Music played a pivotal role in the rich history of the subcontinent, whether it was to please the kings and queens or rouse soldiers in battlefields. Protest music at that time was grounded in simple verses with one purpose: to draw people around a central mission.

Sitar maestro and singer Ustad Nafees Ahmed recalls that during the Pakistan Movement (1940-47), the Muslim League had started calling on people to join the party, for which a qawwali titled ‘Muslim Hay tou Muslim League Main Aa’ was sung by veteran qawwals Fateh Ali Khan and Mubarak Ali Khan. The qawwali went on to become an enormous hit across the pre-partition India and a slogan for the Muslim League.

More than music though, it was poetry that reigned supreme then and for several years to come until pop, rock and reggae entered the scene. Progressive writers such as Faiz, Saadat Hassan Manto, Habib Jalib and Ismat Chughtai produced some of the finest pieces of fiction and poetry, becoming trendsetters for the upcoming generations.

Among them was also Kaifi Azmi, who, in the 1940s wrote ‘Aurat’.

“Uth meri jaan, mere saath hi chalna hay tujhe (Rise, my beloved! With me you must walk along),” says the first verse of the poem — that stands out as a significant modern feminist text even today.

While Azmi and his likes were ideological and optimistic in their approach, Josh Malihabadi used searing words in his poetry that stung the colonial masters. Also popularly known as Shair-e-Inqilab [The Poet of Revolution], he wrote ‘East India Company Farzandon se Khitab’ during World War II. The poem lambasted British hypocrisy and recounted their crimes, from the battle of Plassey in 1757 to the hanging of the revolutionary Bhagat Singh in 1931.

“Mujrimon ke waastay zeba nahin ye shor-o-shain
kal Yazeed-o-Shimr thhey aur aaj bantay ho Hussain! (This hue and cry does not suit the defence of criminals/ You who were Yazeed and Shimr yesterday pretend today to be Hussain!)”

“There is no better piece of literature than this,” actor and musician Khaled Anam says.

Tabassum Akhlaq, the granddaughter of Malihabadi, tells Dawn.com that his poems against the British regime were chanted and read by the masses in their houses and streets.

“Kaam mera taghayyur, naam hay mera shabaab mera na’ara: inqilaab-o-inqilaab-o-inqilaab (My task is change, my name is youth! My slogan: revolution and revolution and revolution!)”

Similarly, poetry also played a crucial role in the Pakistan Movement. The work of Allama Iqbal comes foremost here. Although written earlier on, his momentous and unforgettable poetry became a reflection of the ideology of Pakistan.

“Khudi ko kar buland itna ki har taqdir se pahle khuda bande se khud puche bata teri raza kya hai (Rise to such heights, that before destiny is written, the Lord asks man himself, ‘Tell me, what is your will?’)”

There were also other literary geniuses like Maulana Zafar Ali Khan whose poetry became a mode of social-political resistance. His collection of poems include Baharistan, Nigaristan and Chamanistan.

Resistance flowed through Pakistani society, in its nascent stages in the 1950s, with Faiz’s powerful words defining the decade.

Ustad Nafees recounts that even when Faiz was in jail in the Rawalpindi Conspiracy case, incredibly for being a ‘chief conspirator’ representing communists, he continued to write poems — some for his wife, some for the land he dearly loved.

Among them was ‘Nisar Main Teri Galiyon Ke Ay Watan’ or the ‘Soil of my Land’, which was written in 1952 and wherein the legendary poet expressed his disdain over the state that was, and described what he wished to see.

‘Gulon Mein Rang Bhare’ was yet another poem by Faiz that was regarded as a game changer. Even though political activist and singer Taimur Rahman calls it a rebel anthem of its time, Faiz’s verses have transcended over the years to remain relevant even today. The poem was put to music for the first time in 1966 by ghazal maestro Mehdi Hassan and became an instant hit.

