Ahmad Khan
Since the fall of Imran Khan’s government in April 2022 via a no-confidence motion, Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) has undergone a fundamental political transformation. Once a party with a central charismatic figure, supported by an organizational structure with ground workers and a parliamentary strategy, PTI has evolved—rather involuntarily—into a digital resistance movement. The core driver of this shift has been its unrelenting, organic, and often decentralized social media force.
PTI’s social media ecosystem, largely volunteer-driven, emerged not just as a messaging tool but as the sole engine of political mobilization after Imran Khan’s ouster. In a country where mainstream media largely muted PTI’s voice post-2022, the online platforms became the battleground. TikTok, X (formerly Twitter), YouTube, Facebook, and WhatsApp were transformed into digital arenas where the narrative of electoral injustice, anti-establishment critique, and populist resurgence was crafted and amplified.
What makes PTI’s social media unique is its consistency and agility. Unlike traditional political parties that rely on outdated press releases and stage-managed interviews, PTI’s digital foot soldiers produced memes, videos, threads, livestreams, and digital rallies that captivated and informed millions. During the 2024 general elections—when many PTI candidates were without formal tickets or symbols—the digital campaign was so potent that voters remembered candidates through borrowed or obscure electoral signs. This penetration wasn’t incidental; it was orchestrated entirely by an invisible, unpaid, and unrecognized digital machinery.
Contrary to the extraordinary performance of PTI’s digital warriors, the formal leadership structure—first, second, and third tier—failed to deliver. Many among them either surrendered politically, went underground, or struck compromise tones that didn’t resonate with the sentiment of the supporters. When the mandate was allegedly stolen in 2024, the situation demanded a strong, coordinated resistance led by political and organizational leadership.
Yet no such leadership emerged.
The calls for street protests were tepid and scattered. Without a coherent strategy, and with many leaders reluctant to step out due to fear of arrests or disqualification, PTI’s street presence vanished almost entirely. This raised a crucial contradiction: social media can raise awareness, shape opinion, and even swing elections—but it cannot physically occupy roads, lead sit-ins, or face tear gas. The digital warriors could mobilize attention, but they couldn’t substitute for the structural presence that a real political party requires.
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In a turn of events laden with irony, PTI’s internal rift now threatens the very machinery that has kept it alive. Increasingly, the formal leadership appears to be growing insecure and antagonistic toward the volunteer social media base. There are multiple reasons for this. First, the digital activists have publicly criticized PTI leaders for their silence and inaction. Second, the decentralized nature of digital influence undermines the traditional hierarchical command system of political parties. Third, the social media base often forces ideological accountability on leaders, who would otherwise prefer strategic ambiguity.
These tensions have led to visible friction. Social media influencers and anonymous PTI handles have started exposing internal incompetence, challenging leadership decisions, and pushing back against party discipline. Instead of embracing and integrating this vibrant base, parts of the PTI leadership seem intent on curtailing or discrediting it. This could prove catastrophic.
The leadership’s resistance toward its own social media base is not just an error of judgment—it is a strategic blunder. PTI is not operating in a normal political environment. It is a party that faces legal restrictions, media censorship, organizational dismantling, and systemic barriers. In such a context, any engine of mobilization—particularly one as effective as PTI’s social media—is not merely a support structure but a political necessity.
Alienating this base risks the complete disintegration of the party’s remaining influence. PTI is no longer a party of rallies, dharnas, or legislation. It is a party of narrative and perception. And in the absence of mainstream media and organizational resources, the only space left to shape perception is digital media. To attack the digital base is to dismantle PTI’s only remaining engine of relevance.
Despite its limitations, PTI’s social media has achieved feats unmatched by conventional political machines. It has built global awareness about the political crisis in Pakistan, kept the morale of supporters intact, and created alternative spaces for discourse. Culturally, it has popularized terms, slogans, and sentiments that have become part of the national political consciousness. Socially, it has created new influencers—political, satirical, analytical—who have assumed the roles once held by anchors and columnists.
Even from a policy perspective, PTI’s volunteer social media community has done more to explain and defend party positions than most of its formal spokespersons. This is not a sustainable model, but it’s the only viable one in the current context.
PTI’s social media base is more than just a support system—it is the lifeblood of the party’s post-2022 existence. Without it, PTI would have become a political relic after the 2024 elections. And if the current leadership continues to undermine, alienate, or disengage from this digital backbone, it won’t just lose a communication tool—it will lose the very soul of the post-Imran political movement.
The party faces a clear binary: either integrate, institutionalize, and respect its social media vanguard—or fade into irrelevance. In many ways, PTI’s social media is not just a redline—it’s the last line. The question is whether the party leadership understands this before it’s too late.
