The indictment of senior investigative journalist Matiullah Jan on what rights groups call fabricated drug-trafficking charges has reopened a long-standing wound in Pakistan’s media landscape.
It is not just another case involving a journalist and state authorities; it has become a symbol of how lawfare—legal tools weaponised for political ends—has entrenched itself in the country’s governance.
And in a climate already saturated with fear, self-censorship, and intimidation, the case accelerates a troubling sense that the space for meaningful journalism in Pakistan is narrowing at an alarming speed.
Jan’s story is not unfamiliar, but it is deeply unsettling. On the night of November 28, 2024, he was abducted from the car park of PIMS hospital in Islamabad by unidentified men.
His detention, carried out with clinical precision, echoed a method long associated with attempts to strong-arm dissenting voices into silence.
What followed only compounded the unease: an FIR filed at 2:30 am—just hours after his abduction—accusing him of drug trafficking. In a country where FIRs in even serious cases can drag for days, or be blocked outright, the speed of this registration stands out like a glaring anomaly.
For veteran journalists and activists, the sequence of events is not just suspicious; it is emblematic of a system increasingly reliant on coercive tactics instead of democratic accountability.
Nearly a year has passed since that night, and yet the Islamabad police show no sign of stepping back from what advocates describe as a concocted and politically motivated case.
The insistence on moving forward, despite widespread criticism from the media community, contributes to the perception that the law is being wielded not as an instrument of justice but as a tool of suppression.
The charges—dismissed as fake and fabricated by those who know Jan’s work—are viewed as an attempt to interrupt his investigations into the November 24, 2024, alleged police firing on PTI protesters near D Chowk.
His disappearance, critics argue, was neither random nor apolitical; it was an explicit warning to anyone daring to scrutinise the state’s actions too closely.
The condemnation from Pakistan’s most respected journalists and human rights defenders has been sharp and unambiguous.
Names like Hussain Naqi, Zahid Hussain, Mustansar Javaid, Anwar Iqbal, Mazhar Abbas, Munizae Jahangir, and dozens of others form a roster of individuals who have collectively shaped the country’s independent media narrative for decades.
Their alarm carries weight—not only because of their seniority, but because they recognise the pattern. Many of them have lived through the dark chapters of Pakistan’s press history, from martial law crackdowns to enforced disappearances and newsroom censorship.
Their unified stance reflects a shared fear that the present trajectory is not merely a temporary regression but a gathering storm that could reshape the future of journalism in Pakistan.
What troubles these senior voices most is the overtly contradictory nature of the case. Jan’s abductors reportedly did not make demands, nor did they seize his data, devices, or investigative material.
The absence of any such action is seen as further indication that the FIR is not the result of an investigative process but the construction of a narrative designed to justify his detention retroactively.
When law becomes a storyline instead of a safeguard, journalists are left with little ground to stand on.
Pakistan’s media climate provides no comfort. In 2025 alone, authorities have initiated nearly 689 cases under the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA), a law widely criticised for its vague language and its utility in targeting dissent.
Combined with the Anti-Terrorism Act—another favourite tool for pursuing journalists—the state’s legal framework has increasingly blurred the line between national security and political sensitivity.
These instruments allow the government to shape the narrative through quiet pressure: not outright bans, but slower methods such as intimidation, prolonged litigation, delayed trials, and the looming threat of arrest.
Television channels critical of the government have faced unexplained signal disruptions, often coinciding with opposition speeches or reports challenging official claims.
Editors speak of phone calls urging them to “tone down” coverage or remove particular guests from panels.
Media owners find themselves navigating a minefield where the cost of displeasing authorities can outweigh the value of editorial independence. And within this fragile ecosystem, individual journalists, especially those known for hard-hitting investigations, have become easy targets.
The case against Jan, therefore, is not an isolated episode—it sits within a broader architecture of fear.
Harassment, threats, assault, arbitrary arrest, and enforced disappearance have become grimly familiar chapters in the life of a Pakistani journalist. Some have been forced into exile; others have vanished permanently.
The cost of reporting has grown dangerously high, and Jan’s situation reinforces the message that the risks are rising rather than receding.
The collective call from senior journalists and activists urging Pakistan’s Prime Minister and the judiciary to intervene is less a plea for individual relief and more a cry against a growing abyss.
Their statements point to the broader implications of allowing such cases to proceed: a further erosion of trust in law enforcement, a chilling effect on investigative reporting, and a democracy weakened by opaque power structures that operate beyond accountability.
The fear expressed by rights advocates is rooted not just in Jan’s experience but in the trajectory of the last several years.
The country’s record on press freedom has steadily deteriorated. Most recently, online journalists and digital creators have become particularly vulnerable under PECA’s expansive reach.
Social media, once a haven for alternative voices, has become another arena of surveillance and punitive action. The tools of repression have simply evolved; where force once served as the first resort, the legal system now offers a quieter, more deniable method to achieve the same ends.
What makes the current moment especially concerning is the normalisation of these tactics. Abductions no longer spark the national outrage they once did.
Frivolous court cases barely make headlines unless the target is a high-profile figure like Jan. The public appears increasingly desensitised, not because the actions are any less severe, but because they have become so distressingly predictable.
In this context, the indictment of Matiullah Jan stands as a stark reminder of what is at stake.
Journalism cannot function under the constant threat of legal persecution. A press corps that must weigh every sentence against the possibility of police retaliation cannot fulfil its role in a democratic society.
And a state that chooses to silence scrutiny through fabricated charges rather than engage with criticism signals a deeper crisis of governance.
Jan’s case may yet become a defining marker of Pakistan’s media future. The louder the calls for accountability grow, the more aggressively the system appears to push back.
For journalists watching from newsrooms, from courtrooms, or from self-imposed exile, the message is chillingly consistent: the boundaries of acceptable speech are tightening, and those who cross them do so at their own peril.
The story of lawfare in Pakistan is not simply about one journalist or one case. It is about a country wrestling with its own contradictions—claiming democratic values while deepening its reliance on coercive tools.
And at the centre of it all are the journalists who continue to report, even as the ground beneath them grows more treacherous with each passing year.