The handshake shot from Mecca on August 7 was carefully staged to convey as much symbolism as possible Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman flanked by Pakistan's Shehbaz Sharif and Turkey's Recep Tayyip Erdogan, flanked by three flags, a new mutual defence pact on the table, and a promise that an attack on one would be an attack on all. They said it was a historic occasion. It was reportedly a NATO for the Muslim world. Let's just say that nobody in the room was telling anybody out loud that each of the three guys signing that document was looking for the photo more than the agreement.

The first is the man who didn't sign the charter, but who was placed over Sharif's shoulder all throughout the journey: Field Marshal Syed Asim Munir. On paper, it is Pakistan's own delegation that has told the world that the visit is a reinforcement of "brotherly" relations going back eight decades, with Riyadh being Islamabad's largest remittance source, having remitted 9.78 billion dollars in the fiscal year that ended last year, compared to the UAE's 8.81 billion and Britain's 6.33 billion. It's not a footnote of a story. That's why Pakistan's current account is projected to end up in surplus in FY26, instead of shortfall. That goodwill, however, rests on a domestic landscape that is far from the one the state media portrays for Munir. The Institute for Conflict and Security Studies (ICSS) reported 2,786 deaths in the first seven months of 2026, of which 434 occurred among security personnel, the highest for the month of July, which was the year's deadliest month for the security forces. It was against this background that the same army chief was earlier this month seen inspecting flood-monitoring dashboards at the National Disaster Management Authority, and the prime minister and provincial chief ministers were not in the picture. A man in charge of security success shouldn't run ribbon-cutting population-control conferences and briefing about flooding when the militant attacks are rising, anyway. At least 40 lawmakers from the US have submitted letters of concern and the UN human rights office has raised concerns with military accountability, while the 27th constitutional amendment establishing his position as the nation's first Chief of Defence Forces has already raised questions. None of it was lost when Mohammed bin Salman welcomed him warmly and gave him a state honour last year. It is a brotherhood that is created by remittance cheques, not a mandate at home, and a difference between the two is exactly what the disaster-management theatre was designed to fill.

There's also the country that actually wrote the strongest sentence in the new pact. Saudi Arabia wasn't motivated by sentiment to sign this agreement. It signed for two reasons: Iranian and Houthi forces have continued to test its air defence system over the course of this year, and the kingdom has also taken the pragmatic approach of believing that it can no longer rely on the U.S. security umbrella as a matter of course. Deterrence it does not have the capability to produce on its own, Riyadh is able to purchase with the help of Pakistan's battle-proven military and the export-grade drone industry of its home country, Turkey's Baykar and Turkish Aerospace, whose efforts have brought Turkish defence exports to a record high of 7.5 billion dollars, up 30 percent from last year. There is a case to be made that Iranian officials, quick to dismiss the pact as a piece of paper that will not guarantee Saudi security, are not entirely wrong: this is not a NATO-style alliance with a standing command structure; indeed, analysts at the Australian National University and elsewhere have been careful to note this. And Pakistan's foreign minister rushed to describe it within forty-eight hours as "purely defensive" and open to any state willing to join, a caveat clearly crafted not to provoke Tehran any further. It's not the confident new bloc's language. It's the tongue of three governments desperately attempting to appear more formidable than they actually are.

Which leads necessarily to Erdogan, the most showy and paradoxical member of the pact. Turkey has been talking tougher than any other Muslim country about Gaza's plight for two years, accusing Israelis of 'tying the fate of their political survival to endless violence' in the region, and even arresting Israeli officials for genocide. But the same Turkish leader has just co-signed a mutual defence pact with Saudi Arabia, a country that has maintained more transactional, if quiet, relations with Israel despite the Gaza war's peak moments, and has done so at a time when Ankara's own defence-industrial sector, which bears the drones, corvettes, the F-16s and the upgrades to Col. 15, is more dependent than ever on the very kind of great power hedging that is supposed to be banned by talk of genocide and colonialism. Erdogan can throw himself into the role of the final capital to say the awkward word about Israel, or he can be the one building a security network with two neighbours who are based in the Gulf and depend on Washington's forbearance to keep from being toppled by their own neighbours. In the photo that accompanies this column, both poses can be maintained indefinitely, which is presumably the most precarious bet in a region where Iran, Israel and the Gulf states are all weighing their options on the fly, and far more risky than any Riyadh or Islamabad took when they inked the deal.

The Mecca agreement actually means less than it's made out to. It is not a new bloc, not an extension of the nuclear umbrella, not an indication that Islamabad has "turned on" its Gulf patron the remittance and defence-trade figures indicate otherwise. It's three governments, with credibility issues that they cannot resolve at home, buying time and cover off each other on the world stage. That can be good for a time. It is highly unlikely to make the first "real test.