In 2018, a group of feminists in Karachi, the largest city in Pakistan, decided to march for gender justice on 8 March, International Women’s Day. They named it Aurat March (Women’s March). Hundreds marched with colourful placards demanding immediate social change in the country. The march kept growing and in subsequent years marches were held in various other cities including Lahore, Islamabad, Hyderabad, Multan, Larkana, Faisalabad, and Sukkur. This year saw hundreds join the seventh Aurat March in several cities across Pakistan. Nevertheless, the march has seen severe backlash over the years, not only from the media and society at large but also from the state.

How did this radical and reviled movement begin? I spoke to classical dancer and social activist Sheema Kermani, who has been involved with the Aurat March Karachi Chapter since its inception. She said that their idea was to show society that women have had enough and that they were ready for change. They had no idea that the Aurat March would turn into such a massive movement:

‘Seven years ago, we did not know how far it would go or whether it would be more than that. We wanted to show our protest and resistance against patriarchy. More importantly, we wanted to show that women in Pakistan were ready for a change.’

The mainstream media mostly ignored the first march, but this is true for all social movements in the beginning. However, as the movement grew, some of the slogans from the march such as mera jism meri marzi (my body, my choice) went viral on the internet and inspired a huge backlash. The march was accused of being against the societal norms, religion, and culture of Pakistani society.

Some opponents of Aurat have tried to place restrictions on the march, claiming that the slogans were immoral and indecent. However, Islamabad High Court dismissed that petition and ordered that the words used in the slogans of the march should be understood based on the intentions of the marchers rather than through the mindset of a certain section of society who opposed the march. Another attempt to ban the march was rejected by the Lahore High Court. Since these cases, the organisers have worked hard to keep the march going every year while handling the backlash and court cases and keeping the marches in line with legal directions—not to mention keeping the marchers safe.

Journalist and feminist Sabahat Zakariya, a regular at Aurat March Lahore Chapter, told me that the march’s biggest achievement was to push people to talk about issues that they would not even normally count as issues:

‘The march did a lot to bring certain intangible ideas to the mainstream. Like [the slogan] khud khana garam karlo (warm your food yourself). It is not a light issue. It is about domestic burdens and who takes work responsibility in the house. These are very important things that need…to be reflected upon.’

The state has also resisted the march. The organisers of several chapters have faced issues with getting permits for the march and have had to deal with security arrangements, route approval, handling court petitions against the march, and filing petitions to seek assistance in carrying out the march. These things take most of their energy and resources, leaving them with limited room for focusing on the march itself. An organiser from the Lahore Chapter told me (on the condition of anonymity):

‘I think people did not understand the march in 2018. We started seeing resistance after the 2019 march, especially at the state level. Every year, the resistance is different. Last year, we were not permitted to arrange the march [in Lahore], though we have been marching for several years. Eventually, the court permitted us.’

The organiser said that some chapters face more difficulties than others. In some cities like Karachi and Lahore, the march is more or less accepted, while in Islamabad the police restrict marchers to a specific area. In some conservative areas of the country, it is entirely impossible to organise a march.

‘I feel the government [and the police] have gotten used to the march. Now we do not see administrative resistance. They have security plans, they know our routes…but society gives us strong resistance. Some file petitions [against the march] every year,’ the Lahore Chapter organiser said. ‘In Islamabad, police give more resistance to marchers. They did not let them march beyond the Press Club [this year]. In Karachi and Lahore, the situation is a bit more lenient. Though we do [still] face some resistance from the police.’

2021 was the toughest year for Aurat organisers and marchers. They had to deal with several blasphemy cases against them. This was when they became more cautious of the media. Many of them would decline to comment or would request anonymity. They were already wary of the mainstream media due to incorrect reporting and its insensitivity towards gender issues and events. The blasphemy accusations increased this wariness. As the Lahore Chapter organiser said,

‘We recognize that more engagement with media will bring harm to the march because they do not have gender sensitivity and skills to cover [the] women’s movement. It is not our goal that the media should cover the march much due to bad experiences. We think it is good to stay [aside] from the media.’

