Tahir Maqsood Chheena
The Punjab government’s attempt to tackle the deeply entrenched problem of land grabbing and prolonged property disputes began with seemingly good intentions. For decades, ownership conflicts over land and property have clogged Pakistan’s civil courts, trapping ordinary citizens in endless litigation that drains time, money, and emotional energy. Any serious effort to address this injustice deserves appreciation. Yet, as recent events have shown, even well-meaning reforms can unravel when they are pursued without due regard for constitutional boundaries and legal process.
This tension came sharply into focus when the Lahore High Court (LHC) suspended the Punjab Protection of Ownership of Immovable Property Act, 2025, and subsequently set aside actions taken under it. The court’s intervention was not merely procedural; it raised fundamental concerns about the structure of the law and its impact on the judicial system. In doing so, the LHC highlighted a recurring governance problem in Pakistan: the urge to fast-track solutions through executive power, often at the expense of legal coherence.
The law in question originated as an ordinance introduced in October, aimed at curbing land grabbing and ensuring swift resolution of property disputes. The core promise was attractive: cases that traditionally dragged on for years would be resolved within 90 days. To achieve this, District Dispute Resolution Committees (DDRCs) were created, chaired by district commissioners and district police officers. The government portrayed these committees as efficient, locally empowered bodies capable of cutting through red tape and delivering justice where courts had failed to do so.
Building on this framework, the Punjab government launched a high-profile crackdown against alleged land grabbers. Officials claimed that more than 1,000 cases were resolved within days, with rightful owners restored to possession within 24 hours of a DDRC decision. Encouraged by this momentum, the ordinance was converted into a law through the Punjab Assembly, giving the initiative a sense of permanence and political endorsement.
However, it was precisely this speed and concentration of power that triggered alarm within legal circles. The LHC’s chief justice, while suspending the act, observed that it effectively dismantled the civil justice system, undermined civil rights, and encroached upon judicial authority. At the heart of the court’s concern was the idea that revenue officers and administrative officials were being empowered to decide possession of properties already under adjudication in civil courts. This raised serious questions about parallel jurisdictions and the erosion of judicial supremacy.
Compounding these concerns was the revelation that the appellate tribunals meant to oversee and review DDRC decisions were never fully operational. In practical terms, this meant that citizens affected by DDRC rulings had little meaningful recourse. What was presented as a system of checks and balances existed largely on paper, leaving the entire framework vulnerable to abuse, error, or overreach.
The Punjab chief minister’s reaction to the court’s decision was sharp and public. She argued that suspending the law would embolden land grabbers and encroachment mafias, effectively undoing progress made against powerful vested interests. While politically understandable, this response escalated tensions with the legal community. Lawyers’ associations quickly rallied behind the LHC, declaring the law unconstitutional and unlawful, and accusing the provincial government of bypassing the judiciary under the guise of reform.
This standoff has now evolved into an avoidable confrontation between the executive and the judiciary—one that risks overshadowing the very real suffering of citizens caught in property disputes. Endless litigation over land has destroyed livelihoods, delayed investments, and fractured families. The public appetite for reform in this area is undeniable, and the Punjab government deserves credit for recognising the urgency of the problem.
At the same time, the flaws identified by the LHC cannot be dismissed as technicalities or resistance to change. Any mechanism that reallocates judicial functions to the executive must be crafted with extreme care. The constitution does not permit shortcuts, no matter how noble the objective. Speed cannot come at the cost of due process, and efficiency cannot override the separation of powers.
The more constructive path forward lies not in confrontation but in correction. The objections raised by the LHC offer a roadmap for improving the law. By clearly defining jurisdictional limits, ensuring functional and independent appellate bodies, and aligning the framework with constitutional safeguards, the Punjab government can amend the legislation and salvage its core purpose. Meaningful consultation with the legal community would also help bridge the trust deficit that has now emerged.
There is little doubt that Pakistan, as a whole, desperately needs a workable system to resolve property disputes faster and more fairly. Civil courts are overburdened, and incremental reforms have failed to deliver relief. If Punjab can develop a constitutionally sound model that balances speed with justice, it could serve as a template for other provinces and even federal reforms.
In the end, this episode should be viewed less as a defeat and more as a lesson. Sustainable reform requires patience, legal rigour, and institutional cooperation. The goal of protecting property rights and freeing citizens from endless litigation remains both urgent and legitimate. What is required now is not defiance, but thoughtful recalibration—so that a reform born of good intentions can ultimately deliver justice without undermining the rule of law.
