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n a recent terrorist attack in Balochistan, several security personnel were killed. It later emerged that among the passengers on the same bus were qawwals, some of whom were injured in the blast. Two of them, Ahmed Sabri and Raza Sabri, succumbed to their injuries and died.
Many have speculated that the attack was aimed at a bus carrying security personnel, and that the deaths of the qawwals were a tragic case of collateral damage.
However, the sequence of events that led to this incident remains unclear. What cannot be dismissed is the possibility that qawwals have long been on the radar of terrorist organisations that operate under a rigid ideological interpretation of Islam. Such groups often denounce musical expression as un-Islamic to the extent that the killing of musicians is framed as religiously justified.
It should not be forgotten that qawwals, and other performing artists, have long faced disapproval, if not outright targeting, particularly since the rise of a certain interpretation of religion following the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan nearly four decades ago.
Amjad Sabri, for instance, was gunned down a few years ago. His only apparent crime was being a qawwal and upholding the traditional repertoire associated with the form.
Throughout his life, especially after achieving international fame, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan received death threats. He was often accompanied by armed guards. Yet he chose to disregard the threats, firmly believing in the legitimacy of his practice, one that his family had upheld for generations.
As it stands, the arts have often been accepted only with a series of qualifying conditions, both in today’s world and throughout much of Muslim history. The prevailing paradigm has typically positioned the arts as subservient to religion, particularly during periods when religious narratives have held sway.
The diversity that defines our nation should be embraced as a source of strength, not dismissed, condemned or reduced to a label.
In Pakistan, this subordination takes on a dual role, where art is expected not only to serve religion but also to align with state-defined patriotism. Only those artistic expressions that echo the approved patriotic hymnbook receive institutional endorsement. Other forms, especially those that provoke, challenge or deviate, are viewed with suspicion, accused of leading towards immorality, permissiveness, and, most dangerously, free thinking.
This sanctimonious gate-keeping may well be one of the widening cracks in our societal fabric. Yet it continues to be flaunted, largely because it draws strength from the perceived moral certainty of received truths. Any exploration beyond these sanctioned boundaries is quickly labelled deviant, something to be suppressed, even through violence if necessary.
For many who cared about qawwali, it served as a kind of safe middle ground, one that balanced aesthetic expression with loyalty to faith. This delicate balance made it increasingly popular over the decades, especially as Pakistan grew more sanctimonious. Notably, some of its major patrons included state institutions and the armed forces.
The transition of qawwali from shrine to concert stage was swift. Its powerful rhythms and emotive lyrics drew large audiences, with listeners often seen dancing and swaying to its heightened beat. Aziz Mian, in particular, emerged as a highly sought-after performer.
Yet even within qawwali, the diversity of the form and its vast repertoire are often viewed as a threat to the single, reductive narrative now favoured in some circles. This discomfort with complexity reflects a broader unease with the richness of our cultural fabric.
The diversity that defines our nation should be embraced as a source of strength, not dismissed, condemned, or reduced to a label.
The writer is a Lahore-based culture critic.