Zakariya is of the opinion that the mainstream media has deliberately not been engaging with the movement. However, she thinks the march has become ‘dull’ because now the marchers are not as bold as they used to be. They are more engaged with the mainstream media critique. They bring with them placards that are more focused on answering media criticisms than on expressing their own views.

Dr Feroza Batool, who researched backlashes to the Aurat March for her doctoral thesis, believes that despite the popularity and impact of the march, it has experienced an intense decline in its momentum, mainly due to the backlash:

‘I feel that the momentum of the Aurat March has decreased. The march was giving space for people to come there and talk about their issues. It was perhaps a big thing for a group that wanted that space to let out their frustration and reflect on their lived experiences through their placards. But there were other people too who, when [they] received backlash, could not handle it and they decided to back off.’

Dr Batool also raised concerns about the movement’s inclusivity and connection to the grassroots. She found in her research that march organisers in several cities started to distance themselves from local organisations and unions working for women’s rights:

‘I feel the open idea of different perspectives on feminism and the environment that was there in the start for everyone started to reduce over time. The march is not very inclusive. The march [has tilted] to the elite circle of feminists in the past few years. It happens to other movements too. A movement starts, people join it, but then some hijack it. I feel those on the forefront of such movements get some rigidity in themselves and they expect that others [should] follow them with the same perspective.’

However, she also said that the march had shaken the patriarchy in the conservative society of Pakistan and that it would keep doing so due to the involvement of youth in the movement. Nonetheless, the march will have to do a lot more to turn into a movement that involves everyone from every segment of society, and it faces a long and difficult struggle to realise its aim of women’s emancipation in Pakistan.

Further reading

Breaking the silence: Pakistani ex-Muslims find a voice on social media, by Tehreem Azeem

The power of outrage, by Tehreem Azeem

From religious orthodoxy to free thought, by Tehreem Azeem

Coerced faith: the battle against forced conversions in Pakistan’s Dalit community, by Shaukat Korai

South Asia’s silenced feminists, by Kunwar Khuldune Shahid

Religion and the decline of freethought in South Asia, by Kunwar Khuldune Shahid

The post From the streets to social change: examining the evolution of Pakistan’s Aurat March appeared first on The Freethinker.

It is hard to tell the story of my transformation from a practising Muslim to a freethinker. It did not happen in a day or two. It took almost a decade.

I was born and raised in a moderately religious family in Pakistan. I was taught religion even before I could understand words. I was Muslim. I knew the greatest of all was Allah. I was supposed to worship Allah and do good deeds to make Him happy. When I turned seven, my parents told me that I had to pray five times a day daily. To begin with, I carried out some of my prayers and missed others, but within a few years, I was doing them regularly. I wore loose clothing. I fasted during Ramadan, and refrained from acts which are considered sins in Islam.

While doing this, I was studying journalism at a university in Lahore. I would go there in an abaya. I never stepped into the radio section of the department at that time because I thought it was wrong for men to listen to the voice of a woman from outside their family.

I had no plans to become a journalist. I was just studying it after one of my uncles suggested to my father that he put me in that field. Before my graduation I had decided to apply for a doctorate at a foreign university. I started applying for scholarships quietly. I was preparing the required documents, filling out long forms, and waiting for the results. I knew there would be a lot of resistance: in my family, as in most families in Pakistan, unmarried girls do not take decisions about their lives, especially ones like going abroad to study. I thought that once I had got the scholarship and admission letter, I would then speak to my family.

Before I could speak to them, however, they spoke to me. They had received a marriage proposal from our extended family. The man was a mufti, an Islamic cleric. My parents thought it would be the best proposal for me since I was religious: I used to pray regularly and cover myself before going out, and was not very social. I, on the other hand, had bigger dreams: to get a PhD and to teach at a university.

When my father informed me that my family had accepted a marriage proposal on my behalf, my world was shaken. I thought of the implications of being tied to the household of an Islamic religious scholar. It would undoubtedly mean a strict, orthodox life with rigid expectations as to how I dressed, spoke, and conducted myself in public.

