At 5:13am on May 10 last year, Pakistan launched the retaliatory ‘Operation Bunyan um Marsoos’ against India. Footage aired by state broadcaster PTV showed fireballs lighting up the sky moments before the sun appeared as the air filled with cries of ‘Allahu Akbar’. The war had begun, and everyone was talking about it—inside Pakistan, on the other side of the border and across the world.
But in the Dawn newsroom, and several others as journalists recall, another kind of editorial panic had been unleashed: was it Bunyanum Marsoos? Bunyanun Marsoos? Bunyan-al Marsus? Some news wire services were running Bunyan al-Marsoos. Even transliterations by the government and the military were not always consistent.
The confusion was understandable because the name is Arabic—taken from Surah As-Saff, Chapter 61 of the Holy Quran, and translates to “a solid, cemented structure”. Technically, Bunyanun Marsoos is the correct way to spell it in formal Arabic, but the orthographic variation turned the Arabic un into an Urdu um (the latter serves as a filler word in Urdu to fill the silence or signal a pause).
Just a few minutes after PTV announced the beginning of Operation Bunyanum Marsoos, Information Minister Ata Tarar took to X to explain where the rationale behind the title: “Indeed, Allah loves those who fight in His cause in a row as though they are a [single] structure joined firmly,” he quoted. “[It] gives us a single command: that when war is imposed, unite as one and charge at the enemy. Allah will be our supporter and helper.”
The minister’s explanation did little, however, to clear the confusion. But in a war, there is little time to wrangle the finer points of pronunciation.
The next day, someone finally asked the question at a tri-service press conference held immediately upon the declaration of a ceasefire. “We have seen many Islamic terminologies being used in the war…whose idea was it?” one journalist asked the military’s spokesperson.
“In the Pakistan Army, Islam is not just a part of our personal beliefs, but also our training,” Lieutenant-General Ahmed Sharif Chaudhry replied. “It is part of our faith. Iman, taqwa, jihad fi sabilillah, that is what drives us. That is our motto. And, Alhamdulillah, we have a Chief of Army Staff who has a strong belief. The belief and commitment of the leadership also translates into the operations in various ways. What does this name tell us? It tells us that momins [believers], who fight for the sake of Allah, are a ‘steel wall’. And, praise to Allah, the Pakistan Army acted like a steel wall.”
And so, for its most significant operation in decades, Pakistan picked a name from a holy text, one that left zero margin for error. I wondered about the mechanics behind these linguistic choices as I listened to editors in the newsroom make frantic phone calls to sources to ensure Dawn got the spelling right.
How did an army settle on a title for a military operation? A year later, in the newsroom, as we prepared stories for the anniversary of Marka-i-Haq, I saw plans for reams of text on tactical doctrine and strategic calculus. But the question still stuck. I decided to go digging, and what better place to start than the army itself. I spoke to mostly retired officers who graciously shed light on the philosophy that goes into this aspect of perspective management.
How military operations are named
Military operations, exercises, and even administrative actions that require deep planning are routinely assigned names before they are launched, explained Lt General (retired) Naeem Khalid Lodhi. He is a three-star General who served as GOC Bahawalpur, General Headquarters Rawalpindi and Corps Commander Bahawalpur, and as Minister for Defence Production after retiring. According to him, these titles are pre-decided, kept inside classified files hidden in secret places, along with contingency plans and preemptive military exercises. They can’t just be decided while a country is at war, Gen Lodhi told Dawn.
Naming is most usually associated with three broad concerns: the nature of the mission, the terrain where it will unfold, and the psychological effect the name may have on the troops.
The name should be such that it gives the jawaans a boost of morale, which is why Operation Bunyanum Marsoos and several others are drawn from Arabic, the Holy Quran and Hadith, or kept in Urdu, to incite passion among the soldiers and motivate the under-command to do something “big”.
Muslim military history, previous campaigns and overall goals offer obvious inspiration. Operation Rah-i-Rast in Swat was chosen because the military wanted to frame the campaign as bringing people “back on to the right path”. “The idea was that the military will go into Swat and since these are your own people, they have been misguided and are off track, therefore it was needed to bring them back,” said a former military official, who wished not to be named.
In other cases, names can be more functional and geographical. Engineers constructing bridges, for example, may simply label them “Ravi-I” or “Ravi-II”. Relevance, instant recognition and clarity are key.
There are no binding international conventions for naming operations but globally, wars are usually remembered in ways that researchers and historians can identify easily—by the year, the number of days, the countries involved. This is why perhaps we have the First Mohmand Campaign and Third Anglo-Burmese War.
