We watch them die – every time

Another man is dead. This time in Karachi, outside a shop. Allegedly an Ahmadi, allegedly accused of something, but very certainly murdered. How? Dragged, kicked, beaten, filmed and left lifeless by a mob that probably made it home in time for dinner. We’re not here to talk about his beliefs. We’re here to talk about ours.

Because every few months, in some town or city in this country, we collectively lose our minds. We turn into a frothing, stick-wielding, self-righteous swarm. One accusation. A whisper, a rumour, a Facebook post and the crowd gathers. The crowd kills. It doesn’t matter who. It doesn’t matter why. It only matters that someone bleeds and someone gets it on camera.

This isn't about the Ahmadi community. It wasn’t about Christians when churches were torched in Jaranwala. It wasn’t about Hindus when temples were vandalised in Sindh. It wasn’t about Shias when processions were attacked and scholars silenced. It is, and always has been, about something much more primal: power, cowardice and a failure to imagine justice as anything other than vengeance.

These sporadic acts of violence are not just headlines or case files – they are people. Mashal Khan. Priyantha Kumara. And many others whose lives were not just taken, but torn apart in public, in front of silent onlookers. They should be remembered as human beings, not just as another incident, not just as another hashtag. Their stories were ended by mobs that acted with a brutality that can only be described as organised. And that’s exactly what it is: organised. We just don’t call it that.

We have spent decades studying gang culture in Lyari’s extortion rackets, the street executions, the turf wars. We called them criminals. We launched operations. We arrested and charged and, at times, made examples out of them. And yet somehow, when a mob assembles in the name of righteousness and kills with equal cruelty, perhaps even more zeal, we call it “emotions running high”. We call it unfortunate. We call it regrettable. And then we move on.

Let’s be very clear: these mobs are gangs. There is no meaningful difference.They form rapidly, act violently, disappear into the crowd, and rely on silence and fear to protect them. They operate with impunity because the state lets them. Because the police would rather file a report against the dead than pursue the killers. Because judges don’t want to be the next targets. Because politicians think speaking out means losing votes.

The entire system from street to state is afraid of the mob. And so, the mob grows. We love advocating patience and peace when the mob isn’t looking. But when the mob arrives, we either join it or cower behind locked doors and blocked numbers. And then we wonder why nothing changes.

The truth is, these people need to be punished. Yes, we can talk about reform, education, the long-term need for cultural healing. But first, we need retribution. Consequence. Fear. We need people to know that if you kill someone in the street, you will be hunted, arrested, tried and sentenced. Publicly. Unforgivingly. Not because we believe in violence, but because we believe in justice. Because when you don’t punish murder, you reward it.

Even academically, the theories of punishment fall short when it comes to mob violence. Retribution assumes a rational actor. Deterrence assumes consequences. Rehabilitation assumes remorse. None of these apply here. Because a mob is not a criminal; it is a performance. It is theatre, it is chaos rehearsed as virtue, violence masquerading as justice. And it doesn’t seek resolution; it seeks spectacle.

This isn’t crime. This is terror. Plain and simple. The only goal is fear to make an example, to send a message, to silence and suppress. And that’s what makes it so dangerous: it doesn’t end with the victim. It infects the community, corrodes the law, and leaves everyone a little more afraid to speak.

It’s almost ironic: when citizens attack state installations, there’s at least an attempt to brand them as terrorists but not when those same citizens spread fear, panic, and death through mob violence. We have laws. We just don’t have the will to use them. We have cameras. We just don’t dare identify the faces in the footage. It’s almost a script now. The accusation. The gathering. The frenzy. The death. The silence. The burial. The amnesia. Every incident fits. Only the names change.

And sometimes, someone does survive, like the girl in Lahore who was pulled to safety. That policewoman was given a medal. For doing her job. For not letting someone be murdered. That’s where we are. That’s our standard.

So yes, another man has been murdered. But he will not be the last. Because we are a nation of spectators watching, filming, forwarding, forgetting. Until, of course, the mob comes for someone we know. Then maybe we’ll ask for mercy. And realise the mob doesn’t listen.

The writer is a lawyer.