Some governments fear elections. Others fear protests, judges,journalists or students. Pakistan’s rulers have reached a more exquisitestage of political insecurity: they appear frightened by a lunch breakat a cricket match. At Lord’s, the absurdity was almost too perfect.
Michael Atherton interviewed Kasim and Sulaiman Khan, the sons of Imran Khan, about their father’s health, restricted family contact and treatment in prison. Sky Sports broadcast it. The Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) complained and reportedly even considered keeping Pakistan’splayers from returning to the field after lunch.
Nothing says “stablestate” quite like threatening a Test match because two sons spoke abouttheir seventy-three-year-old father.
That reaction told us more than the interview did. A governmentconfident in its conduct would answer with evidence: independentdoctors, unhindered family contact, compliance with court orders,transparent medical records. Instead, the outrage was aimed at thebroadcaster. When power fears the microphone more than the allegation,the microphone is not the problem.
The hypocrisy is exquisite. Pakistan’s establishment has never objected to politics in cricket when cricket serves nationalism, diplomatictheatre, military prestige or official propaganda.
Politics may marchinto the stadium waving the flag and surrounded by ministers; that isapparently “national unity.” Politics becomes unacceptable only whensomebody asks the wrong question. And the PCB protesting thiscontamination of sport is chaired by Pakistan’s interior minister. Onealmost admires the efficiency of the joke.
The deeper problem is that cricket is the one arena in which Imran Khancannot easily be erased. Governments can block speeches, pressurebroadcasters, obstruct candidates, throttle social media and burypolitics beneath litigation. But Khan existed in Pakistan’s imaginationbefore he entered politics. His enemies may control institutions; theydo not control memory.
The 1992 World Cup cannot be censored. Old footage cannot be jailed. Aprison can confine Imran Khan the politician, but it cannot imprisonImran Khan the cricketer. That is precisely why concern frominternational cricketing figures carries such force: they are notcampaigning for his party; they are asking whether one of the sport’sgreatest names is being treated humanely.
And then there is the silence at home. Foreign rivals have spoken whilemany of Khan’s former teammates seem suddenly overcome by the virtues ofcaution. Men once celebrated for courage against fast bowling now appearhesitant to ask whether an ageing former captain deserves proper medicalcare. Apparently, facing a hostile spell was simpler than facing thepossibility of institutional displeasure.
Perhaps some fear professional consequences. Perhaps others prefercomfortable retirement, commentary contracts and board appointments.Whatever the reason, the contrast is ugly: foreign rivals speak, oldcomrades calculate. Calling for humane treatment is not rebellion. It isthe lowest possible test of decency.
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The government rejects the gravest allegations and says
The government rejects the gravest allegations and says Khan hasreceived appropriate medical, legal and family access. Fine. Then proveit. If the allegations are false, scrutiny should help the state. Ifprison conditions are proper, independent doctors should confirm them.If court orders are being followed, release the evidence.
That is why the agitation over the interview is so damaging. Agovernment certain of its conduct should welcome transparency. Whentransparency instead produces panic, suspicion requires no conspiracytheory. It requires only eyes.
The Lord’s episode also exposed the establishment’s antiquatedunderstanding of censorship.
Pakistan’s rulers still behave as though information can be killed by leaning on a broadcaster or suppressing a clip. But in the digital age, censorship is often publicity wearing a uniform. Every tantrum creates curiosity; every complaint feeds the algorithm; every attempt to bury a story gives it fresh oxygen.
Had the interview passed quietly, it might have remained one segmentduring one rain delay. The moment the PCB complained and reports emergedof a possible refusal to return to the field, the story became largerthan the interview itself. The question was no longer simply what Kasimand Sulaiman had said. It became: what were the authorities sofrightened of the world hearing?
That is the strategic stupidity at the center of the episode. Fordecades, Pakistan’s establishment has used cricket as an instrument ofprestige. Now cricket is exposing the nervousness of the same system.The harder the state tries to diminish Imran Khan domestically, the moredramatically he reappears internationally — through his sons, throughformer rivals, through old footage, through public memory.
Power can control ministries, police, prisons, regulators and cricketboards. It cannot always control the story.
And that is what Lord’s revealed. Two sons spoke during lunch. Abroadcaster aired the interview. A regime with the machinery of anentire state apparently felt threatened enough to contemplate turning aTest match into a political crisis.
That is not strength. It is fragility dressed up as authority.
Pakistan’s rulers wanted to silence a conversation. Instead, theyadvertised their fear. And when a system that claims to commandeverything is unsettled by two sons, one interviewer and a microphone,the real scandal is no longer what it is trying to suppress.
The real scandal is how little power it appears to have over its ownterror of being heard.
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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.
Source: www.middleeastmonitor.com
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