It is telling how imperial forces choose to project their operations. America, for example, pivoted from toponymic names (Vietnam War, Iraq War, Afghan War) and post-9/11 to moral declarative appellatives such as Operation Enduring Freedom. It is not without irony that the British and American style differs; the British would include themselves as agents of action (Anglo-Afghan war), but the Americans prefer to pretend and give the impression that the war is entirely of the enemy’s making.
Who decides the names?
That depends on the scale of the mission. Smaller or localised operations may be named by divisional, brigade or corps-level commanders. “But in main forces’ operations, we have a Military Operations branch in GHQ; they plan and then also decide the name,” Gen. Lodhi said. Operations involving intelligence agencies may be named by the Military Intelligence or the Inter-Services Intelligence instead. Approvals are required unless a free hand is given, but when an operation is conceived at GHQ, the final approval rests with the Chief of General Staff.
Civilian involvement appears limited, even though operations themselves constitutionally require government approval. Public announcements are made jointly. “When the operation is announced, the military spokesperson and government representatives sit together,” a former military officer said. “The Inter-Services Public Relations announces the operation, the goals and the progress to the public.”
Names as strategic communication
The real measure of an operation is whether it achieves its objectives, while names serve a perception management purpose.
Air Vice Marshal (retired) Faaiz Amir explained that naming an operation, especially one as important as an India-Pakistan war, is not just a formality; it is a record that will go down in history, and how your people and the world will remember and make sense of the victors and the defeated.
Perception management has grown in urgency given how the channels for public messaging have evolved dramatically. Earlier wars relied heavily on state television and newspapers. Today, the battles are fought in real-time across television screens, on X, YouTube and WhatsApp. “Now the pulse comes through social media,” Gen Amir said. “The military itself regulates perception all over the world.”
He recalled Operation Swift Retort in 2019 as an example of a name carefully aligned with the nature of the mission. “The word ‘retort’ is a response to something and ‘swift’ is urgency,” he said. “This was probably named after we responded immediately to the Indian attack in Balakot.”
Of course, no amount of public messaging is watertight and there is always the risk that the name of an operation might be interpreted differently across generations or linguistic barriers. “Probably Bunyanum Marsoos came for religious purposes, but it was difficult to pronounce,” said Gen Amir, pointing out that such names were mostly for public consumption. The later use of Marka-i-Haq may have partly reflected concerns over international comprehension and media usage.
From Operation Grand Slam to Zarb-e-Azb
The greatest shift in naming preference was brought on by Independence. The colonial formula had leaned on toponyms (places) such as the Tochi Valley Expedition and double-barreled adversarial appellatives depending on who Empire was fighting, such as Second Anglo-Sikh War. But after 1947, the enemies changed and the reasons to fight them.
The army of the new country eventually drained of its Etonian echelons and the composition of the officer corps shifted. A sort of ruralisation emerged with the officers more connected to indigenous culture and religious orientations. “A lot has to do with the mindset of the leadership class,” explained a former officer. Earlier generations of military leadership were largely British-trained, urbane, and English-medium educated. “They had a different orientation,” he said. Names such as Knight Riders, Silver King, Iron Horse would appeal to their sensibilities.
Gen Lodhi reiterated the adage that the military is a “microcosm of society”, which is why changes within it mirror broader social transformations. “Nothing in the Pakistan Army is isolated from society,” he added.
This shift became particularly visible after 9/11, when Pakistan’s military found itself fighting an insurgency in Swat and other parts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
Fighting an ideological war
The rise in the use of Islamic ideology to name operations is directly linked to the war against militancy. “This began when Swat was taken over, and Nato had landed in Afghanistan,” said the former military officer. “And so the soldier was hesitant…he was fighting his own kith and kin.”
The military leadership feared alienating the tribes and ordinary soldiers if operations appeared to be framed as a war against Islam. He or she had to understand that this was fighting a person who had taken up arms against the legitimate authority of the State.
This is how names with religious overtones became strategically significant as well. The military leadership thought it would better motivate the soldiers. Operation Black Thunder would not land as well as Rah-e-Nijat, which at least fell into the mainstream lexicon.
At the same time, the reliance on Islamic language came with its own contradictions, which were not lost on the officers. One officer was asked what he recited for protection before leaving for work. The Ayaat-ul Kursi? He laughed and responded, ‘So is the man planning to blow himself up in front of my car.’
