Threats, Abuse, and Violence: Being an Ahmadi Online in Pakistan
Zoya Anwer
Islamabad: Sara*, 32, a content writer, knew since age 14 that she was viewed as an oddity. The realisation came when her Pakistan Studies teacher looked her straight in the eye while discussing the Constitution.
She remarked that Ahmadis were “kafirs” (“infidels” or “disbelievers”), and that they deserved to be ostracised. A year later, she stumbled upon various social media platforms, including Orkut and MySpace, followed by Facebook and Twitter (now X). However, now Sara uses only Instagram, and seldom Facebook, to buy or sell preloved items.
Reason being the increased bigotry towards Ahmadis.
Pakistan is home to several religious minorities, including the Ahmadiyya community, which was part of the Muslim majority until an amendment to the Constitution in the 1970s declared them non-Muslims, thus categorising them as a minority.
Today, the Ahmadiyya community, despite having rights enshrined in the Constitution, struggles each day for mere existence, aware that any word or action, offline or online, could lead them to their potential death. The community is unable to find solace even in death as their graves are routinely desecrated, and places of worship vandalised and defiled.
As Pakistan grapples with the meaning and understanding of digital rights, changing the goalpost according to the political climate, powerful and violent extremist groups in the country continue to push for changes that would enable the formulation of absolute censorship on any thought that differs from the faith they preach.
The members of the Ahmadiyya community, following the Second Amendment in 1974 and the Ordinance XX a decade later, have been walking on eggshells not only in their conversations, but everyday affairs, too.
When online spaces grew in the country, it became evident that the laws created for a physical, offline world would soon impact the virtual world as well.
Being an Ahmadi online
“I used it [social media] to share my thoughts about life, politics, random musings, and, of course, to vent my feelings,” narrates Sara. “Gradually, I stopped sharing everything altogether. Frankly, I cannot even count the number of times I came across hurtful sentiments. People cursing us, belittling us, telling people we’re ‘kafir’. Even on posts with no mention of us, there will be one random person saying, ‘Qadiani kafir hain [Qadianis are infidels]’.”
Recently, Sara was about to buy preloved toys from an online business, but then she saw their bio, which read, “Qadiani hamaray business se duur rahain,” which translates to “Ahmadis, stay away from our business.” One intolerant post Sara encountered called for the boycott of “Qadiani products”, with an exception for Israeli ones.
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Sara says even though she never deactivated her account for these reasons, she did not show any reaction: “If I would show a reaction of angst, I’d get death threats or have some legal action taken on me. Not them, never them. And I’ve experienced too much hatred to answer with love. I did try that multiple times and only received more hate and threats back.”
This, however, is one of the main reasons she limited her posts: “People can be vile, it is easy to bring up old chats/posts and throw a person in jail just because you don’t agree with them. And with the current ‘monitoring’, everything we say is unsafe, even a thing as basic as saying ‘Salam’.”
In the context of South Asia, words like “Salam”, “Alhamdulillah” or “Masha Allah” have become a part of the vernacular and do not necessarily always represent an Islamic association. In fact, many Hindus and Christians also use these terms in their daily dealings.
Zara, 25, has been a part of a content and design department at a communication agency in Rawalpindi. Like Sara, she knew she was not safe among her school peers when she was nine years old.
Like most young people at the time, when Zara turned 13, she started using X as her go-to social media platform: “It was my escape. Online, I could be whoever I wanted, make online friends who didn’t know anything about me, who I could confide in because they were complete strangers.”
However, slowly and gradually, Zara too learnt the perils of the online world, where bigotry was translated in real time: “I would come across constant death threats, being called kafir, and that we [Ahmadis] needed to be killed, that we were better off dead, and that places need to be ‘purified’ or ‘cleansed’ of our presence. We’ve been called a ‘curse’.”
Again, reaction comes with an immense risk if you are a part of a marginalised community in Pakistan. “Engagement with such comments and people meant exposure, a risk that could cost me and my family our lives.”
However, Zara remained steadfast and never retreated from social media: “But I have blocked and removed ‘friends’ after they were open about their hatred for us. Online threats can become physical very quickly and we have witnessed that on our devices, so it is a constant fear.”
Asif*, 42, who is an active member of the Ahmadiyya community and is involved in archiving and research work, shares that he started using social media in 2010 with Facebook and signed up on X account in 2011.
“In terms of the hateful sentiments, it’s a constant stream, which, if I begin to tell, would perhaps never end,” Asif says. “All one has to do is type ‘Ahmadis’ or ‘Qadiyanis’ and the hateful content would fill the timeline.”
Asif also calculates the responses, and while some days he refrains, there are some when he responds. “When it comes to reacting to online comments, there’s really not much you can do. While there’s always a temptation to call people out or respond extensively, experience teaches you it’s largely pointless and requires significant self-control to resist engaging.”
