“Mushtaq killed Nadeem.” A headline stripped of nuance, another crime reduced to ink on paper. We consume such stories daily, unmoved, as if death is just another piece of news to scroll past. Yet, within this sentence lies an entire world of histories, identities, and tensions.
According to BBC Urdu and social media reports, Mushtaq—a Muslim man—had spent months pressing Nadeem Nath, a Hindu government employee in Peshawar, to convert to Islam.
Nadeem refused.
Mushtaq pulled the trigger.
A man fell. A silence grew.
And in this interfaith struggle, ignorance won.
The news spread like wildfire a day before Eid: ‘Hindu citizen killed in Peshawar for refusing to accept Islam.’
Three words in this statement demand scrutiny: ‘Peshawar.’ ‘Islam.’ ‘Hindu.’ These are more than mere descriptors; they are markers of identity, ideological battlegrounds, framing devices for narratives larger than the crime itself.
‘Peshawar’ is not just a location—it is history, it is a mindset, it is the shadow of its past and the pulse of its present. It carries the weight of collective memory, of tolerance and extremism in uneasy coexistence.
‘Islam’—a faith that embodies mercy—now becomes an easy scapegoat. The act of one man morphs into an indictment of an entire religion, feeding those who wait for such moments to sharpen their critiques. But Islam, in its essence, rejects this violence. The Quran does not preach coercion. The Prophet did not wield a sword against the unwilling. And yet, this crime turns faith into a weapon, leaving Muslims worldwide to defend what needs no defense.
‘Hindu’—a label that, in this context, stretches beyond Nadeem Nath. It transforms the story into an indictment of minority rights in Pakistan, igniting debates on inclusion, safety, and the nation’s moral obligations. It raises uncomfortable questions: Can a Hindu feel safe in Peshawar? Does the state protect its non-Muslim citizens? These are not just national inquiries—they ripple across borders, shaping international perceptions.
And then there is the word ‘murder.’ A word so omnipresent in our headlines that it has lost its sting. But language matters. Was he ‘killed’? ‘Martyred’? ‘Executed’? Each variation nudges the narrative in a different direction. Words do not just describe events—they define them.
A day before Eid, Peshawar’s Hindu community gathered outside the Peshawar Press Club, their grief laid bare in the form of a coffin. Their chants of justice echoed, demanding not just answers but change. Will they be heard? Or will their voices fade, like so many before them?
This incident is not just an attack on one man—it is an attack on the foundational ideals of Pakistan, a country envisioned as a land of religious freedom. It is an attack on the very essence of Islam, which commands fairness, not force. Yet, mainstream media barely whispered about it. The outrage did not ripple into the national consciousness.
Meanwhile, across the border, Indian social media spun the story into an indictment of Pakistan itself. Their angle was predictable. Our silence was not. So we must ask ourselves: If we refuse to tell our own stories, who will?
