Lahore (Pakistan) (AFP) – For Pakistani police, reports of a college campus rape that went viral this month are "fake news" fomenting unrest. For protesting students, the social media posts offer a rare public reckoning with sexual assault.
Pakistani students holding placards shout slogans this week at a march protesting the alleged rape of a woman student in Lahore
© Arif ALI / AFP
But as the clashing accounts have spilled from the internet and onto the streets, both sides agree the case has ignited a tinderbox of legitimate fears.
"Girls who go to campuses definitely feel threatened," 21-year-old Khadija Shabbir told AFP at a Monday protest in eastern Lahore city that was swiftly dismantled by authorities.
Senior officer Syeda Shehrbano Naqvi is charged with probing the case police insist has been conjured from unverifiable online rumours.
But she admits it has struck a real chord on the issue of harassment in Pakistan, a patriarchal country where open discussion of abuse is taboo.
"All of us somewhere have experienced it," she says. "It's an extremely sensitive subject."
'Deep-rooted frustration'
'All of us somewhere have experienced it," Syeda Shehrbano Naqvi, a senior Pakistani police officer, said of harassment © Amna YASEEN / AFP
It began earlier this month with a swirl of social media posts alleging a staff member had raped a woman in the basement of a Punjab College campus in Lahore.
When police and local media were unable to trace a victim, the local government and school administration dismissed the claims as a hoax.
But student protests broke out last Monday, escalating into unrest in Lahore and other cities later in the week that led to the arrests of at least 380 people over vandalism and arson.
Educational institutes were shut across Punjab province last Friday -- when protests are generally staged after prayers -- and political gatherings were banned for two days, although officials gave no reason.
As a result, about 26 million children were out of school as well as many more university and college students in the country's most populous province.
But students, banned from officially organising in unions for the past four decades, have continued to come out this week.
"I haven't seen it grow into a movement like this or this sort of anger or reaction from them before," said Fatima Razzaq, a member of the Aurat March women's rights group.
The Punjab government has a women-only police emergency line where they report receiving 1,300 calls daily from women concerned about their safety.
But as the clashing accounts have spilled from the internet and onto the streets, both sides agree the case has ignited a tinderbox of legitimate fears.
"Girls who go to campuses definitely feel threatened," 21-year-old Khadija Shabbir told AFP at a Monday protest in eastern Lahore city that was swiftly dismantled by authorities.
Senior officer Syeda Shehrbano Naqvi is charged with probing the case police insist has been conjured from unverifiable online rumours.
But she admits it has struck a real chord on the issue of harassment in Pakistan, a patriarchal country where open discussion of abuse is taboo.
"All of us somewhere have experienced it," she says. "It's an extremely sensitive subject."
'Deep-rooted frustration'
'All of us somewhere have experienced it," Syeda Shehrbano Naqvi, a senior Pakistani police officer, said of harassment © Amna YASEEN / AFPIt began earlier this month with a swirl of social media posts alleging a staff member had raped a woman in the basement of a Punjab College campus in Lahore.
When police and local media were unable to trace a victim, the local government and school administration dismissed the claims as a hoax.
But student protests broke out last Monday, escalating into unrest in Lahore and other cities later in the week that led to the arrests of at least 380 people over vandalism and arson.
Educational institutes were shut across Punjab province last Friday -- when protests are generally staged after prayers -- and political gatherings were banned for two days, although officials gave no reason.
As a result, about 26 million children were out of school as well as many more university and college students in the country's most populous province.
But students, banned from officially organising in unions for the past four decades, have continued to come out this week.
"I haven't seen it grow into a movement like this or this sort of anger or reaction from them before," said Fatima Razzaq, a member of the Aurat March women's rights group.
The Punjab government has a women-only police emergency line where they report receiving 1,300 calls daily from women concerned about their safety.
Fatima Razzaq, a member of the Aurat March women's rights group, told AFP she's not previously seen the level of anger generated by the Lahore rape allegation
© Amna YASEEN / AFP
But with 80 percent of women saying they have been harassed in public places, according to the UN, there is little trust that authorities take the matter seriously.
Razzaq said "a deep-rooted frustration" is surfacing as a result.
While protesters' opinions vary about the veracity of the rape claim that has sparked the movement, many cite their own experience as more pivotal in their decision to turn out.
"A girl I know in my university committed suicide because she was being harassed," student Amna Nazar told AFP.
"My professor keeps asking me out and calling me to his office," said another University of the Punjab student, asking to remain anonymous. "This is something I do not want to do."