The impact of negativity and toxicity on mental health can be challenging — not so much from the direct abuse, but from gaslighting and denial of one’s experiences, Asif says, adding that it’s particularly frustrating when people deny there’s a problem or invalidate one’s lived experience.
He points out that dismissive attitudes get under one’s skin in a way that’s especially difficult to address on social media, because the argument is with someone who isn’t living through the experience, even though they speak with an absolute certainty about it.
Asif would deactivate his account to take a break, but while it would not necessarily be because of the vitriol, he believes taking a social media break helps him get back to his work and generally benefits his mental health as well.
Surge in hatred against Ahmadis
Not that the Ahmadi question was ever really a question; it has rather been a card leveraged during elections to garner votes. The rise of Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP) has paved the way for many to take the notorious blasphemy law into their own hands, gravely risking the life of any individual who is accused of hurting religious sentiments of a Muslim.
This, of course, also means that if anyone is found voicing thoughts on social media which someone from a majority Muslim sect does not agree with, the discourse can quickly take the shape of brutal violence.
This worsens and leaves absolutely no room for thought or dialogue, especially when the person in question belongs to a minority.
“This is not just on the ground level; rather state sanctioned intolerance has also increased,” says Sara. “Now political speeches openly discuss us as second-grade citizens. But in general, too, social media has become intolerant not just of us but anyone with a differing opinion.
The blasphemy law and its loopholes have made it so easy for any person to use it against another.”
Asif feels that the TLP has played a role in perpetuating hatred against Ahmadis, and although social media hasn’t necessarily increased societal intolerance, it has certainly provided a powerful platform to amplify existing divisions.
“While people might be more reserved in the real world, the anonymity of online spaces has made them bolder in expressing extreme views,” Asif says. “Contrary to initial expectations of social media being a great marketplace of ideas, it has instead created echo chambers where people actively seek out others who share and reinforce their worldview.”
Constant vigilance
It is not common for the elders in any community to be tech savvy, rather it’s often a running joke how older people do not think twice before forwarding WhatsApp messages or sharing Facebook posts that are often not based on reality.
But when it comes to minorities, especially the Ahmadiyya community, the elderly cannot afford to take this risk.
Sara remarks that her mother reminds her to be vigilant all the time: “Even though she doesn’t know most of what I used to post, she knew I always had a lot to say, so she always told me to be careful,” Sara says. “The case in point is my mother and other elders, too. They’ve seen what happens in real life as well. And they know that social media has had a lot to do with it.”
Her mother advises her to be careful even with WhatsApp, saying that anyone can turn against her any time.
Asif points out that many elders are actually quite active internet users, sometimes even more so than younger generations and are thus well aware of the consequences. “The tendency to discourage outspokenness isn’t unique to older generations — friends and family members of all ages have advised me against being too vocal online.”
Safety first or forever?
In a place where survival becomes difficult due to one’s faith, there is a sense of high anxiety around each step one is supposed to take.
Heading the human rights department within the community in Pakistan, Ashar* works around the persecution of Ahmadis, assisting them with litigation and other means. Ashar describes the situation as “quite harrowing” because there have been cases where an Ahmadi was put behind bars for using social media only because the post was dubbed “blasphemous” by some random person.
In 2014, a man from Gujranwala was accused of posting a blasphemous image of a religious site, leading to a mob attack, which caused the demise of three, including two girls, while another woman suffered a miscarriage. The mob also looted homes of several Ahmadis, with little to no action from authorities.
“Ahmadis do not post anything related to their faith but simultaneously they cannot of course post about any faith, so much so that they are also avoiding politics now as the space shrinks for them,” Ashar says.
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“The 2014 incident taught the members to be very vigilant, but since 2019, FIA [Federal Investigation Agency] has been also tracking many members of the Ahmadi community, misusing posts to accuse them of blasphemy. This becomes more convoluted because it is very difficult for Ahmadis to find legal assistance because very few lawyers take up the cases and hoping to get a good lawyer remains out of their means.”
He adds that many times, the alleged perpetrator would be behind bars for four years before a bail can even be granted, which only brings more misery because the whole procedure not only incurs financial losses but sets off emotional turmoil as well.
A free internet?
Despite increasing polarisation, the dream to have online spaces that promote freedom of expression continues to be a dream for most in Pakistan, but for the Ahmadiyya community, it no longer appears as one.
“The [religious] policing has become more intense,” says Zara. “There’s very little freedom of speech — oddly enough there’s complete freedom in hate speech. I always imagine internet freedom may only be possible beyond borders, but not here.”
It is difficult for Sara to dream of such an internet in Pakistan, which reflects the increasing intolerance persisting from decades of bigotry and systemic dehumanisation of communities.
“To be frank, the way conditions are right now, it is difficult to imagine a free internet for the majority even,” Ashar laments. “It is too risky to be on the internet now.”
*Names have been changed to protect privacy.