As a 23-year-old, I wavered between the excitement of finally getting married and anxiety over what I would have to sacrifice. My dreams of graduate study abroad and a writing career seemed uncertain. I asked my family to ask them if they would agree to my getting a PhD and having a career after the marriage. If they said yes, I decided I would be happy to marry the mufti, otherwise I would decline his proposal. The answer was a clear no: they would not let me pursue my career after getting married. But this was because my family thought I would give up on my dream of graduate study and that it did not mean much to me.

According to a report of the Asian Development Bank, although women in Pakistan are increasingly pursuing higher education, only 25 per cent of those who do complete higher education end up working outside the home. They are married off as soon as they get their degrees, or sometimes even before that, but with the groom’s family promising that the bride will complete her education after the marriage. Many times, however, these promises are not fulfilled.

Despite their having rejected my conditions for marriage, and although I was reluctant, both families agreed to move forward with the engagement. It lasted for two years. In those two years, I was at least allowed to go to China to do a Master’s in International Journalism and Communication at a university there.

My time in China expanded my perspectives in the ways I had not expected. I went there to get a Master’s degree, but it proved a vital step along a path that I had never even thought to follow. As an international student far from home, I gained experiences that I had never had before. I attended lectures in which we would discuss values that were different from those in my home country. I had classmates from all over the world. We would gather in our spare time and talk about different subjects. Those conversations helped to open my mind a little. Over time, I realised that, in China, I was living a life free from the oppressive cultural and religious expectations of my homeland. I felt both safe and free.

Meanwhile, I was also talking to my fiancé. Our phone calls, in which he would dictate strict rules on my conduct and the people with whom I could associate, left me deflated. I confided in fellow Muslim women students who faced similar restrictions and, as it were, remote control from their families back in their home countries. We would talk about the cultures in which we grew up and then compare them with the culture we were experiencing in China. It was totally different. None of us wanted to go back to our Muslim majority countries.

This forced me to think seriously about why I and my fellow Muslim women students did not want to go back home. The answer was simple, but it took me a decade to work it out. The reason we did not want to go back home was the religion that was forced on us. We wanted to practise it in our own ways as independent women. We did not want guardians. We wanted our own identity.

It was the first time that I had started to think about the contradictions between the progressive values I yearned for and the religious dictates that I had followed unquestioningly when younger. I started to write blogs chronicling my evolving thoughts about women and their rights. Although I was mostly criticising the oppression of the traditional Pakistani culture which I had been raised in, I realised that the culture I was questioning was founded on a religious basis. The more I became concerned about patriarchy and autocracy, the more I began to doubt what I had previously accepted as infallible religious truth.

I then started to engage with progressive thinkers and academics. I found several YouTube channels where freethinkers were answering the questions I had been turning over in my mind for years. I started listening to their videos. I bought their recommended books. These also helped to clarify my thoughts.

The fact that I was writing publicly about how I was questioning the cultural structure in which women in Pakistan were held became a serious problem for my fiancé. Both families decided to call off the engagement. I am grateful to that relationship for making me what I am today. It helped me to turn towards the liberation of reason and made me an individual who believes in progressive values, including those which support a liberal secular society and democratic government, and which allow free speech and other freedoms to everyone without any discrimination.

The change did not happen in a day, but gradually. Instead of focusing on praying and fasting, I started instead to think about helping people in whatever way I could. I was a journalist; I started drawing attention to social issues in Pakistan, particularly those related to women, ethics and religious minority groups. As I and other journalists brought these issues to the attention of institutions which could resolve them, I would feel a sense of happiness and achievement.

As Simon Cottee discusses in his book The Apostates: When Muslims Leave Islam, while men question the teachings of Islam after not finding answers to their questions about the universe, women question it when they start to become uncomfortably aware of how they are being controlled and deprived of their rights. I felt the same, though for most of my life I considered myself a Muslim, a liberal one.

