Is Patriotism Becoming a New Form of Extremism?

Today, the world appears divided into two broad ideological camps: the left and the right, represented through liberal and conventional schools of thought. Each increasingly labels the other as extremist. But what actually constitutes extremism? It is the enforced rigidity of an ideology, amplified by mass emotional influence, crowd psychology and sometimes religious or political justification, leaving little or no space for disagreement. The world witnessed this after 9/11, when terrorism was frequently associated with Muslim communities and individuals were viewed through a religious lens regardless of their actual beliefs or actions. Over time, that narrative weakened as attacks by white supremacists, mosque attackers, vehicle attacks and school shootings demonstrated that extremism has neither a colour nor a religion. Yet today, another form of extremism can emerge through the misuse of patriotism. As the political saying goes: “Patriotism is the last refuge of a dictator and an absconder.”

Love for one's homeland is natural. People are emotionally attached to the land where their ancestors are buried, where they spent their childhood playing in parks, their teenage years on streets, their youth working in offices and, ultimately, where they hope to spend their old age. Such attachment is legitimate. But patriotism becomes politically dangerous when love for the homeland is transformed into unquestioning loyalty to the state. When one group celebrates national triumphs while another group, hundreds of kilometres away, is displaced, attacked or silenced in the name of security, patriotism becomes democratically hollow. A state cannot demand emotional celebration from citizens while ignoring their suffering. If a community is treated as rebellious rather than heard as equal citizens, the national narrative itself becomes exclusionary. That creates the same psychological response that extremism produces: isolation, resentment and disconnection from the national discourse.

This raises an uncomfortable question: Was Partition a political gamble? The constitutional and political debates of the late 1930s and 1940s included different formulas for power-sharing between the Congress and the Muslim League, none of which initially represented a universally accepted consensus. For centuries, Muslims and Hindus had lived together, shared social traditions and participated in each other's cultural occasions. Religious identity existed, but national belonging was not necessarily its opposite. Political leadership eventually mobilised religious identities to construct the idea of two separate nations. The Muslim League used Islamic symbolism, while sections of Hindu politics promoted their own exclusionary slogans. In this process, political leadership weakened emotional bonds that had developed between communities over generations. Partition was ultimately announced for 14 August 1947, while the Radcliffe Award defining the boundaries was made public only days later. The haste, uncertainty and violence exposed the enormous human cost of a political settlement that failed to secure a peaceful transition.

This also raises another question: Is the Islamisation of Pakistan's ideology a white lie? The Islamic character of Pakistan was certainly central to the political mobilisation of the period, but its interpretation has evolved considerably since independence. Religious scholars, political actors and institutions contributed to embedding Islam within the state's ideological framework. The problem emerges when religious identity is transformed from a moral foundation into a rigid political instrument. A state founded on a particular ideological narrative still has to protect citizens who interpret that identity differently. Otherwise, ideology becomes an instrument of exclusion rather than national cohesion.

Why, then, do many young people celebrate Partition today without deeply engaging with its ideology or historical complexity? Perhaps they see independence primarily as liberation from British rule. Yet history presents a more complicated picture: Partition was simultaneously liberation for some and catastrophe for many others. After 79 years, a rational young generation is entitled to ask whether political independence automatically produced substantive freedom. If dissent remains dangerous, political disagreement is treated as disloyalty, and powerful institutions can determine the limits of acceptable opinion, then what exactly changed—from white colonial authority to indigenous centres of power?

The current situation makes this question even more urgent. Reports of deaths and displacement in Azad Jammu and Kashmir, violence in Balochistan and continuing displacement connected with security operations in former FATA and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa raise a fundamental question: How can citizens be expected to celebrate independence when they do not feel secure within the state? If families are displaced, communities lose lives and citizens experience insecurity, independence cannot be measured merely through flags, fireworks and ceremonies. The state must first guarantee that its citizens feel protected, heard and represented.

Pakistan Day—or any national celebration—therefore demands more than patriotic slogans. Democracy depends on the number of people who genuinely trust the state and believe that their will matters. The real test of patriotism is not how loudly citizens celebrate, but whether the state listens to those who disagree. Political prisoners must not become symbols of permanent exclusion; marginalised communities must have meaningful space in decision-making; and institutions must function as guardians of citizens rather than arbiters of political loyalty. Pakistan needs politically engaged citizens on every side to bridge the widening gap between state and society. Otherwise, external enemies may not need to manufacture division—the state's own unresolved grievances will continue doing it from within.