To understand the PTI as merely another political party is to miss the phenomenon altogether. The PTI is not simply the story of one leader, one election cycle, or one episode of political engineering. It is the outcome of deeper structural shifts in Pakistani society over the last two decades – demographic transformation, the communications revolution, the rise of digital politics, the emergence of a restless middle class and the inability of traditional parties to adapt to a rapidly changing political landscape.

That is why the PTI should neither be treated as a mystery nor dismissed as a passing wave. It is a symptom of a changing society – and of politics that has been fundamentally reshaped by demographics, technology and narrative. To demystify the PTI, we must go back to the early 2000s. Between 2000 and 2009, during the Musharraf era, when the leadership of the two major political parties was in exile, Pakistan and the wider region went through three overlapping revolutions that quietly redrew the political map.

The first was demographic. Pakistan became an overwhelmingly young country. A large majority of our citizens fell below 30, and an even larger share below 40. The lowering of the voting age to 18 further widened the political space for first-time voters. This generation was fundamentally different. It was less tied to biradari loyalties, less deferential to inherited political arrangements, and more receptive to messages of disruption, authenticity and change. The second was the information revolution. The spread of private television channels broke the state’s ‘9pm Khabarnama’ monopoly over political narrative. Politics moved from controlled broadcasts into homes and drawing rooms. Debate became sharper, faster and more emotionally charged, and citizens were exposed to competing narratives.

The third and most transformative was the mobile and digital revolution. Television opened up politics, but mobile phones and social media transformed it. Cheap connectivity altered how people interacted, organised and formed opinions. Politics was no longer fought only through rallies, newspapers and local electables. It moved into timelines, clips, memes and WhatsApp groups. Narrative began to travel faster than organisation and emotion faster than fact.

These three shifts fundamentally changed the social foundations of politics, which brought forward a new middle-class urban and semi-urban youth, students, professionals, salaried households, overseas-linked families and first-generation graduates. Historically, these groups had remained bystanders in politics. Pakistan’s traditional political order was dominated by patronage, biradari networks and entrenched local hierarchies. But this new class was more educated, more connected,and more self-aware. Its expectations rose sharply. So did its frustration with a political system that did not speak its language.

This phenomenon was not unique to Pakistan. Across the world, traditional parties have come under pressure from insurgent movements that thrive on anger, anti-elite sentiment, moral absolutism and disruption. In India, the Anna Hazare movement of 2011 captured public frustration with corruption and governance failures. It created space for the Aam Aadmi Party, while Narendra Modi and the BJP recognised the shift and successfully weaponised anti-corruption and anti-dynasty politics against Congress to win the 2014 election.

The lesson was clear: when established parties fail to read structural change, new actors step in and convert social discontent into political capital. In Pakistan, however, this churn took a more distorted form. Here, the anti-political mood was not only spontaneous but also cultivated. During the Musharraf era, mainstream political parties were systematically delegitimised in the name of accountability. A sustained campaign portrayed traditional political leadership as corrupt, dynastic, incompetent and morally bankrupt to provide legitimacy to the martial law regime. An entire generation grew up absorbing this narrative. This messaging was relentless. It seeped into classrooms, television debates, and everyday conversations. Over time, it shaped perceptions so deeply that distrust of traditional politics became almost instinctive among large sections of the middle class.

This prepared the ground for a political force that could present itself as morally superior to the entire system. Imran Khan entered politics not as a conventional politician but as a celebrity outsider with enormous symbolic advantages. He brought with him fame, charisma and the image of personal integrity. More importantly, he connected with the emotional vocabulary of the emerging middle class. To many young Pakistanis, especially in urban and educated circles, he symbolised rebellion against a stagnant status quo.

By 2011, some elements within the establishment were projecting the PTI as an alternative national force. Its slogans were powerful and familiar: anti-corruption, anti-dynasty, anti-status quo, moral cleansing. But unlike genuine reform movements that build institutions, the PTI reduced politics to a morality play: one pure leader versus a corrupt political class. This framing was designed to fit the psychology of a media-driven society. In today’s political environment, outrage travels faster than policy. A slogan is easier to sell than a governance framework. A viral accusation spreads farther than a serious discussion. Despite this, PML-N won the 2013 election largely because performance still mattered. Governance in Punjab under CM Shehbaz Sharif had established the PMLN’s credibility on delivery. But what followed showed how difficult it had become for performance alone to survive in a toxic information ecosystem.

The 2014 Islamabad sit-in, engineered by a cobbled-together opposition alliance, was not another attempt to install Imran Khan in power after his 2013 election defeat by destabilising an elected government through agitation, spectacle and narrative warfare. When that effort failed, the campaign intensified through other means. The PTI and its sponsors invested early and aggressively in social media. They understood the grammar of the new battlefield long before anyone else, building digital networks, mobilising overseas supporters, penetrating campuses and mastering emotional messaging, hashtags and sustained vilification. This was narrative domination. Traditional parties were slow and complacent, being well entrenched in traditional power bases. They continued to rely on conventional modes of communication, while the PTI occupied digital space with relentless consistency. It did not just build support, it built belief.

