Islamabad, Pakistan’s capital, has become nearly unrecognizable. The streets, usually quiet and tree-lined, are now obstructed by massive shipping containers—steel barricades that stretch for miles, transforming the city into a makeshift fortress. For months, these containers have lined key routes into the city, used as temporary blockades by the government to prevent demonstrators from reaching sensitive areas. But for locals, these metal obstructions, used not only to control protests but also to secure the city during foreign visits, have turned their hometown into what many now call “Containeristan.”
The recent surge in container blockades began in October, as Pakistan’s coalition government, backed by military support, took steps to counter widespread opposition from supporters of Imran Khan, the former prime minister and cricketer. Although Khan’s Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) party won the most seats in a recent election, a coalition of Pakistan’s traditional ruling parties formed a government with military support, sidelining Khan’s party from power. This move sparked fierce backlash, with thousands of Khan’s supporters taking to the streets in protest, many marching to the capital.
For the government, the solution to these demonstrations has been simple but disruptive: metal containers. Hundreds of these steel monoliths were rented and stationed on nearly every major road into Islamabad, forming a makeshift barrier that effectively shut down the city. In some areas, trenches were dug along roads, further limiting access. To intensify the isolation, authorities cut off mobile and internet connectivity, leaving people within the capital struggling to communicate with those outside.
The effects were immediate and far-reaching. Traffic into Islamabad came to a standstill as commuters found themselves stranded, forced to find shelter with nearby friends. Tourists trying to reach flights to Pakistan’s mountainous north were caught in long queues of vehicles, as frustrated truck drivers, stopped in their tracks, argued with the police. Businesses suffered as shops were forced to close, and city life came to a halt under the weight of these obstructions.
Shipping containers line the streets of Pakistan’s capital, transforming Islamabad into a barricaded landscape as government struggles to curb opposition.
Islamabad, a city of over two million people nestled in the shadow of the Himalayan foothills, has long been a refuge from the louder chaos found in other parts of Pakistan. Typically, the city’s biggest disruptions come from wild boars and monkeys descending from the hills. But with the government’s reliance on container blockades, the city’s peaceful character has been overwhelmed, and its once quiet streets have been transformed into battlegrounds of containment.
The use of shipping containers to control public dissent is not new to Pakistan, but it has become more prevalent under the coalition government. Originally intended as a temporary measure to control crowds, containers are now a go-to tool for managing everything from political rallies to official visits by foreign dignitaries. Just days after the October protest, the city was shut down once again—this time for a Shanghai Cooperation Organisation summit.
During the three-day lockdown, containers reappeared to block access to critical roads, turning short commutes into four-hour ordeals that left residents frustrated and exhausted. Businesses, restaurants, and grocery stores closed their doors, leaving those who hadn’t prepared scrambling for essentials. It was as if the city had been transformed into a surreal, controlled environment, one commuter from Islamabad’s outskirts comparing the scene to something out of Stepford Wives.
The official explanation for the heavy use of containers is “foolproof security.” According to a government spokesperson, the blockades serve as a display of Pakistan’s commitment to safety, aimed at reassuring visiting dignitaries that Islamabad is a secure place for international business. However, many Islamabad residents view the tactic as ineffective and even counterproductive. The containers, meant to signify order, instead project an image of a government that feels cornered, locking itself away from its own citizens. The residents of Islamabad see the city’s transformation into “Containeristan” not as a display of strength but rather as a symbol of a government uncertain of its own authority.
Maleeha Lodhi, a former Pakistani ambassador to the United Nations and the United States, has voiced her concerns about the political implications of these barricades. Lodhi observes that the container blockades, intended to curb protests, only serve to highlight the government’s insecurity. By creating physical barriers between itself and the public, the administration sends a message of fragility. The blockades, she notes, don’t inspire confidence in Pakistan’s stability. Instead, the sight of major roads barricaded, shops shuttered, and businesses stalled suggests a country struggling to maintain control, casting doubt on its suitability as a stable place for investment.
The use of these steel barriers also reflects Pakistan’s longstanding challenges in handling political dissent. The roots of this approach can be traced back to the laws and structures inherited from British colonial rule. Pakistan, founded in 1947, took on a powerful military and civil bureaucracy, alongside a set of administrative tools designed to suppress protests.
Over the years, these tools have persisted, and political engagement has often taken a backseat to strategies aimed at containing dissent. According to Arifa Noor, a television anchor and political commentator in Islamabad, the country has yet to evolve a democratic mechanism that allows the government to engage with citizens openly. Instead, it relies on tactics designed more to control than to communicate, and the widespread use of containers is just one manifestation of this enduring legacy.
As Islamabad residents grow accustomed to these blockades, there is a mounting sense of frustration and fatigue. Frequent shutdowns have taken a toll on the city’s rhythm, with businesses forced to close and residents left wondering when the next round of containers will appear. The disruptions have also created economic ripple effects. Each time the city is shut down, daily commerce is interrupted, causing financial strain for small businesses that cannot afford regular closures. Restaurants lose customers, grocery stores struggle to restock, and residents, unable to travel freely, find their lives increasingly disrupted.
In the meantime, Islamabad’s transformation into “Containeristan” shows no signs of abating. The strategy has become a staple of the government’s approach to security, even as it chips away at the city’s identity and erodes public trust. Many Islamabadis see the containers as a visual reminder of a government besieged by its own people, responding to opposition not with dialogue, but with blockades that reinforce a sense of isolation and disconnection. It’s a policy that, instead of providing security, projects a troubling picture of a city under siege—a capital that, rather than standing as the center of a thriving nation, has become a symbol of political stagnation and governmental uncertainty.
As Pakistan’s political tensions continue, the containers that line Islamabad’s roads serve as both a physical barrier and a metaphor for the growing divide between the government and the people. Each new blockade only reinforces a narrative of instability and control, leaving residents with little hope for a quick resolution. The city of Islamabad remains entangled in a cycle of containment, caught between a government that clings to control and a populace increasingly tired of the measures taken to ensure it. For the residents of this city, what began as a temporary measure has become an ongoing ordeal, with no end in sight for life in “Containeristan.”