Same was the case with ‘Ae Roshniyon Ke Shehar’, which was written by Faiz in 1954, and was later set to music by Hassan for the movie ‘Chingari’ (1964). For Ustad Nafees, the song qualifies as rebellious when it says: “Ai raushniyon k shehr, kaun kahe kis simt hay teri raushniyon (Oh city of lights/where is the road to your lights?).”

“Unlike other firebrand poets, Faiz was softer in his approach, a lot more deep and used his words to convey what was wrong in his opinion and how could it be fixed,” the musician says. “But that doesn’t make him any less of a revolutionary.”

Resistance music during the 1950s would be incomplete without the mention of Ada Jafery, who is widely regarded as the ‘First Lady of Urdu Poetry’ in literary circles. Her first book of poems, ‘Main Saaz Dhoondti Rahi’, was highly acclaimed and included feminist themes such as discrimination and dehumanisation of women.

Most of the early Pakistani music came after the film industry saw a boom. And resistance continued to be a theme.

‘Raks Zanjeer Pehn Kar Bhi’ from the movie ‘Zarqa’ (1969) was written by Habib Jalib and set around a Palestinian singer resisting against the Israeli military. The song opens with a woman, clad in a red dress, chains clasped around her body, singing in front of her oppressors, “Raks zanjeer pehn kar bhi kiya jata hay, tu ke nawaqif adab-e-ghulami hay abhi (The dance is also performed wearing chains, you are ignorant of the manners of slavery now).”

With lyrics and visuals as strong as these, for that time, the song resonated far and beyond as a lot of people understood it to have spoken up against the then military dictator Yahya Khan. “It was never said out loud, but between the lines, it was taken as a message: defiance can be asserted even when one is in chains,” says journalist and cultural critic Hasan Zaidi. The song was banned for a short period.

In this era, much of Jalib’s work was gaining popularity, given that he was the writer of the masses. Cultural experts laud his oratory skills, highlighting how the poet’s literary work could easily be set to tune. In 1969, when Yahya Khan’s dictatorship was still new, Jalib wrote a poem calling him out: “Tum se pehle woh jo ek shakhs yahan takht-nasheen tha, uss ko bhi apne khuda hone pe itna hi yaqeen tha (The one who sat on this throne before you also thought he was god).”

And then there was ‘Dastoor’, which as we mentioned at the beginning of the report, went on to become one of the most recognised rebel anthems. Jalib recited the poetry at Liaquat Bagh against Ayub Khan for which he was jailed.

Even ‘Musheer’, which was said to have been written against General Ayub Khan’s advisors, is still as popular today as when Jalib first recited it, reverberating in the 2000s with the Laal band’s rendition.

During the same era, being the household name that he was, Faiz wrote ‘Aaj Bazaar Main Pa Ba Jaulan Chalo’, which literally translates to ‘Let us walk in the bazaar in chains’. Activist and historian Saleem Kidwai recalls that the poem was written while Faiz was being taken to jail in shackles for his defiant stance and critique of fascist policies.

Before the first countrywide martial law set in, an indomitable Kishwar Naheed found her calling in poetry. At recitals in Lahore, her fiery voice set ablaze the male-dominated literary stage.

Naheed’s first collection of ghazals, Lab-i-Goya [Lips that speak], was published in 1968 and became an instant hit. It also won her the prestigious Adamjee Award. Her poetry, intertwined with defiance, broke new grounds for women in the country. Columnist and critic Dr Naazi Mahmood calls Naheed’s writings “a call to rebel against all sorts of discrimination, be it in the name of caste, creed or colour”.

In the 70s, Pakistan was coming out of the embers of a second partition following a civil war. While the government used patriotic songs such as ‘Mauj Utthay Ya Andhi Aye’ to amp up its narrative, poets such as Faiz and Jalib used the prowess of their pens to mourn the dismemberment of the country.

