How anti-Shia violence debunks the idea of Pakistan

On October 29, 2024, a disturbing display of anti-Shia hatred unfolded in Islamabad, shockingly close to the ISI headquarters. Members of Sipah-e-Sahaba, an extremist organisation infamous for orchestrating violence against the Shia minority, gathered openly to spread vile accusations and call for the expulsion of Shias from Islam. They didn’t just stop at words—they demanded that Shias visiting Iran for pilgrimage have their passports and identity cards revoked, essentially calling for their statelessness.

This isn’t just bigotry at the fringes; it’s a frighteningly bold assault on a minority with the tacit acceptance of a state that has turned its back. Pakistan, supposedly carved out of India as a safe haven for all Muslims, has become a breeding ground for sectarian extremism where Shias are treated as outsiders in their own homeland.

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In Kurram district, the situation is even more tragic. What began as a land dispute between Sunni and Shia tribes in July 2024 has escalated into a brutal sectarian conflict, claiming over 43 lives and injuring more than 200 people. These are not just figures; they are human lives, each story marked by fear and loss, in a region where sectarian violence has become routine. Sunni tribes reportedly receive support from across the Afghan border, while Shia families are left vulnerable, caught in the crossfire of tribal rivalries and a history of bloodshed.

Kurram, with eight active conflicts spanning decades, symbolises the absolute breakdown of law and order in the face of unchecked sectarian hatred. And yet, those with power and influence continue to look away, allowing extremist agendas to dictate the fate of Pakistan’s Shia community. In every death, every displacement, the idea of Pakistan as a sanctuary for Muslims away from the Hindus gets shamelessly defeated.

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Sipah-e-Sahaba Pakistan (SSP), now masquerading under different names to evade bans, has long been the spearhead of anti-Shia violence in Pakistan. Founded in 1985 in Jhang by Haq Nawaz Jhangvi, SSP was born from a toxic blend of sectarianism and the ambition to forge a Pakistan aligned solely with Sunni orthodoxy. What started as a reactionary movement to counter Iran’s post-revolutionary influence rapidly transformed into an engine of terror, targeting Pakistan’s Shia minority in pursuit of an exclusionary religious state. SSP’s philosophy is clear: Shias are heretics and enemies within, and thus deserving of systemic violence, a message that has permeated society for decades through SSP’s madrassas, sermons, and hate-filled rhetoric.

SSP’s violence against Shias is not abstract; it’s ruthlessly real and shockingly consistent. By the late 1990s, the group claimed responsibility for thousands of killings across Punjab and Sindh, with its offshoot, Lashkar-e-Jhangvi (LeJ), amplifying the brutality by targeting prominent Shia figures, doctors, and even children. SSP’s ideology gave rise to a wave of assassinations, including the cold-blooded murder of Shia leader Arif Hussain Hussaini in 1988 and mass casualty attacks, such as the Quetta bombing in 2013 that killed over 90 Shias. According to Pakistan’s own security records, from 2001 to 2018, SSP and its offshoots have been responsible for more than 2,300 deaths in sectarian violence across Pakistan. Even banned repeatedly, SSP manages to rebrand and continue its operations, often under names like Ahle Sunnat Wal Jamaat (ASWJ), working with impunity, emboldened by tacit state support.

Today, as SSP’s followers gather openly near government establishments like the ISI headquarters, brazenly calling for Shias to be ostracised and stripped of their nationality, it’s clear that SSP’s toxic legacy remains firmly rooted. With its networks deeply embedded in Pakistan’s social and political fabric, it remains a force that thrives on hate, division, and the state’s reluctant tolerance. SSP’s influence is not merely a chapter of Pakistan’s history but a continuing tragedy, one that shows the tragic, unrelenting power of sectarianism to shape a nation’s fate.

When we call Pakistan a failed state, it’s tempting to point only to its economic troubles, mounting debt, or its democracy that sways under the military’s thumb. These issues, while severe, are merely the symptoms of a far deeper failure. Pakistan is, at its core, a failed idea—an idea rooted in the flawed concept of religious nationalism, which from the start was bound to crumble. Pakistan’s creation, justified on the belief that a separate Muslim nation would secure unity and peace for Muslims of the subcontinent, has paradoxically sown endless division. The secession of Bangladesh in 1971 was the first major crack, exposing the folly of assuming that a shared religion alone could forge a cohesive, unified nation. Cultural, linguistic, and ethnic identities proved stronger than this manufactured religious nationalism, and the very foundation of Pakistan’s purpose was shaken.