On the campus where the crime is alleged to have happened, activists painted the walls with red hand prints and demands of "justice for the rape victim". But it was quickly painted over.
"If we go and complain about an incident, we are told that nothing happened and we should stop talking about it," said one female student at another university.
- Dissent and distrust -
But with 80 percent of women saying they have been harassed in public places, according to the UN, there is little trust that authorities take the matter seriously.
Razzaq said "a deep-rooted frustration" is surfacing as a result.
While protesters' opinions vary about the veracity of the rape claim that has sparked the movement, many cite their own experience as more pivotal in their decision to turn out.
"A girl I know in my university committed suicide because she was being harassed," student Amna Nazar told AFP.
"My professor keeps asking me out and calling me to his office," said another University of the Punjab student, asking to remain anonymous. "This is something I do not want to do."
On the campus where the crime is alleged to have happened, activists painted the walls with red hand prints and demands of "justice for the rape victim". But it was quickly painted over.
"If we go and complain about an incident, we are told that nothing happened and we should stop talking about it," said one female student at another university.
- Dissent and distrust -
Online chat groups created to mobilise protesters have disappeared
© Arif ALI / AFP
Lahore's High Court has announced a new committee of judges to investigate campus sexual harassment, indicating authorities are conceding the protests have a point.
But the face-off between students and police is taking place amid a broader crackdown on dissent from political and ethnic activists across Pakistan.
Student social media pages and online chat groups created to mobilise protestors have disappeared and officials have pledged that those spreading misinformation will be prosecuted.
Naqvi -- the police officer -- said there was "less tendency of people to believe somebody in uniform" and that the confrontation had spiralled into the "state versus the students".
Meanwhile, the women whose experiences with harassment have placed them at the centre of the movement are finding themselves sidelined as the protests spill into violence often led by men.
As crowds of male students threw rocks at police in the city of Rawalpindi last week, officers returned fire with rubber bullets, and women fearing for their safety cowered away in side-streets.
Nevertheless, 19-year-old female student Inshai said: "We are standing up for our rights".
© 2024 AFP
Lahore's High Court has announced a new committee of judges to investigate campus sexual harassment, indicating authorities are conceding the protests have a point.
But the face-off between students and police is taking place amid a broader crackdown on dissent from political and ethnic activists across Pakistan.
Student social media pages and online chat groups created to mobilise protestors have disappeared and officials have pledged that those spreading misinformation will be prosecuted.
Naqvi -- the police officer -- said there was "less tendency of people to believe somebody in uniform" and that the confrontation had spiralled into the "state versus the students".
Meanwhile, the women whose experiences with harassment have placed them at the centre of the movement are finding themselves sidelined as the protests spill into violence often led by men.
As crowds of male students threw rocks at police in the city of Rawalpindi last week, officers returned fire with rubber bullets, and women fearing for their safety cowered away in side-streets.
Nevertheless, 19-year-old female student Inshai said: "We are standing up for our rights".
© 2024 AFP
Digital Pied Pipers of Pakistan
Shaukat Ahmed
Shaukat Ahmed
Published October 25, 2024
DAWN
FOR years, Pakistan felt more like a cherished memory of childhood and adolescent travels than a living reality, its struggles and triumphs observed from afar.
Preoccupied with our own lives in distant lands, it’s easy to feel disconnected. Two years ago, guilted by family and friends as well as a yearning to bridge this chasm, I embarked on a journey to reconnect with my ancestral homeland. My first instinct was to turn to mainstream media, expecting it to serve as a window into the nation’s current affairs.
The media landscape I encountered resembled a circus of sensationalism and political pandering, subject to the whim of editorial agendas and the capricious tides of public opinion. A constant diet of political intrigue and impending doom kept viewers glued to their screens, translating into a steady flow of advertising revenue. TV anchors, enamoured of the sound of their own dulcet tones, held court nightly, with an ever-expanding army of self-proclaimed ‘Senior Analysts’.
I wondered how every analyst was a Senior Analyst. Had they sprouted fully formed from the earth, armed with an inflated sense of their own significance, the tireless persistence of a broken record, and an uncanny ability to pander to whichever political deity they had chosen to worship? Their most distinctive trait was a penchant for painting with only two colours: the pitch black of vilification or the blinding white of glorification, depending on the narrative du jour.
Disillusioned but undeterred, I turned to social media, signing up for a new Twitter account to create a digital vantage point for observing Pakistan, promising real-time updates and unfiltered perspectives. I did not have too many followers, nor did I want them. Having always been a social media absentee by choice, valuing privacy over online presence, I preferred to observe rather than participate. But if traditional media was a disappointment, social media was a shock to the system. I found myself in a digital battlefield where fake news, vitriol, and extremism reigned supreme. Any attempt at rational discourse or critique would unleash a horde of digital foot soldiers, their responses devoid of substance but overflowing with obscenities and derogatory slurs.