Faiz, upon his return from Bangladesh in 1974, wrote ‘Dhaka se Wapsi Per’ (On Returning from Dhaka) — also popularly known as ‘Hum Ke Thehre Ajnabi’ — which encapsulated the pain he went through after being separated from a nation that was once called East Pakistan.

‘Hazar Karo Mere Tan Se’ was another of Faiz’s pieces that came out during the 1971 war and landed him behind bars. In the poem, he writes that the common person’s body did not have blood anymore. In the veins now runs a poisonous liquid, a product of years of agony.

Meanwhile, Jalib used ‘Bagiya Laho Luhan’ (The Garden is a Bloody Mess), to speak up against the atrocities committed during the war.

He also wrote ‘Zulm Rahe Aur Aman Bhi Ho’, which was sung by Noor Jehan and Mehdi Hassan for the film ‘Yeh Aman’, a movie on Kashmir. “Zulm rahe aur aman bhi ho, kya mumkin hay, tum hi kaho (Is peace possible while oppression exists, you tell),” the first verse of the song asks.

But the most precious gift that Pakistan received in the decade was ‘Nayyara sings Faiz’ — a collection of iconic singer Nayyara Noor’s soulful renderings of Faiz’s writings. Salima, the poet’s daughter, remembers how the singer gave a new meaning to her father’s poems.

“When Nayyara sang ‘Hum Ke Thehre Ajnabi’, it was a coded message; it was a regret of a country being partitioned and it was in the shape of hope for peace — which itself is a kind of resistance song,” she says.

Music composer Arshad Mahmood echoes similar sentiments. “When she sang ‘Aaj Bazaar Main’, a lot of my friends in jail at that time told me that they spent their time behind bars listening to this,” he recounts, adding that another of his favourites was ‘Aina-e-Alam’, a ghazal that called for looking within one’s self.

When Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto came to power, state-owned television and radio were bombarded with urban pop music and traditional folk music. Aziz Mian, described as ‘the Nietzschean qawaal’, was among those who benefitted most from these cultural policies. His breakthrough qawwali ‘Mein Sharabi’ was released in 1973.

According to author and columnist Nadeem Farooq Paracha, Aziz Mian challenged the hypocrisies of the moralists. He refused to accept the traditionalist and conservative approach.

“Aziz Mian would start slowly, break into a catchy chorus with his ‘qawaali party’ (qawaali group), and then suddenly break out with a series of argumentative verses in a blistering display of speed-talking. He would address God, complaining how he loved Him but felt that he wasn’t being loved back; or why such a perfect entity such as God would create such an imperfect creature like man!” Paracha writes of the qawwal.

Even pop music flourished during Bhutto’s regime, with singers Alamgir and Muhammad Ali Sheikhi becoming sensations and a regular feature on PTV. But then, Ziaul Haq came into the picture and changed it for a long 11 years. Although folk and national songs frequently appeared on television and radio during the Zia regime, they were heavily laced with conservative subject matter and loud imagery of religion.

Early pop music in Pakistan was never resistant, but Zia’s presence and the circumstances he created turned Alamgir’s groovy romance numbers into an act of rebellion. “Their existence in itself was symbolising resistance against the concepts of morality peddled by the Zia regime,” Paracha says.

The 70s, a tumultuous decade for Pakistan, ended with Faiz’s ‘Hum Dekhain Gain’ — a beacon of hope as the shadows of authority clouded the sky. “We will see, we will see … when massive mountains of cruelty and tyranny will be blown sky-high like fluffs of cotton,” he wrote.

The poem resulted in Zia placing a public ban on the recitation of his poetry. That, however, did not stop his words from becoming a chorus of rebellion in the coming decades.

Zia’s regime is regarded as the most politically suffocating era in the Pakistani industry and the suffocation was also felt in the music and film industry. Poetry, once again, came to ignite the spark. Literary giants, the likes of Faiz, Jalib and Ahmed Faraz, took it upon themselves to critique dictatorship, and their words were put into music by singers such as Tina Sani and Iqbal Bano.

