Why Banning Pakistani Artists Is the Need of the Hour?

Let’s not pretend everything is fine. Not when coffins draped in the Indian flag are being carried home. Not when the silence of a widow replaces the laughter of a soldier's child. In times like these, it becomes almost offensive to talk about music and movies as if they exist in some magical bubble, untouched by the blood and pain spilled on the borders.

Our soldiers are ambushed. They bleed and fall without warning. Their last messages to families are often just whispers of love and pride. And as the nation mourns, we’re expected to continue hosting Pakistani artists, to keep giving them our stage, our applause, our affection?

This isn’t about hate. It’s about dignity. It’s about standing up for those who stood up for us.
They say art transcends boundaries. Sure, it does—in peace. But let’s be honest: how do you sing duets with a country whose silence speaks volumes every time terror strikes us? When blood flows on one side of the border, and the other side responds with concerts, not condolences, something feels disturbingly wrong.

Pakistani artists are loved in India. We’ve streamed their songs, watched their movies, celebrated their talent. But talent doesn’t excuse insensitivity. In a time when even a basic tweet condemning terrorism is missing, when the very soil they belong to continues to nurture and shelter the enemies of our nation, the love we once gave them starts to feel misplaced.

Because you can't separate art from the artist when the artist chooses silence over humanity.
In times of war, neutrality is a myth. And silence? Silence is a stand.

When our soldiers are attacked, and Pakistani artists continue their glamorous posts, their tour updates, their new releases, it isn’t just bad timing—it’s a loud, cold refusal to acknowledge our pain. And that hurts more than words can say.

They owe us nothing, perhaps. But we owe our soldiers everything. And in that debt, we must draw a line. If they can’t mourn with us, they don’t get to perform for us.
We’re not targeting individuals. We’re responding to a nation that refuses to take ownership of the terror it breeds. And unfortunately, the artists are part of that silence. Their careers thrive here. Our media promotes them. Our films offer them glory. Our stages amplify their voices.

But when the same voices fall mute as Indian soldiers are laid to rest, that stage becomes hollow. That applause becomes insulting.

Supporting them now is not cultural harmony. It’s cultural hypocrisy.
The Indian film industry has always prided itself on being progressive. But there’s a difference between progress and ignorance. Between inclusivity and insensitivity.

Why do we keep giving chances to artists who can't even acknowledge our loss? Is the pursuit of box-office numbers more important than the pride of our nation? Is a hit song or a global reach worth more than the lives of our jawans?

We need to ask tough questions. Not because we want to divide, but because we want to protect what truly unites us: respect, sacrifice, and courage.
Let’s not be naive. Entertainment isn’t just fun and games. It shapes opinions. It influences narratives. It creates icons.

And when we elevate artists from a country that refuses to hold terrorists accountable, we are, intentionally or not, giving them soft power. Power to sway minds. Power to normalize relationships that should be questioned, not celebrated.

This is not about revenge. It’s about responsibility.
We’ve tried appeasement. We’ve invited them to cricket matches, peace talks, film premieres, music festivals. And every single time, we’ve paid for it—in lives.

There comes a time when kindness must pause, and clarity must lead. That time is now.

Let’s not be the nation that keeps turning the other cheek while the other side sharpens its knives.
We can’t be lighting candles for martyrs in the evening and buying tickets for Pakistani concerts the next day. There has to be consistency in our compassion.

Every ticket sold, every stage offered, every song promoted—it sends a message. And the message today must be loud and clear: Not while we mourn. Not while we bleed. Not while we bury our dead.

Let them first show the courage to condemn terror. To speak up. To choose peace actively, not passively.

Until then, there is no place for their art in a country that is crying.
Caring for your country isn’t jingoism. It’s empathy on a national scale.

The mothers of our soldiers aren’t asking for retaliation. They’re asking for respect. For their sons not to be forgotten while we hum the tunes of the very land that ignored their sacrifice.

To say "no stage for sympathy" isn’t a war cry. It’s a boundary. A healthy, humane, and necessary boundary.
Many of us grew up with Pakistani music. We danced to it, cried to it, fell in love with it. But love, too, must know limits.

If grieving means pressing pause on entertainment, so be it. If empathy means a ban, then let the ban be.

Because nothing—absolutely nothing—should feel more important than the lives of those who protect ours.

We’re not closing the door on dialogue forever. But today, as we light another pyre, as we fold another flag, we must ask: How much longer will we pretend that everything is okay for the sake of art?

Art can wait.

Artists can understand.

And if they don’t, maybe they never truly deserved our stage in the first place.

Let the music stop for a while. Let the nation breathe. Let our grief be met with silence—not song.

Because until there is remorse, there can be no encore.

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