Coexisting in this ecosystem, I encountered another peculiar breed of online denizens: the devoted followers. Keyboard acolytes, existing in a perpetual state of rapture, showered their chosen leaders with endless praise. Their timelines swarmed with reverential video clips set to emotive musical scores, featuring their idols engaged in such riveting activities as strolling or entering rooms. Perhaps, in Pakistan, the ability to ambulate with gravitas was now considered a qualification for leadership.
Is this the legacy we’re leaving for the country’s largest demographic?
As I delved deeper into this digital realm, a disturbing reality became obvious. The cacophony of voices, whether spewing vitriol or singing praises, seemed orchestrated by unseen hands. In this realm of bytes and pixels, modern-day Pied Pipers had woven a digital spell, leading Pakistan’s youth not to the promise of a brighter future, but down a rabbit hole of toxicity and division.
This tale unfolds to this day not in the quaint streets of Hamelin, but across the vast expanse of Pakistan’s social media platforms and messaging apps. The youth of Pakistan, tech-savvy and eager for change, have become pawns in a grand, cynical power struggle. Conscripted as foot soldiers, they find themselves embroiled in a battle that neither serves nor spares them. Demagogues and zealots, emerging from an old guard that has failed the nation for more than seven decades with their recycled strategies, have repurposed these young minds with sinister brilliance into what they proudly call ‘keyboard warriors’.
Their calculus is ruthless: the more adverse and chaotic things become for their rivals, the stronger their own grip on power, or the better their chances of riding a wave of discontent back into office. But these digital foot soldiers are no warriors; they are unwitting conduits for deceit, hate, and division.
Watching this digital dystopia unfold, I can’t help but wonder: is this the legacy we’re leaving for Pakistan’s largest demographic? Nurturing a generation stripped of civility, fuelled by anger, and devoid of the critical thinking necessary for true national progress? The tragedy of this digital devolution is magnified when we consider the untapped potential it plunders.
The very devices wielded as weapons of online warfare carry within them the seeds of revolutionary change. Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak birthed Apple in a garage with less computing power than most Pakistani youth hold in their hands today. Jeff Bezos began Amazon’s journey selling books from his home and car. Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook from a dorm room. Today, the tech giants born from such humble beginnings have a combined market capitalisation larger than the GDP of ‘every’ country in the world except the US and China; a profound reminder of what can be achieved when young minds are channelled towards creation rather than destruction.
Pakistan doesn’t need a miraculous discovery of oil reserves to change its destiny. The true ‘black gold’ of the 21st century isn’t buried in the depths of the earth or hidden beneath vast oceans. Instead, it pulses through circuits and flows in streams of code. This digital oil field, infinitely renewable and boundlessly powerful is the new currency of global power.
Are Pakistan’s youth less talented, creative, or driven than their counterparts who have changed the world? The answer is a resounding no. What they lack is not ability, but direction and purpose. Our youth are as capable of coding the next revolutionary app as they are of crafting viral tweets. They possess the same potential to pioneer groundbreaking startups as they do to lead digital lynch mobs.
Beguiled and marching to the tune of digital Pied Pipers, Pakistan’s youth, wage online wars of attrition, unknowingly holding in their hands the tools that could remake their nation’s future. Instead of crafting the next world-changing tech or pioneering a paradigm shift, the potential for innovation, for driving economic growth and social change, is being squandered away in 280-character bursts of anger, abuse and lies.
The writer is an entrepreneur based in the US and UK.
sar@aya.yale.edu
X: @viewpointsar
Published in Dawn, October 25th, 2024
FOR years, Pakistan felt more like a cherished memory of childhood and adolescent travels than a living reality, its struggles and triumphs observed from afar.
Preoccupied with our own lives in distant lands, it’s easy to feel disconnected. Two years ago, guilted by family and friends as well as a yearning to bridge this chasm, I embarked on a journey to reconnect with my ancestral homeland. My first instinct was to turn to mainstream media, expecting it to serve as a window into the nation’s current affairs.
The media landscape I encountered resembled a circus of sensationalism and political pandering, subject to the whim of editorial agendas and the capricious tides of public opinion. A constant diet of political intrigue and impending doom kept viewers glued to their screens, translating into a steady flow of advertising revenue. TV anchors, enamoured of the sound of their own dulcet tones, held court nightly, with an ever-expanding army of self-proclaimed ‘Senior Analysts’.