As I went further into questions of who I was and why I existed, I became less convinced of the existence of absolute truths about Islam, though more confident in my own moral compass. My idea of God grew broader than the way He was depicted in the orthodox scriptures. I felt closer to universal moral truths rather than narrow commands. This questioning process led me to realise the significance of the humanity that we all share.

I started to report on religious extremism and human rights violations, specifically those happening to women. It brought me the label of ‘bad woman’ in Pakistan. However, I realised that there were some people in my audience that appreciated my work. This appreciation gave me the courage to move forward with my journalistic career. This sense of support is the only thing that pushes the small minority of progressives in Pakistan to keep doing their work.

Now, back in Lahore, the azaan still echoes around me five times a day from multiple mosques at the same time. I think about the misuse of loudspeakers by these mosques. The local law permits them to use their loudspeakers for Friday sermons and call for prayers only. However, there are seven mosques in my neighbourhood. Some mosques use their loudspeakers for daily sermons and recitation. I cannot question this practice as a citizen of the country. I cannot even write about it in the local media as a journalist. I would put myself in danger if I did so.

In April 2017, the Indian singer Sonu Nigam described in a series of tweets how he was constantly ‘woken up by Azaan’ and questioned when this ‘forced religiousness’ would end in India. His tweets caused him lot of trouble. According to the Times of India, he has been placed on the hit list of the terrorist organization Lashkar-E-Taiba.

My transformation was neither planned nor easy. It is very difficult for most women in Pakistan and much of the Muslim world to freely question or leave religion as I have. Those who dissent often face threats or exclusion. The small communities of progressives and freethinkers that exist remain low-profile to protect themselves.

While this ongoing exploration at times feels lonely, it has connected me to liberal, freethinking communities abroad and at home. I feel more confident in myself, liberated, and connected with progressive values that are welcomed by people around the world. It gives me peace – more than I have ever received from the religion in which I was enlisted a few minutes after my birth.

The post From religious orthodoxy to free thought appeared first on The Freethinker.

The recent burning of the Quran in the Swedish city of Malmo by an Iraqi refugee, Salwan Momika, has caused outrage in many Muslim countries. Pakistan, Iraq, Iran, Indonesia, Malaysia, Turkey and others have issued statements condemning the action and have asked Sweden to reconsider its laws protecting freedom of expression. There have been public protests in several cities in these countries, demanding the severance of diplomatic ties with Sweden.

Momika burnt a copy of the Quran on 3^rd September this year, as a protest against Islam. According to the Swedish newspaper, The Local, Momika claimed that his protest was against the Muslim religion, not Muslims, and that the Quran should be banned globally for causing a ‘negative impact’. In contrast, the Saudi Arabia-based Arab News implied that Momika’s act was a cynical attempt to secure his refugee status. In response to his protest, some Muslims in Sweden also attacked local police.

Media outlets in Muslim-majority countries have covered this incident, and others like it, extensively, despite their limited domestic relevance. The media in these countries frame these incidents as a wilful assault on Islam, and portray the doers as malicious. Certainly, the outrage is understandable, given the deep Muslim reverence for the Quran. On the other hand, the strongly negative spin given to these burnings could put the lives of the protesters in danger, and also cause a difficult situation for religious minorities living in the Muslim-majority countries where the articles are published.

Sweden’s Quran burning is just one of several similar acts that have occurred recently across Europe. Far-right groups in Sweden and Denmark have also burnt copies of the Quran during rallies and protests. These incidents provoke intense outrage when covered by the Muslim media. For example, when a far-right activist burnt a copy of Quran in Sweden in 2020, the media outlets in Pakistan and Iran responded with inflammatory language of their own. Whatever the ideological motivations of the different protesters in different cases, the outrage of the Muslim media has been more or less the same.

Take the Pakistani media’s coverage of the recent Quran burning in Sweden as an example. Some local media outlets in Pakistan used the word ‘Maloon’ (‘accursed’) of Momika in headlines and news content. They described his act of burning the Quran as ‘na paak’ (‘impure’) and used the words ‘be hurmati’ (‘disrespectful’) to describe what had happened to the holy book of Islam. This inflammatory language probably has its roots in Pakistan’s stringent blasphemy laws, which consider even mentioning blasphemous words or acts to be blasphemous. However, such biased reporting fosters further intolerance in the country, especially toward religious minorities, who already face grave dangers from false blasphemy allegations. Influential figures in parts of Punjab and Sindh already exploit blasphemy charges as a weapon against minorities.

