Living in a country where a single word, a picture, or even a misunderstood phrase can unleash a squall of righteous indignation, set people howling in the streets, or take away a life, is to live under the shadow of fear. In Pakistan, a charge of blasphemy carries that terror. Sections 295 to 298 of the Pakistan Penal Code (PPC), originally framed to protect religious sensibilities and foster interfaith harmony, have instead become a tool of vengeance, hysteria, and mob justice. With the arrival of the digital age, the scope of these laws has stretched dangerously, invading online spaces and placing every expression at the mercy of smartphone-wielding zealots. Speech today is policed not only by the state but by any individual who claims moral authority.
The colonial origins of Section 295 PPC were relatively narrow, designed to deter intentional incitement to religious hatred. Yet over time, particularly during General Zia-ul-Haq’s Islamization drive, provisions like 295-B (defiling the Quran) and 295-C (derogatory remarks against the Prophet, carrying a mandatory death penalty) were introduced. Their wording is vague, their thresholds undefined, and their enforcement often stripped of legal safeguards. The result has been a minefield where intent is irrelevant, due process is sidelined, and mob violence routinely substitutes for the courts.
Section 295-C prescribes death for blasphemy, yet no equivalent penalty exists for false allegations.
The dangers of this weaponisation are not abstract. In 2017, Mashal Khan, a student journalist at Abdul Wali Khan University, was lynched by fellow students based on fabricated online accusations of blasphemy. A university inquiry later confirmed there had been no blasphemy. But that finding mattered little. Fanned by social media hysteria and conspiracy theories, the crowd became judge, jury, and executioner. Mashal’s killing was not the product of legal adjudication; it was the triumph of digital hysteria over law.
More recently, in 2024, a woman in Lahore’s Ichra Bazaar was attacked for wearing a shirt with the word halwa written in stylised Arabic calligraphy. A mob insisted it resembled Quranic script and accused her of desecration. Videos circulated online at lightning speed, clerics fanned the flames, and the woman barely escaped with her life thanks to swift police intervention. Yet the mob faced no accountability. No FIRs were lodged, and no instigators were arrested. The lesson was clear: guilt is determined not by evidence, but by mob perception, and innocence offers no protection.
The same year, YouTuber Rajab Butt found himself targeted after naming a perfume “295” in homage to a Sidhu Moosewala song. The reference was cultural, not religious, yet it was interpreted as an insult to faith. FIRs followed, pulpits denounced him, and social media mobs issued death threats. His case illustrates how nuance and intent collapse under the weight of indignation in the age of viral outrage.
Perhaps the most infamous case is that of Aasia Bibi, a Christian farmworker accused in 2009 of making derogatory remarks during a dispute while plucking falsa berries in District Nankana Sahib. The accusation, carried by weak and contradictory testimony, was enough to place her under a death sentence and entangle her in a decade-long legal ordeal. The greater tragedy, however, was that the Punjab Governor, Salman Taseer, who dared to defend her innocence and question the misuse of blasphemy laws, was assassinated by his own guard, Mumtaz Qadri. Taseer’s killing was not for any act of blasphemy, but because he stood against a false accusation. In the aftermath, Qadri was celebrated by hardline clerics as an Ashiq-e-Rasool and immortalised as a hero, while the very act of defending an innocent woman was treated as a crime.
Clerical actors bear heavy responsibility for this climate. Some preachers use their pulpits to inflame emotions, gain influence, and target adversaries under the guise of defending faith. Amplified by mosque loudspeakers and viral platforms, their rhetoric routinely overrides law and procedure, sanctifying mob violence as a religious duty. The absence of legal consequences for false accusers emboldens them further. Section 295-C prescribes death for blasphemy, yet no equivalent penalty exists for false allegations. Sections 182 and 211 PPC do criminalise false reporting, but they are rarely applied in blasphemy cases. This asymmetry rewards abuse, leaving the innocent without protection.
The digital era has worsened the problem. Facebook posts, memes, or even artistic calligraphy can be misinterpreted as blasphemous, and the accused may face mobs, FIRs, or fatwas. The Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA) 2016, meant to curb cybercrime, has often been weaponised to pursue blasphemy charges. Law enforcement, instead of shielding vulnerable citizens, often capitulates to popular pressure, arresting suspects to appease crowds rather than investigating facts. This amounts to a collapse of the rule of law. Article 4 of the Constitution guarantees due process; Article 10-A enshrines the right to fair trial; Article 19 protects freedom of speech, subject to reasonable limits. Yet these rights evaporate once blasphemy is alleged. Accused individuals are jailed without evidence, judges refuse bail out of fear, and defence lawyers face death threats. The justice system, meant to be impartial, is paralysed by mob intimidation.
The irony is that existing laws already provide for punishing mob violence. Rioters can be prosecuted under Sections 147-149 PPC, murderers under Section 302, and violent mobs under the Anti-Terrorism Act. Yet these provisions are rarely enforced against religious mobs. The men who lynched Mashal Khan, who terrorised the Ichra Bazaar woman, or who threatened YouTubers continue to evade accountability. The failure lies not in the absence of legal tools, but in the state’s unwillingness to apply them.
What is needed is a rational recalibration of law and enforcement. First, a specialised investigative unit should review all blasphemy complaints before an FIR is registered, preventing frivolous cases triggered by rumour or misinterpretation. Second, false accusers must face severe consequences. If blasphemy is punishable by death, then knowingly fabricating such an accusation should invite equally serious penalties. Third, law enforcement must prosecute mob leaders and online inciters, drawing upon digital evidence such as videos and WhatsApp groups. Fourth, regulation of mosque loudspeakers and sermons is essential, ensuring clerics cannot exploit pulpits to incite violence with impunity.
Equally, PECA must be reformed to combat hate speech and online incitement rather than suppress criticism or satire. Social media platforms should be legally obliged to remove incitement and report systematic harassment campaigns. And most importantly, the accused must be afforded immediate legal counsel, safe accommodation, and anonymity. Their safety cannot be left as an afterthought.
Critics might argue that these proposals risk undermining religious sensitivities. But the real threat to religion lies not in protecting the falsely accused, but in tolerating a culture where lies, vendettas, and hysteria are sanctified in its name. Faith that is weaponised to terrorise the innocent loses its moral force. Religion, after all, is meant to protect human dignity, not extinguish it.
Pakistan’s tragedy is that the justice system collapses precisely where it is most needed. In the name of protecting belief, we have allowed law to be hijacked by mobs, opportunists, and demagogues. This is not a question of disrespecting religion. It is a question of defending justice, dignity, and life itself. Blasphemy is indeed a serious matter in any religious society. But using it to crush dissent, settle scores, or enhance one’s religious standing is not only a crime against the law but a betrayal of faith’s own moral core.
Until Pakistan confronts this reality-by protecting the innocent, restraining mobs, and holding clerical agitators accountable-it will remain trapped in a cycle of blood and silence. Each new case chips away not only at individual lives but at the collective conscience of the nation. To challenge the misuse of blasphemy laws is not to insult religion; it is to defend the very principles of justice and mercy that religion upholds.
The writer is a student.