Senior journalist Peerzada Salman remembers how Arshad Mahmood came up with some fantastic compositions of Faiz’s resistance poetry, such as ‘Bahar Ayi’, ‘Gar Mujhay Iska Yaqeen Ho’ and ‘Bol K Lab Azaad Hain’ sung by Sani. The poems were also translated into Sindhi by the Karachi-based band Voices.

Other examples included songs by Noor Jehan, such as ‘Ni Kala Shah Kala’, for some Punjabi films that were symbolically targeting the same regime.

Then was Jalib, who wrote ‘Zulmat ko Zia’ (Darkness called Light), a blistering report card of Zia’s policies. In the poem, he synonymises the military dictator as a symbol of darkness and ignorance. As a result, he was imprisoned by authorities and directed to take out Zia’s name.

“Zulmat ko Zia, bande ko khuda kya likhna (Why call darkness as light and a human as God?)”

The inimitable Ahmed Faraz, meanwhile, made giant waves with his poem ‘Muhasra’ (Siege). It is said that Faraz was told not to oppose the junta, in response to which he wrote: “Mera qalam nahi kirdar us muhafiz ka jo apnay shehar ko mahsoor kar key naaz karay, mera qalam nahi ka’asa kisi subuk sir ka, jo ghasiboun ko qasidoun se sarfraz karey (My pen doesn’t defend those who place their own city under siege, my pen is not a begging bowl of those who shower praise on the usurper)”.

Muhasra, too, didn’t sit well with the authorities. Musician Khaled Anam recalls that Faraz was interrupted and escorted out of a public function in Karachi where he was reciting the poem. Consequently, he went into a self-imposed exile.

Almost all of these poets were thrown behind bars, but that didn’t stop their poems. In what can be called a decade-defining moment of defiance, at least 50,000 people gathered at Lahore’s Alhamra Arts Council in 1986 and, led by a saree-clad Iqbal Bano, sang Faiz’s ‘Hum Dekhain Gain’. This was just after Zia had issued a decree prohibiting women from wearing saris.

Journalist Fifi Haroon calls it a “seminal moment” in Pakistan’s music history which involved a banned revolutionary poet, a bold revolutionary singer and an audience who believed in both.

Similarly, when Noor Jehan sang ‘Mujhse Pehli Si Mohabbat’ in a live concert while Faiz was in jail, it marked an important moment in poetry and music.

“The song became synonymous with Noor Jehan because she sang it so well and was brave enough to do it at a live concert on the radio when my father was in jail,” says Salima.

While these grand acts of rebellion always mark themselves in history, the small and subtle ones also need to be acknowledged. Paracha believes that the emergence of pop bands from 1986 onwards was in itself resistance, even though they were not writing political lyrics. “For instance, Nazia Hasan’s debut album Disco Deewane too in a way became an act of resistance.”

Zaidi concurs. “In the grand scheme of things, when Vital Signs came out with their first album in the Zia era, there was nothing youthful on TV at that time. But suddenly you had these four young guys singing with Western instruments — in a macro sense, it was a kind of resistance from the youth,” he says.

Hyatt, who was a part of Vital Signs, tells Dawn.com that all the members of the band had to go “underground” during the Zia regime. “Vital Signs was formed only for one reason: to hold a concert at [women only] Kinnaird College in Lahore. Somehow, we got permission and that was our moment — nothing short of a revolution.”

“It’s like this crazy script from a movie where these young guys are getting together for this big objective,” he had laughingly recapped in an interview in 2008.

As it was difficult to openly critique the regime, sociopolitical commentary took on the form of parody songs. The most notable among them was ‘Dubai Janey Walley’ sung by Bushra Ansari and Ismail Tara for the hit show Fifty-Fifty, focusing on the large-scale immigration of Pakistanis to the Middle East.

Ansari, however, told Dawn.com that the song was never intended for any purpose other than comedic relief. People, however, chose to find meaning in it.