For instance, Asia Bibi, a Christian woman in Pakistan, was accused of blasphemy in June 2009 after an argument with a group of Muslim women. A year later, she became the first woman sentenced to death under Pakistan’s blasphemy laws. In 2020, despite the Supreme Court overturning her conviction, she was forced to flee to Canada in fear for her life. Bibi now lives there in exile with her husband and two children, while three of her children remain in Pakistan.

Bibi’s plight highlights the grave dangers faced by religious minorities under Pakistan’s blasphemy laws. The sensationalised coverage of blasphemy cases by the Pakistani media further fans the flames of intolerance, as it has failed to cover these issues responsibly. The disproportionate coverage given to Quran burnings in Europe stands in stark contrast to the lack of attention by the Pakistani media towards domestic issues, such as the Christian community of Faisalabad, who lost their homes in a mob attack on 16 August this year. In that incident, a mob of hundreds attacked Faisalabad over a false blasphemy accusation against two Christian men. The mob burnt churches, looted homes and damaged the properties of people who had paid for them with their life savings.

The Pakistani media rarely highlight the human impact and the stories behind blasphemy accusations and persecuted minorities. Most of their coverage is dominated by the trials and outrage of the Muslim majority over perceived insults to Islam. They give little attention to the perspectives of freethinkers, progressives, atheists and agnostics – even if they tacitly admit their existence through accusations of the harm that such freethinkers allegedly inflict on society and Islam. The media also overlook the plight of Ahmadiyya community, who are living in constant fear in Pakistan. In this context, their extensive coverage of Momika’s Quran-burning in Sweden makes no sense. The Pakistani media’s attitude to this topic shows clearly that their agenda is to stir up intolerance and hatred at home.

Yet this is not only the case in Pakistan. The media in other Muslim countries follow the same trend. The Iranian media are an example. I tried to search news about Momika in Tehran’s Times of Iran. I found that the incident was being reported in a disturbing way. The paper reported that the Iranian government had asked Sweden to deal with Momika and other culprits or extradite them to Islamic states. In another news item, it described Momika as a member of Israel’s spy agency, and alleged that he was on a mission to deflect attention from Israeli crimes in the West Bank.

In contrast to the Tehran Times, the reporting of these incidents by Bangladesh’s Daily Star was quite balanced. It described the incident and the outrage of Muslim world about it without accusing Momika himself of anything. Its coverage of the incidents lacked vivid details about protests or retaliation. This more measured agenda-setting subtly discourages intolerant sentiments from dominating public discourse in Bangladesh. This is probably because of the more secular political environment of the country and the less stringent blasphemy laws, which together allow media organisations in Bangladesh to adopt a balanced approach in their journalism.

In Nigeria, the country with the biggest Muslim population in Africa, the media followed the line taken by the Tehran Times in their coverage of Momika. The country’s leading English newspaper, Vanguard, used words like ‘provocative’, ‘blasphemous’, ‘abominable’ and ‘heinous’ to describe his action.

This type of inflammatory rhetoric and narrative framing reinforces perceived grievances and breeds intolerance among the mass audience of these media outlets. It fuels a sense of collective outrage and offence by portraying incidents like this as intentional affronts to all Muslims, rather than as isolated acts with a specific political agenda, such as protesting against Islam (rather than aiming to attack Muslims). In contrast, the more responsible reporting from outlets like Bangladesh’s Daily Star resists overblown narratives that could incite a backlash.

These examples suggest that the media in Muslim countries face systemic disincentives that hinder responsible reporting on issues that could be considered blasphemous by local laws and society. These countries have zero tolerance for questioning religious dogma. Their journalists often internalise the biases of wider society. There also exist commercial pressures to cater to audience outrage and increase viewership by sensationalising events like the recent Quran burnings.