This mattered because Pakistan’s institutions are not insulated from society. Judges, bureaucrats, military officers, media professionals and urban families all have roots in the middle classes and inhabit the same information ecosystem. Their perceptions were shaped by the same talk shows, social media trends and digital narratives. Over time, repetition creates acceptance. The irony is that this was happening precisely when the PML-N’s 2013–18 government was successfully delivering on major national challenges. The acute energy crisis was solved, terrorism was defeated, Infrastructure development was accelerated and CPEC emerged as a major transformative national initiative. By the logic of democratic politics, such performance should have ensured a smooth electoral victory. But in hyper-mediated politics, perception often overshadows performance.

The PTI’s rise to power in 2018 must be seen in this broader context. It was not the result of its popularity. It reflected a convergence of political engineering, judicial intervention and narrative warfare. The disqualification of prime minister Nawaz Sharif, the construction of a moral narrative around ‘Sadiq and Ameen’ by the Saqib Nisar-led judiciary and the controversial RTS collapse on election night all contributed to shaping the outcome for which a narrative had been built. Once in power, the PTI’s central weakness became evident. It was far better at mobilising anger than managing a state. Five finance ministers in a short span reflected economic incompetence. Political victimisation deepened with all senior PMLN leaders jailed on bogus charges. Media restrictions increased. Pakistan’s diplomatic standing weakened. The party that promised a ‘new Pakistan’ ended up reproducing and deepening many of the same patterns it had condemned.

Its removal through a vote of no-confidence in the constitution was, therefore, not a conspiracy but a democratic correction. However, the PTI’s most consequential turn came after its ouster. Instead of remaining in parliament and engaging politically, it pivoted towards grievance, victimhood and rage. The ‘foreign conspiracy’ narrative was layered onto its earlier themes. This gave supporters a powerful emotional framework: that their leader had been wronged by a grand betrayal. This is where the PTI evolved into a movement with cult-like characteristics. In such politics, devotion becomes identity and supporters are no longer just voters; they become believers. It is also at this stage that the party adopted one of the most dangerous traits of cult politics: attacking state institutions when they no longer aligned with its objectives.

For years, the PTI benefited from proximity to centres of power. But when that alignment fractured, its rhetoric turned sharply against the same institutions. Public anger was redirected away from democratic processes toward the state itself. Sadly, the PTI’s approach to politics reversed the progress in Pakistan for greater democratisation and took the country back to the politics of the 1990s. Yet, here lies the PTI’s deepest contradiction. While attacking state institutions publicly, it simultaneously seeks engagement with the very establishment it criticises. It bypasses parliament and elected governments, and instead calls for dialogue with unelected centres of power. It condemns the system, yet seeks accommodation within it. It attacks institutions, yet appeals to them for rescue. This is not principled democratic politics. It is expedient politics.

However, the party’s rise also reflects failures of traditional parties. Large segments of society – youth, professionals, women and first-generation educated citizens – felt excluded. They wanted participation, recognition and mobility. Instead, they encountered closed political structures. This alienation has not expressed itself only through the PTI. It is visible in other emerging patterns as well. The rise of Joint Action Committees in AJK and Gilgit-Baltistan, and the worrying ingress of some extremist groups among educated youth, are not isolated phenomena. They are symptoms of a deeper revolt by the middle classes against traditional politics, which they see as disconnected from their aspirations.

This problem is compounded by structural constraints. In a country of over 240 million people, democracy offers limited opportunity through a total of 1,085 national and provincial assembly seats. Democracy becomes a narrow gate, controlled by a small club. The failure to establish empowered local governments has worsened this exclusion. Despite the 18th Amendment, real grassroots devolution has not occurred. This creates a vacuum – and vacuums are filled by movements that thrive on grievance, identity and emotional mobilisation. That is why effective local government reform is essential. It can create thousands of leadership opportunities, channel youth energy constructively and reconnect democracy with everyday governance.

Demystifying the PTI, therefore, is not about denying its support but about understanding its roots. The PTI is not invincible. It is not inexplicable. It is the political expression of ignored social change, misused technology and unaddressed frustration. The answer is not simply to oppose the PTI but to outgrow the conditions that made it possible.

Traditional parties must open their doors to new voices. They must democratise internally, embrace digital engagement seriously and create space for youth, middle classes and professionals. They must strengthen local governments and make democracy inclusive. Above all, they must recognise a simple truth: the new middle class does not respond to patronage. It responds to ideas, dignity, participation, purpose, and seeks representation.

The PTI grew in the gap between a changing society and stagnant political structures. If that gap remains, the PTI or something very much like it will continue to thrive. If that gap is closed, the phenomenon will fade. That is how the PTI should be understood. And that is how it should be defeated.

The writer is the federal minister for planning, development, and special initiatives. He tweets/posts @betterpakistan and can be reached at: [email protected]

Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed in this piece are the writer’s own and don’t necessarily reflect Geo.tv’s editorial policy.

Originally published in The News