It was interpreted, and often celebrated, as the echo of a much larger frenzy that commemorates and normalises violence against Hindus.

Pakistan opener Sahibzada Farhan has found himself at the center of fresh controversy after his explosive 58 off 45 balls against India in the Asia Cup 2025 Super Four. His half-century celebration, mimicking an AK47-firing action with his bat, set off a storm. The gesture, performed moments after he dispatched Axar Patel for six to bring up his fifty, was instantly polarizing.

Some hailed it as audacious. Many condemned it as provocative. Farhan himself defended it as nothing more than a spontaneous act he “does not care to over-explain.”

At first, I dismissed the idea of writing on this episode. At first sight this problematisation of his act appeared nothing more than a Hindu right-wing frenzy and a product of jingoism. But when I turned to the Pakistani discourse around it, I was jolted.

What I had imagined to be a lone, reckless gesture of a cricketer was in fact celebrated as a collective act of defiance against “Kafir Hindus.” Across the spectrum, with sensible exceptions of course, Pakistanis were glorifying him as a lion who had put Indians in their place. A hero who had demonstrated that if killing could happen in Pahalgam, it could happen anywhere.

The celebration was not of an individual’s defiance but of a deeper national consciousness. It is a consciousness that has always defined itself in negation, sustained by the singular idea that “we are not Hindus.” That founding negation continues to fuel Pakistan’s politics, its nationalism, and, as I saw, even its cricketing pride.

I was surprised, though not shocked, to hear such views. The very idea of Pakistan is voluntarist in nature. It was not founded on a shared language, culture, or territory, but on the deliberate assertion of religion as the sole basis of nationhood. In such a framework, every sphere of public life is inevitably tethered to religion. Nothing escapes the grip of the mullahs.

Even a cricket pitch, which elsewhere might be a space for sport and competition, becomes in Pakistan a stage for propagating anti-human, exclusionary and supremacist ideologies. This collapse of the boundary between religion and public life is not incidental. It renders even the most ordinary gestures freighted with political and sectarian meaning.

In the aftermath of the Pahalgam massacre, which killed 26 tourists on April 22, 2025, India accused Pakistan of sponsoring cross-border terrorism. The atmosphere between the two states was volatile. In that context, a celebratory gesture by a Pakistani cricketer on the pitch cannot be read as an innocent, isolated act. It was interpreted, and often celebrated, as the echo of a much larger frenzy that commemorates and normalises violence against Hindus.

Let us be blunt. 26 people were murdered because they were Hindus. To call this anything other than a crime driven by communal motive is to obscure the reality of targeted violence. If calling this Islamophobia alarms some, then so be it. Naming hatred clearly is the first step to fighting it. To fight for a just world, we must insist on that clarity.

Even if we assume the cricketer’s gesture was not meant to signal more than individual bravado, what matters is what the masses took from it. In the wake of the Pahalgam massacre, a jubilant or triumphalist response on the pitch could not be read as innocent. It became a public echo of a wider, sectarian celebration that normalises violence against Hindus.

The executive deserves blame as well. Despite nationwide protests and heightened sensitivities after the attack, authorities allowed the match to proceed. It was a failure of accountability that made the pitch a stage for humiliation rather than for sport.

The spectacle mattered because it showed how national identity in Pakistan is repeatedly remade through negation and ritualised hostility. It is a politics rooted in the two-nation idea that defines Pakistan as “not Hindu.”

If the only way some political communities can sustain themselves is by staging childish, violent affirmations of identity, then those identities are brittle and dangerous. They must be dismantled if we are to imagine a region where public life is not a theatre of hatred.

Disclaimer: Views expressed by writers in this section are their own and do not reflect Milli Chronicle’s point-of-view.

Speaking at the Convention for Overseas Pakistanis in Islamabad—with Prime Minister Shahbaz Sharif in attendance—General Munir declared that Pakistan was created on the basis of “every possible difference” between the two religious communities.

“Our religion is different. Our customs are different. Our traditions are different. Our thoughts are different. Our ambitions are different,” Munir said, invoking the ideological foundation laid by Muhammad Ali Jinnah in the 1940s. “You must tell this to your children so that they never forget the story of Pakistan.”

But this “story” is not just about differences—it’s a carefully preserved narrative used by Pakistan’s military establishment to maintain a stranglehold on power, distract the public from economic failures, and perpetuate enmity with India. It is a story that has long come at the cost of regional peace, minority rights, and Pakistan’s own internal harmony.

Munir’s speech, delivered with a religious tone befitting his reputation as a “Hafiz-e-Quran”, did little to hide the Army’s obsession with defining Pakistan solely through what it is not—India. His remarks reflected the establishment’s enduring dependence on the ideological rhetoric of 1947, a time when the wounds of Partition were still fresh, and the world had not yet seen the consequences of such rigid identity politics.

A Doctrine Past Its Expiry Date

The Two-Nation Theory has not aged well. If anything, it collapsed under its own contradictions in 1971, when Bangladesh—originally East Pakistan—broke away in a bloody war that exposed the myth of religious unity. Despite sharing the same religion, East Pakistanis rejected the economic and political dominance of West Pakistan, shattering the illusion that Islam alone could form a cohesive national identity.

And yet, here we are in 2025, with the head of Pakistan’s most powerful institution lecturing overseas citizens to hold tight to that expired ideology. What purpose does this serve, other than reinforcing xenophobia, hostility, and a warped sense of nationalism rooted in exclusion and antagonism?

Critics across the globe have not held back. Indian strategic expert Aditya Raj Kaul accused Munir of “exposing his hate for Hindus and India,” while prominent Pakistani journalist Taha Siddiqui called the remarks an attempt to “brainwash youth” with dangerous falsehoods.

Assam Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma called the speech a reminder of the stark ideological divide between the two nations, urging India to stop harboring illusions about reconciliation with its western neighbor.

The Real Jugular: The Army’s Grip on Pakistan

Munir’s speech also touched on Pakistan’s usual talking points—Kashmir and Balochistan. His threat-laced comments about Baloch rebels further illustrated how the military sees dissent as terrorism, rather than a call for justice. Kashmir, once again called Pakistan’s “jugular vein,” is less a heartfelt issue and more a strategic tool—one that sustains the military’s budget, influence, and unchallenged supremacy in Pakistan’s political life.

As Delhi-based journalist Rishi Suri rightly pointed out, Kashmir has become more of a “business model” for Pakistan’s generals than a national cause. Strategic analyst Sonam Mahajan summed it up bluntly, “Kashmir is Pakistan’s jugular vein, which explains why Pakistan has been in the ICU for 78 years, sustained only by IMF oxygen and jihadist morphine.”

An Unyielding Establishment in a Changing World

The tragedy of General Munir’s speech is that it wasn’t surprising. It’s the same tired script the Pakistan Army has relied on for decades—where religion is used to unify, enemies are used to justify military supremacy, and history is rewritten to prevent progress.

Pakistan’s establishment had a choice. It could have embraced a narrative of peace, coexistence, and modern statehood. Instead, it chose to double down on identity politics rooted in fear and historical grievances.

By clinging to an outdated and divisive ideology, General Asim Munir and the Pakistan military aren’t just looking backward—they’re actively obstructing the possibility of a forward-looking, inclusive, and stable Pakistan.

And perhaps that is by design. Because in a truly democratic and progressive Pakistan, the Army might no longer be the most powerful voice in the room.