The 90s rolled in with, what seemed at the time, a strange yet life-changing phenomenon — the world wide web. Nothing has been the same since.

Right at the beginning of the new decade, Pakistan got a surprise in the form of Junoon — a “Sufi rock” band of three men in pink kurtas and long hair who played electric guitars. ‘Talaash’, one of their first songs, included clips from newsreels and commented on political assassinations and campus violence.

“Junoon, in one way or the other, was influenced by rock music in the West — which essentially is resistance music. The philosophy of rock is that there’s no melody and is more rhythm heavy, which is symbolic of the fact that there is no melody in life, and that it is harsh and difficult,” says Peerzada Salman.

It took some time for the band to gain popularity, but then they released ‘Ehtesaab’ in the mid-1990s, which caught the eye of both the public and the government. The former embraced it, the latter banned it.

The song lambasted the political class with a provocative video featuring images of rich politicians and their horses enjoying expensive food at a lavish restaurant.

“Nawaz Sharif had stood in the Parliament and said ‘mera dil chahta hai main inkey baal kaat dun’ (I want to chop their hair),” recalls Khalid Khan of the band Aaroh.

This was one of the reasons why Junoon became the face of resistance for millennials. The other was the band’s smart use of technology. It was Pakistan’s first music group to have set up a website, which gave access to its viewers across the country and the world.

“When we heard Junoon’s Ehtesaab, it sounded fresh and slightly angry. To be fair, we were sick of the saccharine. So when this new genre of music was suddenly played, it brought with it mystique and allure,” says journalist Zarrar Khuhro.

Ehtesaab was followed by a similar song, Awaaz’s cult hit ‘Mr Fraudiye’; both the songs had the same theme — calling out corruption — but used different approaches. Awaz’s colourful video and song had less angst and more satire. In a podcast last year, Haroon Rashid, the band’s lead vocalist, recounts how the song was initially titled ‘Mr Ten Percent’ — a label given to the incumbent president during Benazir Bhutto’s first tenure for reportedly misusing his wife’s position to acquire wealth.

“But then we thought of broadening it towards the malice of corruption and changed the title to Mr Fraudiye,” he says.

While Mr Fraudiye treaded the lines of satire, it was Sajjad Ali’s ‘Chief Saab’ that was a direct retort. It talked about gangs, the Kalashnikov culture and included Karachi’s street-style slang. Urban legend has it that Sajjad Ali’s head was shaved after the song as a punishment.

“Sajjad Ali faced some sort of resistance from MQM, although he never admitted it was based on the party,” recalls Zaidi.

Other songs that added a sense of sociological purpose to the 90s pop scene included ‘Jaago’ by Jazba, ‘Kya Ho Raha Hay’ by Karavan and ‘Yeh Baat’ by Najam Sheraz.

At the beginning of the 21st century, military dictatorship made a comeback after (late) General Pervez Musharraf toppled the Nawaz regime to impose an emergency.

Musharraf, however, created an atmosphere of liberalism in the country during his rule, and also presided over the cable TV ‘revolution’, which included music channels. “There was a bit of freedom during the era when we saw a number of pop bands emerging,” recalls Aaroh’s Khalid Khan.

Musician and journalist Ali Haider Habib highlights that resistance during the 2000s wasn’t overly political, per se. “It was more against what people thought was acceptable or unacceptable — a multitude rather than resisting one entity.”

He recounts that Laal band was a big part of the resistance, whose song ‘Umeed-e-Sehar’ became the face of the Lawyers Movement that emerged as an uprising against Musharraf’s sacking of the Chief Justice of Pakistan in 2006.

Laal’s Taimur Rahman tells Dawn.com that he had been attending protests under the movement in London and that was where he got the idea to launch a band. “Laal was always set up with the intention of a protest band,” he says.

