The March that Stalled a Nation: The Forgotten Pakistanis Caught in Between

Framed as an act of solidarity with Gaza – a nation’s grief and its yearning to be seen as part of a moral stand – the Labbaik Ya Aqsa Million March began with emotion and ended in exhaustion. What started as a call for compassion became yet another chapter of disruption – paralysing cities, silencing networks, and leaving ordinary Pakistanis to shoulder the cost of confrontation. Faith and empathy are deeply woven into the country’s social fabric, and the suffering of Palestinians has stirred every heart. Yet, as the events of the past week unfolded, it became painfully clear how easily moral passion can be manipulated, and how swiftly the boundaries between solidarity and unrest can blur.

A March that Moved Too Far

Announced by Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP), the march was presented as a peaceful rally for Gaza. The slogan Labbaik Ya Aqsa resonated widely – an emotional call to defend the sanctity of Al-Aqsa and protest what many see as the world’s indifference to Gaza’s suffering. In practice, it turned into one of Pakistan’s most disruptive mobilizations in recent memory. Crowds surged from Lahore toward Islamabad. Within hours, much of central Punjab and the twin cities transformed into fortress zones. Containers sealed major routes; transport systems shut down. Section 144 was imposed, mobile and data services were suspended, schools closed, and offices emptied. The nation once again slipped into enforced stillness. The administration faced an unenviable dilemma: safeguarding diplomatic missions and citizens while avoiding escalation. Despite preventive measures, clashes broke out near Muridke and later in Rawat. Stones were hurled, tear gas filled the air, and lives were lost on both sides. Several people, including police personnel, died; dozens were injured, including TLP’s leader. Lawyers, students, and even bystanders joined the unrest. Yet, police restraint prevented an even greater tragedy. For a movement launched in the name of humanity, the human cost was devastating. As history too often shows, what begins as symbolic politics can quickly turn combustible. For the government, this was a preventive strategy – necessary to maintain order and avoid violence. For the citizen, it felt like collective captivity.

When Streets Turn Silent

In Rawalpindi and Islamabad, silence fell not because of calm, but because of constraint.
Ambulances were turned back at barricades. Parents couldn’t reach schools. Freelancers and small businesses lost entire days of income as networks went down.
In Lahore, shopkeepers along the Grand Trunk Road closed shutters early, not out of politics, but out of fear. The disruption revealed how fragile our daily systems are, one march away from paralysis. And yet, amid exhaustion and anxiety, there remained a strange unity: ordinary people sharing food and water with stranded travellers, policemen helping the elderly cross road dividers, strangers offering their phones where signals flickered alive. In chaos, humanity still whispered.

Faith Without Violence

Across Pakistan, public sympathy for Gaza remains profound and sincere. But street confrontation – no matter the cause – cannot be mistaken for faith or moral courage.
Empathy for another nation’s pain should not translate into paralysis for one’s own True solidarity requires discipline, not disorder; conscience, not confrontation. When religious sentiment becomes a pretext for disruption, it not only undermines public safety but also diminishes the very dignity of the cause it seeks to serve.

The Forgotten Frontlines

While protestors dominated the airwaves, another group stood silently – the men and women in uniform. For days, police and paramilitary personnel have stood behind those barricades – tired, thirsty, insulted, sometimes attacked – yet bound by duty to preserve order. They are the visible face of the state – often blamed, rarely thanked. Behind their helmets and shields are ordinary human beings, representing not repression but responsibility. In moments like this, both the protester and the policeman become pawns of a larger cycle that rarely serves either. They are divided by position but united by fatigue – both asking quietly: When will this end?