Despite these constraints, however, building a culture of ethical journalism remains critical. While overnight change is unrealistic, attitudes can gradually be shifted through training journalists in objective reporting, diversifying newsrooms, and cultivating connections with progressive civil society groups.

There is an urgent need for the media in Muslim countries to develop a code of conduct on reporting incidents deemed blasphemous under their laws. They need to make guidelines to ensure balanced, ethical coverage of those incidents, otherwise their hyped-up reporting will endanger lives both at home and abroad. The media have a moral responsibility to address internal biases and overblown narratives when covering such incidents. They must develop a mechanism for internal reflection on such biases, and must clarify and enforce standards to promote ethics in their coverage of these issues. Only then can they cover religious offence responsibly without compromising human rights and bringing any danger to any community locally or internationally.

Every person has the right to protest, but it should be capable of being practised within safe limits. Desecrating the Quran is a dangerous act that some people carry out to express frustration and anger towards Islam, despite the offence that it causes to Muslims. The media’s sensationalised reporting of such incidents often intensifies this danger for protesters. The media also deliberately ignores the perspective of the protester and the challenges they face afterwards.

As a result of the enormous hostility to acts of protest against Islam, whipped up by the media in Muslim-majority countries, even liberals who would theoretically support the protesters’ right to burn the Quran prefer to stay silent, so as to avoid putting their own lives in danger. Thus a culture of fear is created in which all possibility of reasonable discussion and criticism is suppressed.   

No doubt, the road to unbiased coverage upholding human rights in Muslim world will be long. But it must begin with media houses themselves taking an introspective look at how their rhetoric could prove harmful in a long run.

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The post The power of outrage appeared first on The Freethinker.

In Pakistan, religion exerts a significant influence over society. This often results in restricted freedom of expression for those with different views. George*, when he was living in Pakistan, always had to keep his thoughts and questions to himself: he knew he could not talk about them with anyone. While talking to me in a private Twitter conversation, he said that he had kept his thoughts, ideas and questions to himself his whole life, as he never found a safe environment around him.

‘I turned 45, and until then, I found no space to talk about my thoughts, even in a small circle,’ he said. ‘If we were sitting and talking about something, and I said something about religion, they would start saying, “What are you saying? You should not be talking like that.”‘

Twitter Spaces was the first platform where George was able to share his thoughts, using an anonymous ID. He found Spaces on atheism, the evolution of religions, blasphemy allegations, human rights, social issues, and every topic that he had always wanted to talk about. He found people like him who also wanted to engage in live conversation and share their thoughts on these controversial subjects.

Twitter launched ‘Spaces’ in December 2020, initially as a beta test and then as freely accessible to everyone on the platform. Spaces allows anyone to host and participate in live audio conversations with other users on the platform. Since its emergence, ex-Muslims from Pakistan have been using this feature to talk about issues that were previously forbidden. They share their stories, voice their concerns, and connect with others who understand their experiences.

George’s story highlights the challenges faced by individuals in Pakistan who do not conform to religious norms. Although his family knows about his views on religion, he feels that he cannot share his opinions with them, even at home. For him, Twitter has become a valuable platform that has allowed him to finally express his views without fear.

Pakistan’s penalties for blasphemy, apostasy, or atheism are among the harshest in the world. According to a BBC report of 2017, ‘Although atheism is not technically illegal in Pakistan, apostasy is deemed to be punishable by death in some interpretations of Islam. As a result, speaking publicly can be life-threatening.’ Recently, as reported by Kunwar Khuldune Shahid in The Diplomat, Pakistan has reinforced its laws even further, adding to the already oppressive environment for Pakistani atheists and agnostics. Social media has become the only option for them to express their views, but the government has tightened its grip on these platforms too. It has become increasingly challenging for them to connect with like-minded individuals.