The notion that Muslims form one homogenous political unit under the banner of a “Muslim Ummah” is a fiction Pakistan has desperately clung to but which daily reality undermines. In Balochistan, the calls for autonomy and freedom rise louder each year as the state clings to control through repression. In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, the people are besieged by militancy and sectarian conflict, fuelling a sense of alienation from the Pakistani identity forced upon them. And for the Shia community, Pakistan has become a hostile ground, where extremist groups like Sipah-e-Sahaba are allowed to threaten their very right to exist. These aren’t isolated incidents but a pattern, revealing that the idea of a unified “Muslim Pakistan” cannot contain the diversity and contradictions within it.

The dream of the Muslim Ummah—homogenous and united—is not just an impracticality; it’s a cover for an exclusivist, communalist vision that marginalises anyone who dares to be different. Each time a Shia is attacked, each time a Baloch voice is silenced, each time a non-Sunni citizen is othered, it becomes clear that Pakistan’s founding vision is not a force of unity but of fragmentation, one that has left the nation perpetually divided against itself.

The less said about the plight of the Ahmadiyya community in Pakistan, the better. Officially declared “non-Muslims” in 1974 and targeted by blasphemy laws, Ahmadis live in perpetual fear. They cannot openly profess their faith; they are banned from using Islamic symbols, and even the most basic acts of religious expression invite harassment, arrests, or worse. Ahmadiyya mosques have been desecrated, their graves defaced, and their homes attacked, with the state standing idly by—or worse, actively sanctioning the oppression. This persecution is a testament to the utter failure of Pakistan’s vision of “religious purity,” which paradoxically bred religious violence, stripping away the security and freedom promised at its inception.

In stark contrast, India embraced the principle of composite nationalism—an inclusive vision where every citizen, irrespective of religion, contributes to the nation’s identity. This secular, pluralistic approach, though certainly tested by its own challenges, has allowed India to become a sanctuary where Muslims, including Shias, Sunnis, Bohras, Sufis, and even Ahmadis, can live and worship freely. Indian Muslims may face their own socio-political challenges, but they do not face systematic, state-sanctioned exclusion for the faith they profess.

India’s democracy provides a framework that upholds religious freedoms, and its secular constitution protects minorities from the kind of institutionalised intolerance rampant in Pakistan. For Muslims across the world, the irony is stark: the Hindu-majority India they were told to fear has proven a far safer, more inclusive home than the “land of the pure.”

It’s often argued that comparing India with Pakistan is unfair, that the two nations developed along entirely different paths, but this reluctance to draw a comparison is little more than the “soft bigotry of low expectations”. Pakistan, as a nation carved out on the basis of religious exclusivity, was not a mere political rearrangement but a radical experiment with immense human cost. Millions were displaced, countless lives were lost, and the cultural fabric of the subcontinent was torn apart in the name of safeguarding a specific religious identity. Given this backdrop, it’s not only reasonable but essential to scrutinise whether Pakistan achieved what its founders envisioned—a prosperous, safe, and unified homeland for Muslims. Has it? The answer seems abundantly clear when we look at Pakistan’s internal divisions, economic instability, and perpetual sectarian violence.

The comparison between India and Pakistan is not arbitrary—it is a textbook case of how two nations, sharing the same cultural, linguistic, and racial roots, have diverged dramatically based on ideological choices. India chose pluralism, enshrining a secular constitution and embracing its diversity, while Pakistan chose a narrowly defined religious nationalism. The results speak volumes: India, despite its own set of challenges, has maintained democratic stability, economic growth, and a level of religious tolerance that far exceeds Pakistan’s fractured landscape. Pakistan, by clinging to the myth of an “Islamic state” capable of uniting diverse Muslim communities, has become a case study in ideological failure. The very identity it tried to impose on itself has become its undoing, while India’s open, composite identity has allowed it to become a more resilient, united, and thriving society. The subcontinent’s history demands that we ask whether the ideological divergence was worth it—and it’s becoming harder and harder to justify the price paid for an idea that has failed so tragically in practice.

The writer takes special interest in history, culture and geopolitics. The views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect Firstpost’s views.