Aesthetics of Suffering: Prison is not a poem. It is more than just the black-and-white images of small jail cells, more than a dull yellow light bulb barely hanging from the ceiling, and a boxy, shapeless uniform for the prisoner. From the supporters of Imran Khan sharing dramatised images with sad music overlays to global campaigns that make a jailed activist look marketable, the line between solidarity and visual consumption is blurred. This is how the aesthetic of incarceration is born.
What it means to Aesthetics incarceration:
It is simply the act of “romanticising” actions like imprisonment — turning real suffering into something that appears heroic or poetic. This deviates political suffering from its harsh reality and instead presents it as something visually appealing, emotionally touching, or merely ideologically polished. The horrors of a jail cell are blurred while the imprisoned are automatically painted as heroes. This presumed hero’s mental degradation, his family that is left behind, and a temporary, or at times permanent, pause imposed on his life are all collectively ignored while the public unintentionally commodifies the torment he undergoes, whether guilty of an actual crime or not. Surprisingly or not, most people’s response to the arrest of personalities they support does involve fancying the practice in the name of solidarity.
What is done out of noble intentions, to raise awareness and display support, often moulds one’s pain into a disposable object.
How do we end up there?
Through social media tools, customised merchandise, intolerance towards the views of a non-supporter, and even our day-to-day conversations. Whether it is an Instagram post that shrinks years of torture into one inspiring quote, chants like “qaidi number 804” from a flashy car out on the roads, or scarves with their silhouette wrapped around our necks, heedlessness towards a prisoner’s actual misery stays the course.
Let’s take the imprisonment of Imran Khan into account. Ever since he was jailed, Instagram has been flooded with reels and edits about Khan. Visuals from his past rallies and moving background audios, protest slogans, and interview pieces from his cricket era, and annual birthday-special posts with captions quoting, “breaks my heart that this is Khan’s second birthday in jail…” — is it really what the point is? Or is it political chaos turning into cinematic resistance?
It is not limited only to the people of today. It dates back to the 90s and beyond, when poets like Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Habib Jalib were incarcerated for the critical nature of some of their work. Faiz, as the editor of the Pakistan Times in 1951, was arrested for the alleged crime of conspiring to overthrow the government of Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan. During his term in prison, Faiz produced some of his most celebrated poetry: Zindan Nama and Dast e Saba. And while he endured the agonising reality of being isolated behind bars, his work subconsciously transformed prison itself into a place of reflection and resistance. While his work dignifies his then-experienced pain; he is often remembered more for the beauty of his resistance than the brutality of the repression that birthed it. This is what the subject of this piece endorses: that aestheticising incarceration is one of many branches of glorifying pain as a whole.
Beyond our local context
Figures like Nelson Mandela are an example of how this issue is a global phenomenon. Mandela remains one of the most widely respected political prisoners of all time — and perhaps one of the most aestheticised. His term in prison has been immortalised everywhere, be it in books, murals, social media posts, or films. His dignity and patience have been appreciated beyond limit; his prison number, 466/64, is now a global brand, yet little heed is paid to the physical, emotional, and psychological toll of 27 years of confinement. He must rightfully be a global symbol of peace and forgiveness, but we also witness the overshadowing of the inhumane prison system that sought to break him. Imprisonment must hence not be viewed as preparation for sainthood but rather as an act of dehumanisation.
The brutality of confinement is erased in the process of building the perfectly curated “Instagrammable” suffering. The torture, isolation, loss of dignity, time, and mental health are beyond measure. Political incarceration often results in the denial of family meetings and access to medical aid. Under such circumstances, a prisoner should not be stripped of his humanness by turning his pain into digestible and shareable content.
What would real advocacy look like?
As we agreed earlier, when we unintentionally aestheticise imprisonment, the actual intention is to display solidarity. And if the goal of solidarity is to honour the prisoners, then it must begin by recognising their pain in its raw, unfiltered form. Real solidarity is not romantic; it is rational and fuelled by education. It should not be based upon heart-touching quotations nor run by slogans and chants. Instead, it must take shape in material support.
Support the families left behind, legally demand humane prison conditions that stand on law, and advocate for the legal rights of the incarcerated. Educate those around you about the reality of the events that occurred, leading to imprisonment. Behind bars, what they lack the most is a voice that can be heard. Be that voice and not just more noise around them.
But always be ready to confront the uncomfortable truth: not everyone who is imprisoned is necessarily a victim of political oppression. The person you support can also be rightfully imprisoned; he might as well actually be guilty of a crime. Not every arrest has to be unjust, and every prison sentence has to be a mark of moral martyrdom. It may still be a tormenting experience to be jailed, as prison is dehumanising, despite the guilt. To challenge this, always resort to a sensible approach. And do so from a place of logic, not loyalty.
