The politics of denial has long been a defining feature of the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf’s response to May 9, 2023. For nearly two years, the party’s leadership has oscillated between selective amnesia and outright conspiracy, seeking refuge in rhetorical outrage while sidestepping the central question: who planned, facilitated, and legitimised the unprecedented attacks on state institutions? The latest forensic findings from the Punjab Forensic Science Laboratory (PFSL) bring this question back into sharp focus – and this time, with evidence rather than slogans.
According to the PFSL’s verification report, the presence of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa Chief Minister Sohail Afridi, along with senior PTI figures Kamran Bangash, Taimur Jhagra, and Irfan Saleem, has been confirmed in video footage related to the May 9 violence in Peshawar. The material, submitted by Police Station Sharqi on the orders of the Anti-Terrorism Court, underwent frame-by-frame audio-visual scrutiny. The conclusion is unambiguous: the individuals seen in the footage match their verified profile images.
It is worth underlining what this represents. May 9 was not a spontaneous eruption of public anger. The attacks on Radio Pakistan, toll plazas, and emergency ambulances were coordinated acts of destruction aimed squarely at symbols of the state. When such violence is linked – through verified visual evidence – to sitting chief ministers and cabinet members, the matter ceases to be partisan and becomes constitutional.
PTI’s habitual defence has been to claim “doctored videos” and “manufactured cases.” Ironically, the PFSL report itself acknowledges that some clips showed evidence of splicing or insertions – a fact that underscores the credibility of the analysis rather than undermining it. A forensic laboratory does not exist to validate narratives. It exists to separate authentic footage from manipulated material. That several clips were found untampered while others showed edits only strengthens the evidentiary threshold, not weakens it.
The deeper problem, however, is political culture. Pakistan’s democratic framework presumes that electoral legitimacy carries with it an obligation to protect the state, not wage symbolic war against it. The torching of Radio Pakistan – a national broadcaster with constitutional standing – was not an act of protest. Nor was the burning of ambulances an expression of dissent. These were criminal acts, and when carried out or abetted by political office-holders, they represent a direct assault on the writ of the state.
When undue violence is linked — through verified visual evidence — to sitting chief ministers and cabinet members, the matter ceases to be partisan and becomes constitutional.
PTI’s leadership has repeatedly attempted to normalise this conduct by invoking popular mandate, as if votes confer immunity from law. Yet history has repeatedly reminded us that whenever political movements personalise power and delegitimise institutions, the ultimate cost is only borne by democracy itself. No political party, regardless of its street power, has the right to decide which institutions are “acceptable” targets.
Punjab Information Minister Azma Bokhari’s assertion that May 9 was a “well-planned conspiracy” may sound political, but it aligns with a growing body of record-based evidence. Statements from PTI leaders, including those already on record with investigators, point toward prior mobilisation rather than reactive protest. The fact that official ticket-holders and office-bearers were among those who stormed sensitive installations further erodes the claim of rogue elements.
Equally significant is the role of the courts and police. The Anti-Terrorism Court’s directive to obtain forensic verification, the subsequent consultations to nominate the KP chief minister as an accused, and the preparation of a supplementary challan all indicate procedural continuity. This is not vengeance politics; it is the criminal justice system following evidence where it leads. To dismiss this entire process as victimisation is to dismiss the rule of law itself.
Pakistan’s armed forces and state institutions do not exist as political actors but as constitutional safeguards. Civilian supremacy is not threatened by accountability; it is threatened when elected officials encourage – or appear to condone – the erosion of state authority. In this context, the military’s restraint since May 9, despite direct provocation, has been notable. The burden of de-escalation has fallen not on those who attacked, but on those tasked with preserving order.
There remains no other option for the PTI but to accept accountability, distance itself from violent conduct, and re-enter democratic competition through constitutional means. Continued denial may energise a base, but it corrodes institutional trust and isolates the party from the very system it claims to reform.
Evidence, unlike rhetoric, does not chant slogans. It accumulates, corroborates, and ultimately compels. The PFSL report is not the end of the May 9 story, but it is a reminder that in a constitutional state, politics cannot forever outrun proof.
The writer is a freelance columnist.