From Facebook to Twitter

Smith* and Syed Rahat Shah joined Twitter after feeling that it was not safe to share their thoughts on Facebook, where family and friends were present. During a Zoom meeting, Smith told me that he had filtered out everyone he knew in real life from his Twitter account. Initially, he used his real name, but later changed it to an alternative account, although he still uses his own picture. He was outspoken in real life, but noticed that people were not willing to listen to him. During a gathering, someone asked him to recite kalma (a declaration of Islamic belief in the oneness of God and the prophethood of Muhammad) to prove that he was a Muslim. Since then, he avoids talking about religion offline. On Twitter, his main focus is science and technology, but he occasionally discusses religion in Spaces and gives his opinion.

During a WhatsApp call, Syed Rahat Shah said that he identifies more as a cultural Muslim, despite not believing in any religion. He started criticising religion on his personal Facebook profile, specifically its laws relating to women. However, every time he did so, his brothers or someone from his family would shut him down: ‘It became extremely difficult to question religious practices. In Pakistan, I used to feel like I had a lot to say, but there was no space or acceptance for it.’

After Twitter released Spaces for everyone, Shah started to join some of them in his free time. There he found the freedom to say what he has been keeping within himself for years. ‘I joined Spaces initially, where people would talk about social issues and also discuss religion, like how it causes issues. I would join those Spaces and speak my heart out. Now, I feel like the frustration I had inside me that I couldn’t express has gone.’

Alice*, in a Zoom meeting, said that she identifies as agnostic. Talking further, she said that Generation Z are very lucky as they have many platforms and resources where they can easily access the information that she and people of her generation took years to find. ‘When we were growing up, we neither had that knowledge nor access to platforms where we could seek the information we wanted and network with like-minded people,’ she said. ‘It was especially hard for young girls who were curious. They had no ways to satisfy their curiosity as there were stricter societal and cultural rules in place for them.’

Finding like-minded people

Grace* had a similar experience. She told me, also via Zoom, that a couple of years ago, she had been going through some personal problems. In that phase, she tried to connect with God. She decided to read the Quran in translation. She read thirteen chapters; with each chapter, her confusion about her religion increased.

‘I started listening to Quran with translation on YouTube during my daily commute, which was a forty to forty-five-minute drive from my house to my office,’ she told me. ‘However, I quickly became confused because, in every second or third verse, there was a mention of hell and the punishment for sinners.’

Two of her friends introduced her to the YouTube channel of Harris Sultan, an ex-Muslim Atheist activist and the author of The Curse of God: why I left Islam. She started watching his videos, and this made her realise that she was not alone. There were other people like her who had the same confusion or concerns about religion.

Grace therefore decided to set up her own YouTube channel. Her channel focuses on social issues but religion comes in the discussion in one way or another. Last year, she joined Twitter, where she found that people were more responsive and open to discussion. ‘Twitter also provided the anonymity to express opinions freely, which made the response time much faster,’ she says. ‘I started visiting Twitter spaces and found other people like me there.’

Nuriyah Khan is a well-known ex-Muslim who runs her own YouTube channel. She observes that Twitter spaces can become toxic quickly. As a woman and a host, she feels empowered by the ability to mute or remove disruptive individuals. As she told me via Whatsapp, ‘Twitter Spaces and YouTube each have their unique benefits and drawbacks. Twitter Spaces are great for quick connections, whereas YouTube is better for a larger audience and more extended conversations.’

Are Twitter Spaces safe?

A Twitter user with the name A(nti)theist, whom I spoke to via WhatsApp, said that Twitter provides better security and privacy than other social networking platforms. However, he said that people should be careful not to offend others, especially when discussing religion. In his view, atheists should avoid attacking religious figures and instead focus on the religion’s ideology.

In the view of Harris Sultan (via WhatsApp), Twitter Spaces may not be the best platform for dissidents. He argues that the platform encourages users to create fake or anonymous accounts, which can be risky for those discussing sensitive topics.

Sultan also spoke about internet censorship in Pakistan. ‘The Pakistani government loves to censor anyone they find critical of religion or the army,’ he explained. ‘They don’t have access to Twitter users’ information. Still, they do regularly ask Twitter to ban accounts they don’t like, which puts the accounts of dissidents under the threat of a permanent ban in Pakistan. Eventually, they do get banned – like my ID @TheHarrisSultan.’

