The nearness of it all

Hadi Ali Chattha is more than just an accused

I was sitting at a table in a tea house in Multan with my mother when it suddenly struck me that this was the same table where Hadi used to sit with his students. He would place his notes in front of him and, without any ceremony, turn that small space into a classroom. There was nothing dramatic about it. It was just a lawyer from Multan teaching law to young people who trusted him enough to ask questions freely. 

Hadi and I are both from Multan. That shared geography matters more now than ever. In cities like ours, people are not distant public figures. They are part of your daily landscape. You see them at the district courts, at university corridors, at community gatherings, at tea houses where conversations stretch naturally from law to life. They are familiar. They are accessible. They are ours. 

When I first heard about the arrest and conviction of Hadi Ali Chattha and his wife, Imaan Mazari, it did not feel like something unfolding far away. It felt close to home. Imaan has long been visible because of her human rights work. She has taken on difficult constitutional cases and spoken firmly about issues she believes matter. Many people knew her name before this chapter began. Hadi, however, was known to us in a quieter way. He was present in our city, in our classrooms, in our everyday conversations. 

I met him in 2021. From the start, he was the kind of person who believed in other people’s potential more strongly than they believed in themselves. He would tell me I was wasting my law degrees and publications by hesitating to fully step into practice. He encouraged me to build something meaningful in Multan rather than waiting for the perfect opportunity elsewhere. He organized discussions, invited senior lawyers for conversations, and tried to cultivate a culture of serious legal engagement in a city that is often overlooked. 

He taught law, including corporate law, with the same commitment that he brought to constitutional principles. Corporate law demands discipline and clarity. It is about compliance, governance, and understanding how institutions function within structured rules. Hadi believed in systems. He believed that when laws are interpreted carefully and applied fairly, stability follows. At the same time, he represented vulnerable clients, often without charging them. For him, the Constitution was not a theoretical text. It was a safeguard meant to work in real lives. 

I remember one case that revealed his character more clearly than anything else. A young girl was referred to me. She had been trapped in a secret nikkah by an older man who already had children. He was threatening her, telling her his family would never accept her while also refusing to divorce her. She felt frightened and cornered. I took her to Hadi. He listened patiently and decided to take up her matter pro bono without hesitation. He did not ask what he would gain from it. He simply focused on how to protect her legally and restore her sense of security. That girl is still in touch with me. She often expresses gratitude for connecting her with a lawyer who was ready to help her when she had nowhere else to turn. That is the Hadi I know.

The charges against Hadi and Imaan relate primarily to online speech and protest related incidents. They were prosecuted under provisions of the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act and other criminal laws. In January 2026, a sessions court in Islamabad convicted them in what became known as the tweets case. Appeals were filed before the Islamabad High Court. In separate matters, including cases connected to protests, bail was later granted by an anti-terrorism court. However, their release depends on the suspension of the primary sentence, which remains under consideration. As of the most recent updates, that legal process continues. 

It forces us to think about how we preserve both stability and openness. How we maintain confidence in constitutional rights while acknowledging necessary limits. And how we ensure that ordinary lawyers from Multan who dedicate themselves to teaching, mentoring, and serving their community can continue to do so with dignity.

I am not writing this to debate the technicalities of the case. Courts are there to examine evidence and interpret the law, and that process must take its course. What weighs on me is something more personal and more difficult to articulate. It is the quiet unease that settles in when constitutional guarantees begin to feel fragile. 

On 15 February, I was invited as a guest speaker for a discussion on constitution making. I spoke to students about Article 19 of our Constitution, which guarantees freedom of speech subject to reasonable restrictions. I emphasized that no right is absolute. The Constitution itself recognizes limits in the interest of public order, security, and integrity. These limitations are part of any functioning legal system. 

Yet as I stood there, explaining these principles, I found myself thinking about Hadi. He had taught at that institution too. He had likely stood in that same space explaining both fundamental rights and corporate governance, helping students understand that law is about structure and responsibility. And I wondered what those students now think about the distance between what we teach and what we experience. 

The law depends on trust. Trust that if you operate within legal boundaries, you will be treated fairly. Trust that courts remain spaces where disagreements are resolved through reasoned judgment. When that trust feels uncertain, even slightly, it changes how young lawyers imagine their futures. It shapes whether they feel confident speaking, teaching, and engaging with complex issues. 

Hadi was not someone who sought confrontation. He was measured and deliberate. He believed in dialogue. He wanted students in Multan to feel that serious legal engagement was possible here, not only in larger cities. He wanted them to see the law as something steady and protective. 

Now, when I sit at that tea house table, the memory carries more weight. I think about how ordinary those afternoons were. The quiet discussions. The thoughtful pauses. The sense that law, properly understood, offers reassurance. Nothing about those moments suggested conflict. They suggested commitment to community. 

I understand that the state carries complex responsibilities. Balancing freedom with order is not simple. Courts operate under pressure. Institutions must weigh competing concerns. It is

precisely in such moments that constitutional guarantees matter most. They provide a framework within which disagreements can be addressed without fear. 

The proceedings before the Islamabad High Court therefore carry significance beyond the individuals involved. How speech related convictions are reviewed will influence how secure lawyers and students feel when engaging in public discourse. 

I still believe in the Constitution. I still believe in the courts. I believe that appellate review exists to ensure balance and fairness. But belief now comes with reflection. When someone like Hadi, a corporate law teacher and community lawyer who once sat at a tea house table guiding students and helping vulnerable clients, finds himself navigating such serious criminal proceedings, it forces us to pause. 

It forces us to think about how we preserve both stability and openness. How we maintain confidence in constitutional rights while acknowledging necessary limits. And how we ensure that ordinary lawyers from Multan who dedicate themselves to teaching, mentoring, and serving their community can continue to do so with dignity. 

For me, this is not about headlines. It is about the nearness of it all. A familiar table. A familiar city. And the hope that the principles we teach in our classrooms remain strong enough to protect those who believe in them.