In a country where a mere whisper of blasphemy can turn into a roar of public fury, last Thursday’s decision by the Islamabad High Court (IHC) has cast a heavy shadow over hopes for accountability and reform. The court suspended its bold step toward justice—a decision that had dared to question the unchecked weaponization of one of Pakistan’s most volatile laws.
Just a week ago, Justice Sardar Ejaz Ishaq Khan had done what few dared: he directed the federal government to form a commission to probe the misuse of the blasphemy law. His order—clear and courageous—demanded the commission to begin work within 30 days and deliver its findings in four months. In a country haunted by the screams of the innocent—lynched, jailed, silenced—this move lit a fragile flame of hope.
But today, that flame flickered.
A two-member bench comprising Justices Khadim Hussain Soomro and Azam Khan suspended that order, responding to an intra-court appeal filed by Rao Abdur Rahim and others from the Legal Commission on Blasphemy Pakistan. Representing them, Advocate Kamran Murtaza argued that they weren’t given a full hearing, questioning whether such a commission could be formed at all. “There are four hundred cases,” he said, almost brushing aside the weight of each as if numbers could numb the pain behind them.
Murtaza’s voice echoed in the courtroom, challenging the legitimacy of the previous ruling. “Can a commission be formed in this case?” he asked. But the real question—the one hanging heavily in the hearts of many—was never addressed: Can we continue to look away while lives are destroyed under the guise of sacred justice?
The court not only suspended the prior order but also issued notices to the parties, pulling the brakes on a long-overdue conversation Pakistan needs to have with itself.
At the heart of the original case was the haunting mystery of Komal Ismail, known in court documents only as ‘Iman.’ Allegedly responsible for entrapping several individuals in blasphemy charges, she had vanished, her silence deepening the scars of those accused. Justice Ishaq had ordered her national ID to be blocked—a symbolic gesture, perhaps, to show that silence and shadows would no longer be enough.
But today, that resolve was silenced too.
In Pakistan, where blasphemy accusations can mean a death sentence without trial, even the effort to examine misuse is met with resistance. It is not just the rule of law at stake—it is the soul of justice itself. For the families shattered, for the innocents hiding in fear, and for those who still believe that truth can stand against mob fury, today’s verdict is more than a legal technicality.
It is a pause on hope. And every pause, in a land bleeding from injustice, feels like complicity.
Until accountability finds its voice again.