The Salman Muqtadir Case
When evening falls, the conversation in our tea stalls and television talk shows settles on one question: ‘How did this happen?’ But before half an hour has passed, that question disappears. In its place comes another: ‘What kind of man is he, really?’
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The recent violence against Salman Muqtadir, a familiar face among the country’s young people, and the reactions that followed are another act in this familiar drama. A citizen’s studio was vandalised. His safety should have been the central concern. The incident should have prompted scrutiny of law enforcement and the state’s ability to protect its citizens.
Instead, the conversation shifted. Other questions surfaced over cups of tea and in news headlines: What business does Salman’s father-in-law run? Where does his income come from? Who was Salman politically aligned with?
This shift — away from the alleged crime and towards the victim’s past, identity and character — re fl ects a deeper social sickness: a culture in which the victim makes bigger headlines than the crime.
In Discipline and Punish , the French philosopher Michel Foucault examined how power operates through discipline and surveillance. His work offers a lens through which to consider what happens when public scrutiny falls more heavily on a victim than on those accused of committing an offence.
In Salman’s case, the question of how and why a citizen was attacked risks being displaced by an examination of his character. The discussion becomes a public audit of the person who suffered the violence. The implied message is familiar: he is controversial, so what happened to him was somehow inevitable — perhaps even deserved.
This is diversion: changing the subject when an incident raises uncomfortable questions about law enforcement or a particular group. Victim-blaming does the rest, turning the person who suffered the alleged crime into the person expected to answer for it.
Can a father-in-law’s business interests, a bank balance or a political association justify violence? None answers the central question: who committed the offence, and will they be held accountable? Any separate allegation of wrongdoing should be investigated on its own merits, not used to excuse an attack.
Imagine a pedestrian whose pocket is picked at a busy intersection. The thief escapes. Instead of pursuing the thief, the crowd surrounds the pedestrian. Why were you carrying so much money? Why were you out so late? Why were you wearing those clothes?
The scene sounds absurd. Yet versions of it play out in our talk shows and on social media every day.
When impartial scrutiny becomes politically inconvenient, citizens are sorted into two categories: the respectable and the controversial. The assumption is that only the spotless deserve justice. Anyone burdened by controversy must fi rst prove that they deserve protection.
This thinking is immoral and dangerous. Its greatest bene fi ciaries are those who commit crimes.
Attach a political or social label to a victim, and attention can be pulled away from the offence. The public analyses the victim’s character while the alleged offender slips out of view. The victim must fi ght not only for justice but also for dignity. The harm is compounded: fi rst by the attack, then by the assault on their reputation.
Our talk shows and social media can turn this process into a spectacle. In The Society of the Spectacle , Guy Debord explored how images and representations mediate social life. His work offers another lens: the spectacle surrounding an event can displace attention from the event itself.
An attack becomes content. A question of safety becomes entertainment. Ratings, views and sensationalism threaten to take precedence over ethics and accountability.
Debate about Salman’s past can consume hours while a more urgent question receives less attention: how did people come to believe they could take the law into their own hands?
The state’s duty to protect citizens cannot depend on their popularity. The test of the rule of law is whether an unpopular person receives protection when threatened. If someone must establish a spotless reputation to obtain justice, justice has become conditional.
What happens to Salman today could happen to someone else tomorrow. An attacker can almost always fi nd a controversy, an association or an old allegation to use against a target.
People are entitled to criticise Salman’s content, lifestyle or political associations. But criticism is not the same as condoning violence. Scrutiny of his conduct cannot substitute for investigating an attack against him.
Our first questions should be straightforward: What happened? Who was responsible? What are the authorities doing to establish the facts and bring those responsible before the law?
When commentators turn towards a victim’s past or family connections, we should ask whether those details explain the offence — or distract from it.
The crime must stand in the dock, not the victim’s character. Justice should not require a certificate of respectability.