The band released its first album Umeed-e-Sehar on YouTube in 2007 and immediately shot to fame. With melting vocals, it serenaded the satire of Habib Jalib and the depth of Faiz Ahmed Faiz with ‘Musheer’ and ‘Hum Dekhain Gain’. “When we did our first album, we had the support of Geo TV who played our songs on their channel like 20 times a day,” Rahman recalls.

Amid the turmoil and confusion of the Musharraf era came forth ‘Laga Reh’. Shehzad Roy’s 2007 track, infused with political cynicism and satirical imagery, became a pop icon. The song took everyone, from the protesting lawyers to the numb society, to the cleaners.

“Although it was largely ambiguous, the song used wit to great effect,” notes Paracha.

Roy too recalls the impact of the song and the immense mainstream recognition it got. “It gave the younger lot the confidence and incentive to come out with resistance songs of their own.”

Then there was Najam Sheraz’s ‘Sona Chahta Hun’ that spoke of the people’s apathy towards the problems of the society. The bluesy composition combined with Sheraz’s unique style made the song one of the most critically acclaimed pieces of pop music in Pakistan.

Culture journalist Rafay Mahmood mentions Azal band’s edgy track, ‘Aisi Ki Taisee’. For the youth of the time, the confrontational line “System kee ghulami kyun karain (Why be slaves to the system?)” continues to speak truth till today.

Other notable resistance anthems from the decade include ‘Suno ke Main hun Jawan’ (2004) and ‘Kutte’ (2005) by Noori and Roy’s ‘Qismat Apne Hath Mein’, a sort of sequel to Laga Reh.

At the cusp of the new decade, Pakistan found itself weighed under a sinking economy and rising terrorism. Hundreds of music and DVD stores were blown up in the northwest by extremists who branded them ‘unIslamic’.

Faisal Kapadia of Strings recalls that the situation had reached an extent where “we were hearing of deaths and blasts every day”. “Concerts were cancelled and there was this feeling of where and what are we heading towards,” he says.

And then one day Kapadia and Bilal Maqsood put all of their emotions on paper and in melody. ‘Ab Khud Kuch Karna Parega’ was not a quintessential resistance anthem; it was optimistic, calling on the masses to not give up just yet. The band’s other hit, ‘Main to Dekhun Ga’, followed the same pattern; a cheerful, almost jingle-like song that talks about bread being cheaper than lives, but makes sure to end on a hopeful note.

The evolution of resistance music, from poetic anthems in the earlier decades to pop and rock in the 90s and beyond, now took on the shape of intentionally slapstick yet still clever comedy. And no two songs exemplify that better than ‘Alu Anday’ by Beghairat Brigade and ‘Waderai Ka Beta’ by Ali Gul Pir, both dripping with satire.

Both appeared on YouTube out of nowhere to directly challenge the status quo.

Alu Anday by Beghairat Brigade took the military establishment and its instruments head-on while Waderai Ka Beta aimed its guns at Sindh’s feudal lords. Both songs took no prisoners and became iconic.

The video of Alu Anday addresses what has been left out of the lyrics; you can spot a placard saying ‘Tehreek-i-Insaaf = A Good Looking Jamat-i-Islami’ and another ‘Your money + My pocket = We’re still enemies’.

Speaking about the creative process behind the song, Beghairat Brigade’s lead vocalist Ali Aftab Saeed tells Dawn.com that he noted a pattern at the time of Alu Anday’s release. “There was a certain [positive] narrative that got space … so we turned the alternate opinion into a song and got a huge response to it,” he recalls.

“After the release of the song, we saw a positive output in the media — the acknowledgement of Pakistan scientist Abdus Salam and discussion over extension (of the military chief),” he notes. “Maybe our song worked as a catalyst for that but there is no yardstick to confirm.”

In 2012, when the once thriving pop scene in the country felt like it had dulled into a distant memory, came the young comedian Ali Gul Pir with Waderai Ka Beta, complete with references to Jatois, Pajeros, and gold Rado watches. The song’s video, like with Alu Anday, helped propel its fame.