I wondered how every analyst was a Senior Analyst. Had they sprouted fully formed from the earth, armed with an inflated sense of their own significance, the tireless persistence of a broken record, and an uncanny ability to pander to whichever political deity they had chosen to worship? Their most distinctive trait was a penchant for painting with only two colours: the pitch black of vilification or the blinding white of glorification, depending on the narrative du jour.
Disillusioned but undeterred, I turned to social media, signing up for a new Twitter account to create a digital vantage point for observing Pakistan, promising real-time updates and unfiltered perspectives. I did not have too many followers, nor did I want them. Having always been a social media absentee by choice, valuing privacy over online presence, I preferred to observe rather than participate. But if traditional media was a disappointment, social media was a shock to the system. I found myself in a digital battlefield where fake news, vitriol, and extremism reigned supreme. Any attempt at rational discourse or critique would unleash a horde of digital foot soldiers, their responses devoid of substance but overflowing with obscenities and derogatory slurs.
Coexisting in this ecosystem, I encountered another peculiar breed of online denizens: the devoted followers. Keyboard acolytes, existing in a perpetual state of rapture, showered their chosen leaders with endless praise. Their timelines swarmed with reverential video clips set to emotive musical scores, featuring their idols engaged in such riveting activities as strolling or entering rooms. Perhaps, in Pakistan, the ability to ambulate with gravitas was now considered a qualification for leadership.
Is this the legacy we’re leaving for the country’s largest demographic?
As I delved deeper into this digital realm, a disturbing reality became obvious. The cacophony of voices, whether spewing vitriol or singing praises, seemed orchestrated by unseen hands. In this realm of bytes and pixels, modern-day Pied Pipers had woven a digital spell, leading Pakistan’s youth not to the promise of a brighter future, but down a rabbit hole of toxicity and division.
This tale unfolds to this day not in the quaint streets of Hamelin, but across the vast expanse of Pakistan’s social media platforms and messaging apps. The youth of Pakistan, tech-savvy and eager for change, have become pawns in a grand, cynical power struggle. Conscripted as foot soldiers, they find themselves embroiled in a battle that neither serves nor spares them. Demagogues and zealots, emerging from an old guard that has failed the nation for more than seven decades with their recycled strategies, have repurposed these young minds with sinister brilliance into what they proudly call ‘keyboard warriors’.
Their calculus is ruthless: the more adverse and chaotic things become for their rivals, the stronger their own grip on power, or the better their chances of riding a wave of discontent back into office. But these digital foot soldiers are no warriors; they are unwitting conduits for deceit, hate, and division.
Watching this digital dystopia unfold, I can’t help but wonder: is this the legacy we’re leaving for Pakistan’s largest demographic? Nurturing a generation stripped of civility, fuelled by anger, and devoid of the critical thinking necessary for true national progress? The tragedy of this digital devolution is magnified when we consider the untapped potential it plunders.
The very devices wielded as weapons of online warfare carry within them the seeds of revolutionary change. Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak birthed Apple in a garage with less computing power than most Pakistani youth hold in their hands today. Jeff Bezos began Amazon’s journey selling books from his home and car. Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook from a dorm room. Today, the tech giants born from such humble beginnings have a combined market capitalisation larger than the GDP of ‘every’ country in the world except the US and China; a profound reminder of what can be achieved when young minds are channelled towards creation rather than destruction.
Pakistan doesn’t need a miraculous discovery of oil reserves to change its destiny. The true ‘black gold’ of the 21st century isn’t buried in the depths of the earth or hidden beneath vast oceans. Instead, it pulses through circuits and flows in streams of code. This digital oil field, infinitely renewable and boundlessly powerful is the new currency of global power.
Are Pakistan’s youth less talented, creative, or driven than their counterparts who have changed the world? The answer is a resounding no. What they lack is not ability, but direction and purpose. Our youth are as capable of coding the next revolutionary app as they are of crafting viral tweets. They possess the same potential to pioneer groundbreaking startups as they do to lead digital lynch mobs.
Beguiled and marching to the tune of digital Pied Pipers, Pakistan’s youth, wage online wars of attrition, unknowingly holding in their hands the tools that could remake their nation’s future. Instead of crafting the next world-changing tech or pioneering a paradigm shift, the potential for innovation, for driving economic growth and social change, is being squandered away in 280-character bursts of anger, abuse and lies.
The writer is an entrepreneur based in the US and UK.
sar@aya.yale.edu
X: @viewpointsar
Published in Dawn, October 25th, 2024
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