A core childhood memory I have from 1998/99 is our family of five sitting in the car as my mother informed us that some extended family members were on a "hit list." Some had received death threats, a relative was attacked but had miraculously survived, and others were changing their number plates from prominent Shia identifiers like “7214.” In extreme cases, families even removed the Alam (battle standard) from their rooftops to avoid drawing attention.
The irony of the situation was hard to miss. My mother shared this grim news as we drove through Jhang, the epicentre of sectarian violence, in our iconic Suzuki JG 12. Our car proudly displayed a large sticker of Alam-e-Moula Abbas, surrounded by the names of the 12 Imams. I still recall her words: "Ek hei protection hai, woh bhi utaar doon? Alam nahi utaar rahay hum ghar se, Asim."
These incidents illustrate not just my family’s faith but the unyielding resolve of the Shia community. From a young age, we were taught how to stay safe and navigate potential attacks at a juloos or Friday prayer. At the same time, the matriarchs in our homes, following the legacy of Karbala’s women—instilled in us a deep pride in our identity. They always reminded us never to shy away from proclaiming that we are Shias of Ali Ibne Talib and never to abandon our brothers and sisters in times of need. Every Shia mother has, at some point, told her children: "Agar mujhe Maula ke samne ruswa kiya toh qayamat walay roz doodh nahi bakhshoongi."
A country that loudly condemns atrocities against Muslims worldwide turns a blind eye to the suffering of minorities within its own borders. Hypocrisy? Absolutely. We have perfected the art of selective battles, choosing when, where, and for whom to fight
How can you scare a community that believes death is merely a reunion with their leader, Ali Ibne Talib?
The resilience of the Shia community will never falter, but that does not absolve Pakistan or its government of failing to protect its Shias, or any cultural, religious, or gender minority. A country that loudly condemns atrocities against Muslims worldwide turns a blind eye to the suffering of minorities within its own borders. Hypocrisy? Absolutely. We have perfected the art of selective battles, choosing when, where, and for whom to fight.
This is not just a sectarian issue. The history of violence in Kurram, particularly Parachinar, makes that clear. How is it that every decade, a new wave of brutality emerges? How long will mothers keep losing their children to this cycle of hatred and intolerance? Both Shia and Sunni communities in the region are exhausted and desperate for peace. So, who keeps injecting this extremism into their lives?
Just this week, gunmen opened fire on a van carrying civilians to Parachinar, killing over 40 people. When I read the news, my mind immediately went back to the Chilas massacre in the early 2000s. Nothing has changed.
The depth of hatred is evident in two horrifying videos circulating online. In one, a child, barely eight years old, chases the van with bodies hanging out, throwing stones at the corpses. In another, a bearded man ties another young boy’s hands and drowns him in cold blood. These acts are hauntingly reminiscent of Karbala: the former recalling how Yazid’s cavalry danced after desecrating the Prophet’s family’s bodies in Karbala, and the latter reflecting the brutal murder of Muslim Ibne Aqeel’s sons at the riverbanks near Kufa.
A few months ago, during Muharram, when Shias in Parachinar were targeted again, I remember seeing a post from an influencer questioning: “Do Shias consider themselves Muslims? Why call themselves a minority and differentiate?” Another tweeted that there’s no such thing as Shia genocide. Meanwhile, people from Parachinar were warning that the ceasefire was temporary and violence would return. And here we are.
Pakistan is creating its own Palestine in the Kurram region. The parallels are striking: no internet connection, aid blocked, and families forced to use Afghan mobile networks to communicate. For those from Parachinar living elsewhere, visiting loved ones requires exiting through Afghanistan and re-entering Pakistan, a journey fraught with obstacles. Geographically isolated, with the Afghan Taliban on one side and extremist villages on the other, Parachinar’s plight goes largely ignored.
Our leaders give grand speeches at the UN for the Muslims in Kashmir but fail to even acknowledge the suffering of their own people in Kurram.
In my opinion, two key factors have led us here. First, the seeds of Zia’s "cleansing" have fully bloomed. His era was not just about attacking majlis or juloos; it systematically targeted influential Shias in civil service, judiciary, and clergy, eroding national representation. Musharraf’s tenure gave some respite by neutralising certain extremist groups, but it was short-lived.
Second, successive governments have consistently bowed to religious pressure. From Bhutto to Zia, Benazir to Nawaz, and all the way to Imran Khan, every leader has empowered the very forces they later struggled to control.
Ultimately, the silence of friends, colleagues, and neighbours — is the most painful. Pakistan has normalised the loss of human life. A bomb kills five people? “Oh, it could have been worse,” we say. That’s how low we’ve sunk as a nation.
In moments like these, solace comes only in recalling Hussain Ibne Ali’s cry in Karbala: “Hal Min Nasirin Yansurna.”