significant for Pakistan’s international reputation.

Pakistan frequently presents itself as a democratic state committed to constitutionalism, human rights and the rule of law. Yet international credibility is not built through diplomatic declarations alone. It is built through conduct, especially when circumstances are politically uncomfortable.

The treatment of political opponents is one of the clearest indicators of democratic health.

A democracy cannot be judged only by how it treats those who support the government. Its real test comes when the government is confronted by a popular and determined opponent. The temptation to use every available institution against that opponent may be powerful. The restraint required to resist that temptation is what separates democratic governance from the politics of power.

This is why Khan’s health should not be reduced to the familiar question of whether one is pro-PTI or anti-PTI.

There is a larger question at stake,  does the Pakistani state belong to whichever political group controls it at a particular moment, or does it belong equally to every citizen?

If the state is permanent and governments are temporary, then the state must be governed by principles that survive changes of government. This is the essence of constitutionalism.

The danger of political revenge is not simply that it harms today’s opposition. It creates a system in which tomorrow’s government inherits the same tools and may use them against today’s rulers. Pakistan has witnessed this cycle repeatedly. Every political generation promises to end it, few have been willing to surrender the instruments of retaliation once they acquire power.

Perhaps the most important lesson of Imran Khan’s imprisonment is therefore not about Imran Khan alone. It is about what kind of state Pakistan wants to become.

A state confident enough to allow independent doctors to examine a political opponent is stronger than a state that treats medical transparency as a threat. A state that ensures humane treatment for prisoners is more legitimate than one that uses imprisonment as an extension of political conflict. And a government that protects the dignity of its fiercest critic ultimately protects its own citizens from the possibility of future abuse.

Khan’s political future should be decided through law and democratic processes. His supporters should have the right to advocate for him peacefully. His opponents should have the right to criticise him. Courts should determine legal matters independently. Elections should determine political legitimacy, But medicine should remain medicine.

If Imran Khan needs treatment, he should receive it. If he does not, an independent assessment should establish that fact. Neither outcome should depend on political calculations.

Pakistan does not need another confrontation over a prisoner’s health. It needs an example of institutional maturity.

The state has the power to imprison. It also has the responsibility to protect.

The difference between those two ideas may ultimately determine whether Pakistan’s politics continues to be defined by the struggle for power or begins to be defined by the restraint of power.

A prison sentence can take away a person’s freedom. It should never take away the state’s obligation to protect his life, health and dignity.

That obligation does not belong to Imran Khan.

It belongs to Pakistan.