“There was overwhelming love and support. But the people who were part of the culture I was making fun of, the wadera culture, were offended,” Ali recalls, adding that it resulted in him getting calls from “certain nationalist parties”.

Three years later, Gen Z sensation Faris Shafi broke through with angry and profanity-laden rap. His song ‘Awaam’ came with a raw message: “Larai choro, parhai karo, safai karo.”

“The situations people are being put through are what really inspired me to write the lyrics of this song,” Shafi had said of the song in an interview with Tribune.

That was not it; Pakistan was in for yet another surprise when it came to rap music: Eva B — the country’s first woman rapper from Lyari. Her first song ‘Gully Girls’ was recorded on a mobile phone and played at the 2019 Aurat March.

From the same area came Lyari Underground. The band, through its Balochi rap song ‘Players of Lyari’, dropped jaws with music that highlighted the plight of the football-crazed Karachi locality.

“When I was growing up in Lyari, we only had three options: join a gang, play football or make songs. I chose the latter two,” says Daniyal Naeem, the band’s lead vocalist. ‘Players of Lyari’, he tells Dawn.com, speaks of the discrimination his community faces when it comes to football.

Other standout anthems from the decade were ‘Bum Phatta’ by Ali Azmat and ‘Mein’ by Meesha Shafi.

The decade is 2020, the genre is rap, and music is still pushing back.

Resistance can’t ever completely leave a society; it can change from bold to subtle and overt to covert. Musicians in the current decade are in the midst of making their versions of rebel anthems and experimenting with how resistance music should look, sound and feel.

Some of the most notable among these are Faris Shafi, Young Stunners, and Lyari Underground.

“When I listen to people like Faris Shafi and the new rap music, there’s a lot of pent-up anger there. It’s not necessarily against any dictatorship […] but it’s the voice of an angry man,” says Taimur Rahman of Laal.

Then there are the lesser-known artists, such as Lahore-based rock/pop band Poor Rich Boy, highlighted by senior journalist and music enthusiast Hassan Belal Zaidi. Their track ‘Nazar’ uses Allama Iqbal’s poetry but with a new spin.

“Many years ago, Iqbal wrote some verses suggesting maybe it would be a good idea to have freedom of thought and expression in educational institutions, or just generally. Since he’s our national poet, we thought why not push this fanciful idea of his, which, to date, remains a controversial one,” the description of the song reads on YouTube.

Just like themes of resistance continue to permeate art, tactics of censorship continue into this decade, regardless of who is in power.

To circumvent the consequences — not so much jail time like with Faiz and Faraz but disappearing into forced oblivion — songs such as ‘Executive Summary’ and ‘Khattay Angoor’ are appearing on online platforms without any real credits or names.

“Undoubtedly, today, the people who are creating such music are warriors,” says Rohail Hyatt.

Ali Haider Habib elaborates, “In a society that is so bent on repressing people and imposing religion and morality, it’s difficult to create resistant art.”

Rising commercial interests is another shadow over the creative process required for such music.

Hip-hop was once regarded as resistance music, young musician Momin Iqbal says, “but then it got commercialised and the space to create such music became restricted”.

“We are living in a time where producers are no longer just making art but also telling people how to think about it via organised campaigns,” adds Rafay Mahmood.

“I don’t believe it’s a lack of creativity [but] music, as with other art forms, has become more of a popularity contest,” says Mobeen Zahid of the band Xarb, adding that monetary goals have become the driving motivation.

The concepts, however, are very much still there, as Habib points out: “I don’t want to say we don’t produce such music anymore; we may, hopefully, in the future.”

With the decade not even fully halfway yet, this special report is inclined to agree with him. The songs from today may become rebel anthems of tomorrow. As mentioned at the start of this section, the new talent is experimenting — which in its own way is resistance to conforming — and the impact of their music is yet to unfold.