This was not the first time the TLP tested the limits of state tolerance.
Since its emergence in 2015, the group has repeatedly exploited religious sentiments for political gain. Born out of the controversy surrounding the execution of Mumtaz Qadri — the assassin of Punjab Governor Salman Taseer — the party presented itself as the custodian of faith. Initially drawing on the Barelvi school of thought, traditionally known for its emphasis on tolerance and spirituality, TLP instead adopted the very methods of aggression and coercion that it claimed to oppose. From Faizabad in 2017 to Lahore in 2021 and now Muridke in 2025, each protest has followed the same pattern: a religious slogan igniting a street battle, paralysing governance and coercing concessions from the state.
In any democracy, protest is a legitimate instrument of political expression. It reflects citizens’ right to dissent and demand accountability. Yet, when protest mutates into violence, it ceases to be a democratic act and becomes an assault on democracy itself.
Pakistan’s history offers several reminders of this transformation. From the violent student uprisings of the 1970s to the sectarian clashes of the 1980s and the Faizabad sit-in of 2017, protests have too often degenerated into spectacles of chaos. Each time, the state oscillated between force and accommodation — sometimes dispersing crowds with tear gas, at other times signing peace agreements that rewarded defiance. This alternating posture of confrontation and compromise created a precedent: street pressure could bend the state’s will.
The problem runs deeper than a protest gone wrong. It is about how, over the years, we as a society allowed extremism to quietly take root in our collective thinking. What began as emotional attachment to faith slowly turned into intolerance for difference, and then into anger at anyone who thought differently. In this environment, religion stopped being a source of personal peace and started becoming a tool for power and control. Groups like TLP did not appear overnight, they are the result of years of silence, of looking the other way each time faith was misused to stoke fear or hatred.
When intolerance becomes something we get used to, it stops shocking us — and that is where the real danger lies. History repeatedly shows how rigid ideology and moral absolutism can turn deadly. Europe’s religious wars, where Catholics and Protestants slaughtered each other in the name of faith, and the rise of fascism in Germany and Italy, where blind loyalty to ideology led to unimaginable atrocities, are stark reminders of this truth.
This pattern has played out across the world in more recent times. Countries from Iran to Egypt have seen how revolutionary fervour, if left unchecked, can destroy its own creators. Pakistan has paid a heavy price as well. Thousands of lives were lost in the waves of militancy that followed the Afghan Jihad, as extremist networks found fertile ground among disillusioned youth and politicised clerics.
At the core of this threat are political actors who exploit religion for short-term gain, wielding it as a tool far beyond their control. Societies that conflate governance with clericalism risk being enslaved to dogma rather than guided by conscience. The Iranian Revolution’s authoritarian turn, the Taliban’s repression in Afghanistan and sectarian wars across the Arab world all illustrate what happens when political movements wrap themselves in the cloak of divine legitimacy.
As a responsible member of the international community, Pakistan has a duty under both its own laws and international commitments, including the UN Counter-Terrorism Strategy, to act against hate speech, incitement and violent extremism. The decision to ban TLP is not about politics; it is about upholding the Constitution and protecting the safety and harmony of our society.
The TLP ban is therefore not the suppression of dissent but the defence of civility. It marks a turning point where the state, finally, asserts that the sanctity of life, property and dignity of citizens stands above all else.
However, banning alone is not enough. Extremism cannot be eliminated solely through legal orders; it must be confronted intellectually and morally. Pakistan must invest in education that nurtures critical thought, promotes civic responsibility and detaches faith from fanaticism. Religious discourse needs to return to its spiritual roots — compassion, justice and tolerance — rather than emotional manipulation.
The broader challenge is cultural. A society accustomed to reacting emotionally to every perceived offence must learn to deliberate rather than detonate. This transformation requires leadership that speaks the language of restraint, not revenge, leaders who inspire by character, not by outrage.
The ban on TLP is, therefore, not just a political measure; it is a philosophical stand. An affirmation that faith must coexist with law, and devotion must bow before justice. A state that surrenders to fanaticism loses not only control but its moral compass.