In recent weeks, social media in Pakistan has been abuzz with a video from the University of Malakand’s 25th anniversary celebrations. Political Science lecturer Sajid Khan Mehsud, a Pashtun from Waziristan, joined students in performing the traditional Attan—a vigorous circle dance of claps, steps, and spins. The clip spread rapidly, evoking admiration for its cultural vibrancy but also drawing sharp criticism from conservative voices, who deemed it unbecoming for an academic in an Islamic context.
Scrolling through the comments one evening, I recalled my own experiences at Pashtun gatherings, where Attan erupts naturally during weddings or triumphs, binding communities in shared joy. It struck me how this innocent expression of heritage has become a battleground, reflecting broader tensions in Pakistani society between cultural identity and perceived religious purity.
The thesis is straightforward: Traditional, moderate dances like the Attan are not only permissible in Islam but align with historical precedents of celebrating joy and unity. Blanket condemnations risk erasing valuable cultural elements that enrich our faith rather than contradict it.
First, the Attan is deeply rooted in Pashtun culture, predating Islam yet harmoniously coexisting with it. Performed in segregated groups to mark victories, weddings, or festivals, it involves rhythmic movements symbolizing tribal solidarity and strength—far from sensual or frivolous. In Professor Mehsud’s case, it was a sanctioned university event, fostering camaraderie among diverse students.
Islamic history provides clear support for such expressions. Authentic narrations describe Abyssinians displaying skillful plays with spears in the Prophet’s mosque on Eid, which involved energetic movements. The Prophet (peace be upon him) shielded Aisha (may Allah be pleased with her) to watch, approving the display as a source of happiness. Another narration recounts Ja’far ibn Abi Talib hopping joyfully before the Prophet upon hearing praise resembling him in character and appearance—the Prophet did not object.
Sufi traditions, integral to Pakistani Islam, further illustrate this. Whirling dervishes, inspired by figures like Jalaluddin Rumi, use controlled movement in dhikr to symbolize the soul’s devotion to Allah. Rumi viewed such motion as an embodiment of divine love, reminding us that Islam embraces the body’s role in spiritual expression when done with sincerity.
Critics rightly oppose vulgar or mixed dances that incite desire, but equating a professor’s communal Attan to that is misguided—like confusing a warrior’s drill with indecency. In a nation grappling with youth disillusionment, these moments of cultural pride on campuses like Malakand can bridge ethnic divides and instill positive identity.
Looking ahead, educational institutions should develop guidelines promoting moderated cultural activities, drawing on Islamic precedents. Influencers and scholars could educate on these nuances, turning controversy into dialogue. By embracing such heritage, we strengthen a vibrant, inclusive ummah—one where faith and joy dance in harmony.
Professor Mehsud’s steps were not rebellion but reverence for tradition. Let’s celebrate that.
