Satellite Internet’s Regulatory Battle

For most of Pakistan’s history, space and everyday connectivity lived in parallel worlds. Satellite links were a quiet business‑to‑business affair – the few local players ran VSAT (Very Small Aperture Terminal) connections for big corporations, while Suparco, the country’s space agency, kept tight control over orbital assets. The Pakistan Telecommunication Authority (PTA) policed the ground‑based market, and the two realms barely brushed shoulders.

That all changed when low‑Earth‑orbit (LEO) broadband burst onto the scene. Suddenly, constellations in the sky promised gigabit speeds straight to homes, farms and remote outposts. When Starlink first rang the PTA’s doorbell in December 2021, there was no rulebook that really applied – the PTA’s categories were written for copper and fibre, while Suparco’s mandate was still largely research‑oriented.

In response, the government rolled out a National Space Policy in December 2023 and, a couple of months later, the Pakistan Space Activities Regulatory Board (PSARB) published its first set of rules. By April 2026, PTA had finally added “satellite broadband” as a distinct licensing category.

The new licence is fairly specific. It covers broadband, backhaul, bandwidth provision and corporate intranets, but it draws a line at direct‑to‑device services, mobile satellite links, earth stations on the move and broadcasting. In plain English, you won’t be able to stream Netflix on a Karachi‑Islamabad flight or see a satellite signal on your phone when you’re out of range of a tower – at least not yet. Most jurisdictions split these services into separate licences, so Pakistan’s approach isn’t unusual.

Every LEO operator that wants to work in Pakistan now has to set up a local company, secure a licence and, crucially, build a gateway earth‑station on Pakistani soil within 18 months. All domestic traffic must be routed through that gateway and user data must stay in‑country. The rationale is simple: a network of satellites that talk to each other via laser links has no natural “tap point”. By forcing traffic through a ground station inside Pakistan, the authorities can monitor and, if needed, block content.

That brings us to perhaps the most eyebrow‑raising clause – the licence demands an interception capability that is live before the satellite service even launches. In other words, the operator must install a system that lets law‑enforcement agencies watch a particular user’s traffic on demand. Yes, it sounds a bit Big‑Brother, but it mirrors the requirements already imposed on every mobile carrier and ISP in the country. The difference is that terrestrial traffic is already domestic and therefore easier to tap, whereas LEO traffic needs those gateways and data‑localisation rules to become tappable in the first place.

From a commercial perspective, the price tag isn’t trivial. There’s a one‑time licence fee of US$500,000, plus an annual charge of roughly 2.5 % of gross revenue that bundles spectrum fees and contributions to the Universal Service Fund. On top of that, a 6 % levy goes into a research fund overseen by the Strategic Plans Division. All told, the total take is about 8.5 % of revenue – higher than the roughly 4 % India charges and the 3‑5.5 % range in Bangladesh.

Another curious detail: the Fixed Satellite Services licence explicitly excludes Azad Jammu & Kashmir and Gilgit‑Baltistan. Ironically, those are the places where satellite connectivity could make the biggest difference – rugged valleys, thin tower coverage and border settlements that are hard to reach with fibre.

Security concerns are front and centre. The regions in question border a hostile neighbour, so letting a foreign constellation beam unrestricted data into the area is a delicate proposition. Yet Pakistan isn’t alone. India, for example, kept its border zones inside the regulatory framework but layered extra safeguards – geo‑fencing, location‑locked terminals and the authority to suspend service if hostilities flare.

The bureaucratic path is anything but breezy. After registering a company with the Securities and Exchange Commission of Pakistan, the operator must obtain clearance from PSARB to use Pakistani space, then a licence from PTA, and finally a spectrum allocation from the Frequency Allocation Board. It’s a multi‑step process that can stretch out for months.

Who actually oversees the rules? The PSARB board has eight seats, five of which are reserved for security and space establishments – three Suparco officials, a co‑opted member from the Inter‑Services Intelligence, and two civilian ministry representatives. Notably, there is no seat for the private sector, academia or the telecom industry. This creates a potential conflict of interest because Suparco runs the board’s secretariat, operates the national satellite PAKSAT and holds the first right of refusal – meaning government users must turn to PAKSAT before they can contract any foreign provider. In short, a competitor is also the regulator.

Other countries have taken different routes. India set up the Indian National Space Promotion and Authorisation Centre – a body separate from the Indian Space Research Organisation – with an industry veteran chairing it and a clear civilian reporting line to the prime minister’s office. Bangladesh kept it simple by delegating all space‑related telecom licensing to its existing telecom regulator, which helped Starlink get on‑air in just seven months.

Despite the hurdles, global players are still eyeing the Pakistani market. At least four operators – SpaceX’s Starlink, Amazon’s Kuiper, China’s constellations and one yet‑to‑be‑named newcomer – have lodged applications for a licence. If they can navigate the regulatory maze, the payoff could be huge: connectivity for millions living in the country’s most inaccessible corners.

In the end, the battle isn’t just about who gets a licence; it’s about how a developing nation balances the promise of cutting‑edge satellite broadband with concerns over sovereignty, security and fair competition. The next few years will reveal whether Pakistan’s framework strikes that balance or ends up stalling the very innovation it was meant to harness.