The Citizens Caught in the Middle

Between the barricades and the slogans stand millions of Pakistanis simply trying to live their lives: parents stranded on highways, delivery riders unable to earn, patients stuck in ambulances, students missing exams as networks went dark. The digital blackout – intended as a security precaution – crippled communication and business activity across major cities. Freelancers lost contracts; online sellers went silent; families could not reach loved ones. In the effort to contain unrest, connectivity – and confidence – were both cut. This invisible cost rarely makes headlines, but it defines the real story of every national shutdown: those farthest from politics suffer the most from its outcomes. Digital Rights Groups estimate that even a 24-hour blackout costs the economy billions of rupees – a luxury Pakistan cannot afford. In a connected age, connectivity itself has become a form of security. When it is switched off, it isn’t only communication that dies – it’s trust.

Between Faith and Fear: The Cause and the Cost

The Labbaik Ya Aqsa march reflects a deeper pattern: the collision between genuine emotion and organized mobilization. The pain for Gaza is real; the exploitation of that pain for political visibility is equally real.
Every such episode exposes the fragility of Pakistan’s civic order – how quickly fervor can outpace foresight. Faith, when channelled through wisdom, becomes a force for reform. When driven by anger, it risks turning empathy into anarchy. And when governance relies solely on barricades and blackouts, it reinforces reaction instead of resilience. Both society and state must learn a new grammar of engagement – one that upholds faith, law, and coexistence without letting one crush the other. Somewhere amid the smoke, the cause – Gaza – faded into the background. The protest for one people’s freedom became another episode of our own unrest. That, perhaps, is the greatest tragedy: empathy, when expressed without structure, can end up wounding those who express it.

Order, Responsibility, and Dialogue

The right to protest is constitutionally protected; the duty to maintain order is equally sacred. Neither can be exercised by silencing the other. The only sustainable way forward lies in structured dialogue before streets turn into battlegrounds. Religious leaders must calm emotions rather than inflame them. Political actors must recognize the limits of spectacle. And the state must strengthen systems that protect both freedom of expression and public safety – without having to seal entire cities. When law enforcement is forced to bear the brunt of every crisis, it’s not just an institutional failure – it’s a national one. Policing should be preventive, not punitive. Public space should be shared, not surrendered.

A Nation’s Reflection

The march did not reach the U.S. Embassy. Gaza did not hear Pakistan’s slogans. But the world did witness yet another image of a nation wrestling with itself – compassionate yet combustible, faithful yet fatigued. The tragedy is not that people cared too much, but that their care was channeled through confrontation instead of constructive action. The noblest causes deserve the noblest conduct. And the state, represented by its weary officers behind the containers, deserves its citizens’ cooperation, not their fury.

A Nation Held Hostage by Its Patterns

Each time crisis strikes, Pakistan reverts to the same script: road closures, communication blackouts, and warnings of “law and order” threats. Yet the deeper problem is not protest itself, but our lack of systems to manage dissent without disabling daily life. This isn’t about blame – it’s about capacity. A democracy must differentiate between protest and paralysis. Otherwise, the loudest message isn’t sent to the world – it’s sent inward, to our own citizens: that their routines, mobility, and livelihoods are expendable in the face of confrontation.

Conclusion: Reclaiming the Middle Ground

In moments like these, Pakistan must rediscover its moral center – where faith inspires service, not strife, and where patriotism means protecting peace, not disturbing it. Because behind every blockade, there stands a family waiting to reconnect. Behind every uniform, there beats a human heart doing its duty. And behind every headline, there is a reminder: that the real strength of a nation lies not in how loudly it protests, but in how wisely it perseveres.

References

1. Associated Press (AP), “Clashes at anti-Israel rally in Pakistan kill five, police say,” AP News, October 13, 2025.
2. Dawn, “TLP’s Labbaik Ya Aqsa march brings twin cities to a standstill,” October 12, 2025.
3. Reuters, “Pakistan police, protesters clash as Gaza rally turns violent,” October 13, 2025.
4. Dawn, “Internet suspended, schools shut amid TLP march towards Islamabad,” October 11, 2025.
5. Digital Rights Foundation, “Internet shutdowns and their economic cost in Pakistan,” October 2025.
6. The News International, “Lawyers, workers join sporadic protests as police try to maintain order,” October 13, 2025.