New Delhi, Sep 28 (NationPress) Cricket is often celebrated as a game of gentlemen, where grace, patience, and fair play intertwine to deliver a captivating experience for audiences. Traditionally, the sport has steered clear of political rhetoric or violence. However, a recent incident involving Pakistani batsman Sahibzada Farhan, who imitated firing an AK-47 with his bat during an Asia Cup T20 match against India, starkly highlighted a troubling shift in this beloved sport.

Despite India’s well-deserved victory, which has become a recurring theme in their rivalry, Farhan’s act overshadowed the game itself. His imitation of a Kalashnikov on the field became emblematic of a much more profound issue: the militarised and radicalised psyche of a nation where violence is not merely a deviation but a form of cultural expression.

This was not just an inappropriate celebration; it exposed how the language of jihadist symbolism, instigated by the military establishment since the 1980s during Ziaul Haq’s regime, has infiltrated every stratum of Pakistani society, affecting politicians, artists, medical professionals, and even sports figures.

The AK-47 has transcended its identity as a weapon in Pakistan. Since the 1980s, when the country became a frontline state supporting Afghan mujahideen against Soviet forces with American assistance, the Kalashnikov has represented an identity rooted in resistance and, subsequently, extremism.

The so-called “Kalashnikov culture” has extended far beyond tribal areas, with firearms becoming commonplace at weddings, political gatherings, and various social events.

This militarisation and Islamisation have seeped into the very fabric of Pakistan’s culture. Military officials often boast about “bleeding India with a thousand cuts”, while politicians use martial language to demonstrate allegiance to the armed forces.

Television dramas, frequently sponsored by the Inter-Services Public Relations (ISPR), glorify military martyrs, while religious leaders intertwine jihad with national pride. Consequently, a batsman’s celebration of a personal achievement is no longer marked by raised arms or bowed heads; instead, it takes the form of a terrorist’s weapon.

Can this be dismissed as mere youthful exuberance? Certainly not; such a notion would ignore decades of intentional social engineering evident in Pakistan. The military, the most powerful institution in the country, has long fostered a narrative that intertwines militancy with nationalism. Public discourse frequently equates dissent with treason, making violence both normalized and valorized.

Sahibzada Farhan is not alone in this; numerous public figures in Pakistan have shown alignment with radical groups, with celebrated musicians often praising jihad and military exploits. The history of Pakistan is filled with educated young men joining extremist factions, viewing violence as a noble pursuit.

These occurrences do not arise in isolation; they have structural roots. In a nation where the military dominates both politics and culture, the state has relied on radical Islam to unify its multi-ethnic society. Since the 1980s, the military establishment has amplified jihadist narratives to sustain its supremacy.

The outcome is a society where a Kalashnikov celebration on an international cricket stage, broadcasted to millions, seems entirely appropriate, resonating as patriotic pride.

Sports often serve to project national soft power. Cricket has historically been one of the few arenas where Pakistan could claim parity with India. Matches are frequently regarded as proxy wars, with the cricket pitch acting as an extension of the battlefield. In this context, it is unsurprising that players adopt militarized behaviors, perceiving their bats as weapons. Even minor achievements, like reaching a half-century, transform into opportunities to mimic the violence that pervades Pakistan’s national consciousness.

Unlike other nations, where such behavior would result in outrage and disciplinary measures, in Pakistan, it receives implicit acceptance. Social media buzzed with admiration for Farhan’s act, and few within the Pakistan Cricket Board seemed inclined to condemn it. This silence speaks volumes.

To comprehend why a cricketer would mimic an AK-47, one must trace Pakistan’s long slide into extremism. For decades, the military has supported and trained jihadist proxies, initially against the Soviets in Afghanistan and later against India in Kashmir. These extremist factions have become extensions of its foreign policy.

Pakistan has suffered a catastrophic social cost from the normalization of extremism. Universities and madrassas have turned into recruitment hubs, and generations have grown up idolizing “militants” as heroes. No province has escaped violent sectarian tensions, with the culture of dialogue, compromise, and peaceful coexistence systematically eroded. What remains is a polity where violence is viewed not as a last resort but as a primary instinct.

Despite experiencing the repercussions of militancy, including the rise of Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan and the Islamic State, with numerous terrorist attacks across the country, particularly in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, the government has never fully renounced its long-standing jihadist agenda. Instead, it has rebranded militancy under softer guises while preserving its central role in strategic thought. Now, a cricketer's gesture has ensured that cricket, too, cannot evade this shadow.

For decades, the international community has attempted to engage Pakistan in dialogue, advocating for moderation and reform. Consequently, Western nations, led by the United States, alongside Gulf countries, have invested billions in development aid, military support, and diplomatic initiatives, hoping to guide Pakistan towards becoming a “normal” state.

New Delhi has also pursued peace talks, cricket diplomacy, and back-channel negotiations, aiming to persuade Islamabad to cease its terror sponsorship against India.

However, the pattern is clear: every moment of engagement from India has been met with betrayal from Pakistan, with each handshake undermined by violence. The radicalized foundation of the Pakistani state ensures that such moderation is unattainable. Thus, when even a cricketer's celebration echoes jihadist imagery, expecting transformation through dialogue becomes unrealistic.

In the realm of International Relations, there is a consensus that diplomacy is effective only with states committed to civility, law, and accountability. In stark contrast, Pakistan has been conditioned to respond only to coercion. It is not courteous language or cricket matches that alter its conduct; rather, it is international condemnation, manifested through sanctions and exposure of its complicity in extremism.

Sahibzada Farhan’s imitation of an AK-47 should not be dismissed as a minor sporting quirk; it is indicative of a society so entrenched in violence that even personal success celebrations cannot escape its shadow.

This serves as a stark reminder that Pakistan's challenges extend beyond governance and economics; they stem from a collective psyche molded by decades of militarism and radicalization. For India and the global community, this message is sobering; it is misguided to expect Pakistan to reform through charm offensives or cricketing goodwill gestures.

The essence of cricket lies in the civility of raised bats, handshakes, and crowd acknowledgment. However, when these rituals are supplanted by gestures of violence, the sport itself becomes hostage to politics.

Thus, Sahibzada Farhan’s mimicry of an AK-47 transcends mere poor sportsmanship; it offers a glimpse into a society where militarism supersedes civility, and violence masquerades as pride.

Unless Pakistan confronts this culture directly, the world will continue to witness Kalashnikovs—whether real or mimed—in its public sphere. The cricket field merely illuminated what has long existed beneath the surface.