Most of the Twitter users who were interviewed for this article reside outside Pakistan. When asked about the digital security measures they take before going on the internet, most of them said they do not feel themselves in danger because they do not live in Pakistan.

Nuriyah Khan, however, takes her safety very seriously (for this reason, she did not tell me her location). She does not have a LinkedIn account as she does not want people to know where she works and track her down. Instead, she just uses Twitter and YouTube. She has deleted her accounts on every other social media platform, except her private Instagram account.

Blasphemy and the digital world in Pakistan

Yasser Latif Hamdani is a barrister who qualified at Lincoln’s Inn and is now based in Islamabad. When I contacted him via Whatsapp, he told me that the government heavily censors the internet through the Pakistan Telecommunication Authority, which is empowered to block content that is deemed un-Islamic or immoral, including materials that may be considered blasphemous or critical of Islam. Hamdani stresses that the internet is heavily controlled through Section 37 of the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA), which violates the fundamental right to freedom of expression in Pakistan. This section grants the Government unrestricted powers to block access or remove speech not only on the internet, but also as transmitted through any device.

As Hamdani explains: ‘Section 37 of the PECA is used to block content online which is deemed unIslamic or immoral. Online defamation is also a criminal offence under Section 20 of the Act. There are several attempts by successive governments to further restrict social media.’

He also points out that Pakistan’s blasphemy laws are the strictest blasphemy laws in the world. ‘What these laws have done is to weaponise blasphemy allegations. Many of the blasphemy cases are just false but that should not be the point. Freedom of expression necessarily includes within its ambit the freedom to offend, but there is absolutely no appreciation of this right because the society is medieval and largely reactionary.’

Hamdani notes that while there is no law against apostasy in Pakistan, hardly anyone will identify as an ex-Muslim. Pakistan’s constitution guarantees freedom to profess, practise and propagate one’s religion to all citizens of Pakistan regardless of their faith, but at present, no distinct category exists for atheists, agnostics or freethinkers.

‘Any speech that is deemed criticism of the Prophet of Islam or Islam itself poses legal risks,’ writes Hamdani. ‘Section 295 ABC especially [the laws relating to blasphemy against religion, the Quran and the Prophet] might be used to target ex-Muslims. Criticism of the government of the day as such is not a crime, and indeed, sedition law was struck down recently. However, criticism of the army or the judiciary might land people in trouble both legally and extralegally.’

Twitter Spaces have given ex-Muslims in Pakistan a safe platform to express themselves and engage with the public on topics that are usually considered taboo in Muslim societies. One of the reasons that such free expression is possible, however, is that only about two per cent of the entire population of Pakistan is present on Twitter.

In real life, on the other hand, the situation for perceived critics of Islam is extremely dangerous. Recently, a Chinese engineer at the Dasu hydropower project in northwestern Pakistan was accused of blasphemy after he highlighted the slow pace of work during Ramadan. In December 2021, a Sri Lankan factory manager in Pakistan was beaten to death and set ablaze by a mob, in an incident reportedly linked to blasphemy.

It is also common in the country for mobs to attack Ahmadi mosques or murder Ahmadiyya Muslims due to their beliefs. In this environment, it is extremely dangerous to speak freely about religion as an ex-Muslim on the internet. In 2017, the government reportedly ‘asked Facebook and Twitter to remove content considered insulting to Islam or Muhammad’. Prior to that, as reported by Shahid, several Facebook pages and accounts of Pakistani ex-Muslims were removed by Facebook on the request of the Pakistani government. Twitter’s better community standards have provided Pakistani ex-Muslims with a platform for assembly and discourse. Time will tell, though, if Spaces will continue to be available to them, or if some may have to bear the consequences of the freedom that they have found there.

*The names of some individuals have been changed on their request.

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The post Breaking the silence: Pakistani ex-Muslims find a voice on social media appeared first on The Freethinker.