In Pakistan’s turbulent history, poetry has served as a voice of resistance, defending human dignity and challenging abuses of power. Habib Jalib and Ustad Daman, writing in Urdu and Punjabi, respectively, confronted military dictatorships and civilian governments, exposing the gap between democratic promises and authoritarian practices. Their loyalty remained with the people, not rulers. Their work reflects Pakistan’s long history of suppressing dissent through censorship, detention and appeals to national security and stability. By challenging both military and elected governments, they exposed a persistent contradiction: a nation that celebrated freedom while punishing those who demanded it.

Remembered as the Shair-i-Awam, or poet of the people, Jalib transformed simple, direct language into an instrument of political defiance. His celebrated poemDastoor, written in opposition to Ayub Khan’s constitutional order of 1962, rejected a system that privileged the powerful at the expense of the masses:

“Deep jis ka mahallat hi mein jalay, Chand logon ki khushiyon ko le kar chalay.”

The lamp that burns only in palaces
Does so at the cost of the people’s happiness.

The refrain, “Main nahin maanta, main nahin jaanta” — “I refuse to accept; I refuse to acknowledge” — became an enduring declaration of resistance. Jalib understood that legality without justice could legitimise privilege, and that constitutional forms meant little if citizens were denied meaningful political participation. His repeated imprisonments could not silence a poet who regarded truth-telling as a moral obligation.

His defiance continued under General Ziaul Haq:

“Zulmat ko zia, sar-sar ko saba, bande ko Khuda kya likhna.”

How can I call darkness light, a scorching wind a breeze, or a mortal God?

The verse condemned the intellectual dishonesty through which repression could be dressed up as enlightenment and rulers elevated beyond criticism. It also captured the predicament of intellectuals under authoritarian rule: whether to accommodate official narratives or risk punishment by speaking plainly.

Jalib was not alone in facing this dilemma. Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Pakistan’s foremost progressive poet and a close associate of the country’s literary Left, was arrested in 1951 in connection with the Rawalpindi Conspiracy Case, in which the government alleged a plot to overthrow Liaquat Ali Khan’s administration. Faiz spent four years in prison before his release in 1955. His prison poetry, subsequently collected in works including Dast-i-Saba and Zindan-Nama, transformed confinement into a meditation on hope, injustice and human solidarity. The case established an early and troubling precedent for the treatment of intellectual dissent through the machinery of national security.

Journalist and writer Hameed Akhtar, a leading figure in the Progressive Writers’ Movement, also endured repeated imprisonment for his progressive political commitments. His memoir Kaal Kothri recorded the experience of incarceration, while his journalistic career brought him into contact with the same intellectual milieu in which Faiz and other progressive writers worked. The government takeover of Progressive Papers Limited in the late 1950s further demonstrated how control over the press could be used to marginalise critical voices.

Jalib’s independence was equally evident under Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Although sympathetic to Bhutto’s populist aspirations, he criticised the high-handed treatment of political opponents. His satirical line, “Larkana chalo, warna thanay chalo”— “Come to Larkana, or be taken to the police station” — captured the coercive undertones of the period.

Jalib’s response after Bhutto’s execution under Zia revealed the complexity of his political convictions:

“Toota hai kahan us ka jadoo, Ek naara bana hai us ka lahu.”

His magic has not been broken;His blood has become a slogan.

He could criticise Bhutto’s exercise of power while recognising his popular appeal and condemning the injustice of his fate. Criticism of a civilian ruler did not oblige him to endorse a military dictator. His political loyalties remained subordinate to his commitment to justice and human dignity.

At the Lahore Literary Festival in 2022, journalist Mujahid Barelvi, a longtime friend of Jalib, recalled the poet’s incorruptibility, observing that the ruling class, “from Ayub Khan to Nawaz Sharif, failed to buy him.” The remark encapsulates Jalib’s significance: he resisted not only political repression but also the subtler temptation to exchange dissent for patronage, recognition or personal advancement.

Ustad Daman, born Chiragh Deen in Lahore in 1911, brought an equally uncompromising spirit to Punjabi poetry. A tailor by profession, he emerged as a public poet during the struggle against British rule. Partition devastated his personal life: his home and shop were burnt, and his wife and young daughter were killed. Nevertheless, he remained in Lahore, where his poetry continued to challenge political hypocrisy and authoritarianism. His refusal to abandon the city reflected a deep attachment to its cultural and social fabric.

His celebrated couplet exposed the militarisation of Pakistan’s public life:

“Pakistan diyan maujan hi maujan, Chaarey passey faujan hi faujan.”

Pakistan is enjoying itself everywhere;Whichever way you look, there are armies everywhere.

The humour is inseparable from its criticism. Beneath the apparent celebration lies an observation about the prominence of military power in a country professing democratic aspirations. Daman’s genius lay in compressing a complicated political reality into a couplet that ordinary people could remember and repeat.

He was equally critical of civilian rulers. During Bhutto’s premiership, Daman composed satire mocking the prime minister’s political manoeuvres. He was subsequently arrested in what became known as the Ustad Daman Bomb Case. Accounts of the episode describe the charges as politically motivated, although the circumstances should be distinguished from the better-documented facts of his imprisonment. The incident nevertheless became part of the history of the difficulties faced by dissenting intellectuals under elected governments.

Daman later ridiculed Ziaul Haq’s martial law with another memorable couplet:

“Meray mulk de do khuda, La ilaha tay martial law.”

My country has two gods:

There is no deity but God—and martial law.

The juxtaposition satirises the elevation of military authority into an unquestionable power. Its target is the political appropriation of sacred authority, not religious belief itself. As with Jalib, Daman’s criticism was directed at the demand for submission, whether that demand came from a general or a civilian leader.

Jalib and Daman differed in style but shared a fundamental conviction: the state must answer to its citizens. Jalib’s stirring repetitions made dissent a collective declaration; Daman’s colloquial humour punctured the pretensions of the powerful. Both brought political criticism beyond literary circles, allowing people to articulate grievances that official discourse often marginalised.

Criticism of Bhutto challenges the notion that civilian rule guarantees democracy, as elections do not justify intimidation, arbitrary detention or restrictions on expression. The experiences of Faiz, Hameed Akhtar, Jalib, Daman and religious leaders reveal how state repression has targeted diverse voices, raising the question of whether citizens can challenge authority without being treated as threats. While poetry cannot ensure accountability or protect civil liberties, it preserves the memory of injustice, exposes official contradictions and encourages dissent, reminding society that no individual or institution should be beyond scrutiny.

The enduring legacy of Jalib and Daman lies in their unwavering resistance to injustice and political hypocrisy. Jalib’s “Main nahin maanta” challenged authoritarianism, while Daman’s satire questioned the normalisation of military power. Their message condemns selective indignation, reminding us that freedom of expression, political opposition and human rights must be defended regardless of who holds power. Pakistan’s democracy requires independent courts, a free press, accountable institutions, minority protection and respect for dissent. Honouring these poets means more than celebrating their verses; it means ensuring that journalists, scholars and citizens can challenge authority without fear. A democracy must be judged not by its slogans or leaders’ popularity, but by how it treats those who disagree. True freedom lies not in praising silenced voices, but in allowing them to speak.

Published in Dawn, October 25th, 2026