The Constitution of Pakistan makes a bold promise under Article 20: the right of every citizen to profess, practice, and propagate their religion freely. On paper, it's a guarantee meant to reflect the country’s commitment to equality. But if you ask the people living on the margins of that promise—especially members of religious minorities—the reality feels far less secure.
In many ways, the law itself isn't the problem. The words of Article 20 are clear and powerful. The real challenge lies in how the law is interpreted, applied, and far too often ignored. The courts, which should act as guardians of these rights, have not always spoken with one voice. At times, they’ve taken bold stands to protect religious freedom. But just as often, they’ve delivered rulings that contradict that very principle. This inconsistency has left many feeling that their rights rest not on a stable legal foundation, but on shifting judicial winds.
One case that continues to haunt Pakistan’s legal landscape is Zaheeruddin v. State, decided in 1993. In that judgment, the Supreme Court upheld Ordinance XX, which effectively criminalised the public religious practices of the Ahmadiyya community. Rather than defending the fundamental rights guaranteed in the Constitution, the court prioritised the sensibilities of the religious majority. The decision didn’t just restrict one group’s freedoms, it set a precedent that further marginalised vulnerable communities.
But the courts have also shown moments of clarity and courage. In 2014, the Supreme Court took notice of the brutal killing of a Christian couple falsely accused of blasphemy. The court didn’t just condemn the act, it spoke out forcefully about the need to protect religious minorities from mob violence and misuse of the blasphemy laws. For a moment, the judiciary seemed to stand as a true protector of human rights.
A truly stable and inclusive society is one where people of all faiths can live without fear, knowing the law protects them equally
Still, such victories are rare and often feel fragile. In the Mubarak Sani case, Chief Justice Qazi Faez Isa initially granted bail to a man accused of blasphemy, a decision many viewed as a progressive step. But when public backlash erupted, the judgment was significantly modified. The Chief Justice’s initial stance was rolled back under pressure, revealing the judiciary’s vulnerability to public sentiment. The Punjab government’s enthusiastic move to challenge the original ruling only deepened the disappointment. It was a sobering reminder: even the highest court in the land can struggle to maintain its independence when faced with political and societal resistance.
This lack of judicial unity extends beyond individual rulings. Take Justice Shaukat Aziz Siddiqui, for example. He gained respect for his stance against executive interference and for speaking up in defense of judicial independence. But some of his own decisions were seen as limiting religious and personal freedoms. It’s a complex picture, one where even the most principled judges can, at times, reflect the pressures of a society where majority sentiment often takes precedence over minority rights.
What Pakistan needs now is not just a few scattered judgments in favor of religious freedom, but a consistent and united judicial approach. Without it, Article 20 remains a lofty ideal rather than a lived reality.
Getting there won't be easy, but there are clear steps the judiciary can take. First, there needs to be a willingness to revisit and rethink problematic rulings like Zaheeruddin. Revisiting such decisions isn’t about challenging faith but about ensuring legal consistency with Article 20’s guarantees, much like courts elsewhere refine past judgments when they conflict with fundamental rights.
Second, there’s a need for better education and training for judges. Many legal decisions are shaped not just by the law itself, but by the personal understanding of the judges interpreting it. If we want more thoughtful, consistent rulings, we must ensure that judges are deeply familiar with both constitutional protections and the real-world challenges faced by religious minorities.
Third, and perhaps most importantly, judicial pronouncements must be enforced. It’s not enough for the courts to issue good judgments if they aren’t followed through. One way to ensure this could be the creation of an independent oversight body, a group that includes legal experts, human rights advocates, and representatives of minority communities. Their role would be to make sure that rulings protecting minority rights are not just symbolic but actually implemented on the ground.
Some argue that restricting religious expression is necessary for preserving social harmony in a Muslim-majority country. But protecting Ahmadis’ private worship need not threaten mainstream Islamic beliefs; after all, Pakistan’s founders envisioned a state where faith isn’t enforced by persecution but safeguarded through justice. History has shown us that real harmony doesn’t come from suppressing rights, it comes from honouring them. A truly stable and inclusive society is one where people of all faiths can live without fear, knowing the law protects them equally.
For that to happen, the judiciary must find its unified voice. And beyond the courts, it’s going to take political will and public solidarity. Change will require more than judicial courage, it demands a national reckoning with what kind of Pakistan we want. Will we be a nation where laws bend to mobs, or one where every citizen, regardless of faith, finds protection in the Constitution’s promise? The courts alone cannot answer this. It’s a question for all of us.