Two things: ideology is fundamentally oppressive. It is devised to influence and control minds. In other words, ideology helps construct a narrative, and that very narrative, in turn, serves the ideology: the two are inseparable. This brings us to the next question: what do we become emotionally attached to, invested in, and loyal to? Is it a tangible object or person, or merely an abstract idea of it land, a country, a leader, or even a loved one? Put differently, do we pledge our allegiance to a person or to his image; to the state, or to the story associated with it, that is, to the narrative built around something or somebody?
Put simply and bluntly: are people loyal to the state, or to the story told about it? Does a story build a nation, or is the nation itself a story?
It is important to raise these questions in a country like Pakistan, where ideology has served, or been compelled to serve, the nation, and at times vice versa.
When General Ayub Khan tasked Justice Javed Iqbal with forging “an ideology of Pakistan”, he was attempting to construct a narrative to wield power, rather than to “weld the nation together”, his own words, quoted from The Ideology of Pakistan, published by Pakistan Times Press in 1958. Likewise, when Abul Ala Maududi popularised the notion of an “ideology of Islam”, he may inadvertently have created an oxymoron; a scholar of his stature would not wish to imply that Islam is oppressive, as the term “ideology” itself suggests.
The foundation of all narratives is essentially built on emotions. Why? Because emotions are the most vulnerable part of human existence, and therefore the most susceptible to manipulation. They are readily available; seldom do people attempt to hide them. Look around in social spaces: on social media, in television dramas, films, news reports, newspaper columns, personal accounts of celebrities in magazines, and anywhere you encounter photographs or videos.
Institutions of the state play a critical role here, deciding what to read, what to teach, what to say, how much to say, and which stories should be included in textbooks or strategically excluded
One thing is strikingly common and ever-present: texts, posts, dialogues, images, and videos designed to move human emotions. By doing so, ordinary people inadvertently invite emotional responses. Power centres exploit these same tools to generate emotions that trigger political or strategic reactions and alignments.
Ideology may be understood as a system of ideas, beliefs, values, and representations that shape how individuals understand the world and justify social, political, or economic power. It works by naturalising certain ways of thinking so they appear self-evident, normal, or inevitable. It wields power by persuading individuals that the world functions in a particular way and that no viable alternative exists. If an alternative does exist, it is framed as inferior, dangerous, or likely to lead to destruction and downfall. Consider the ideologies of economic systems — capitalism, socialism — political systems, or religious codes: all such ideologies manifest power and control, with their associated narratives offering legitimacy through promises of stability, assurance, guarantees, and ultimate success.
Fear consolidates ideologies. It instils in minds the belief that the absence of ideology would unleash void, chaos, destruction, and collective ruin. No one dares stand against an ideology unless that ideology has itself descended into chaos and become a visible source of destruction. A rigid ideology dies faster than an adaptive one. To survive, it must allow each new generation to redefine and modify itself.
If ideology is oppressive by nature, why do people fall for it? Why do they start believing in it? Why do they begin living within the abstract reality that such an ideology constructs, the narrative, even to the point of laying down their lives for it? This is where narrative comes into play. Narrative activates emotions through stories: fiction, television, film, school debates, university moot rooms, intellectual exchanges, and so on.
Institutions of the state play a critical role here, deciding what to read, what to teach, what to say, how much to say, and which stories should be included in textbooks or strategically excluded. Even bookshops contribute: which books are widely published, which publishers receive support from power centres, which books are subsidised, displayed prominently, or marketed heavily. People buy them as free, independent readers, believing they now have access to the “forbidden” material.
Which writers, filmmakers, actors, and intellectuals receive awards? Which academic projects receive funding? Which research proposals secure scholarships? Which scholars receive state or international patronage? The list goes on. Yet it is all directed towards a singular objective: the narrative, the grand story of the state, the meta-narrative of the ideology, constructed, promoted, and preserved as sacred.
That is how narrative machinery is designed. That is how it works. That is how it builds the ideology that now supports it. And that is why the very ideology in which people invest their faith and emotions ends up controlling and exploiting them in return. This is also why stories, even love stories, even children’s stories in books or on screen, are essentially political. They mobilise emotions, compelling individuals to pledge allegiance to the ideology.
It follows, then, that ideology and power are inseparable, bound together by the narratives they weave, narratives that rise, unyielding, upon the raw and shifting terrain of human emotion.