Quick answer: On October 4, 2026, the Lahore High Court banned police, FIA and Excise officers from arranging media interviews or broadcasting confessional statements of under-custody suspects. Justice Ali Zia Bajwa held that arrest does not strip an accused of dignity (Article 14), liberty (Article 9) or fair trial (Article 10A); coerced or publicised confessions amount to persecution; any violation invites misconduct proceedings against the responsible officers.
What did the Lahore High Court actually ban?
Not journalism. Let's get that out of the way first.
The court did not ban reporting on crime. Reporters can still cover arrests, trials, and judgments. What Justice Ali Zia Bajwa's ruling banned is the specific, ugly practice we have all watched on television for years: an accused person, hands in cuffs, sitting in a police station or an FIA office, "confessing" into a news camera — or worse, being made to answer a reporter's questions about the very case the police are still investigating.
The judgment, delivered on a public interest petition filed by Advocate Vishal Riaz, covers three things.
One: no facilitated interviews. Police, FIA, the Excise Department, and every other law-enforcement agency cannot arrange, permit, or facilitate media interviews of anyone in their custody. No sitting the accused in front of cameras. No bringing reporters into the lock-up. No "exclusive" statements recorded inside a police station.
Two: no broadcast of confessional statements. Even if a suspect "agrees" to speak, the recording and broadcasting of his confessional statement is prohibited. This matters because a confession made in front of cameras, with police officers standing behind the reporter, is not a free statement. It is theatre — and often coercion dressed up as theatre.
Three: no parading for the media at checkpoints. The judge specifically condemned the habit of keeping media teams present at police checkpoints (nakay) so that detained citizens get humiliated on camera. An arrest at a checkpoint that is staged for the evening news treats the citizen as a prop, not a person.
That last point hit hard, because it is so common. Ask anyone who has ever been stopped and searched at a naka in Lahore or Rawalpindi — the cameras arrive, the reporter asks the officer a leading question, and the detained man is suddenly the villain of a 90-second news package before any magistrate has even heard of his case.
"An arrest, however lawful, does not strip the accused of fundamental rights"
That sentence is the heart of the judgment. Read it twice.
In Pakistan's criminal practice, there is an unspoken assumption that once someone is handcuffed, he stops being a full citizen. The lock-up becomes a rights-free zone. Officers act as if dignity is something you check at the station door.
Justice Bajwa dismantled that assumption head-on. The Constitution's Article 14 (dignity of man), Article 9 (security of person), and Article 10-A (right to fair trial and due process) do not carry a footnote saying "except when the police have you in custody." They apply — fully, and especially — to the man in the lock-up. Mere tajurbe me aksar, I have seen magistrates and even senior lawyers shrug at lock-up humiliation as if it were part of the process. It is not. The court has now said so, on the record, in a detailed judgment.
Coerced or publicised confessions, the judge observed, are a form of persecution. That is a strong word, and it was chosen deliberately. It reframes the practice: this is not a PR tactic gone wrong. It is state-adjacent punishment of a person who has not been convicted of anything.
The "media trial" problem — and why even the agencies admit it backfires
Ask yourself: why does the police invite cameras to the confession in the first place?
Officially, the answer is transparency. Unofficially, it is pressure — pressure on the suspect, on his family, and on the magistrate. A "confession" on television poisons the public mind. By the time the challan reaches the Sessions Court, half the city has already decided the accused is guilty. Witnesses watch the same channels. Sometimes even investigating officers start believing the television version of their own case.
Here is the twist that makes this judgment so significant: the agencies themselves conceded the practice damages them. During the proceedings, the police, FIA, and other departments acknowledged that publicising a suspect's confession weakens their own prosecution cases. It gives the defence ammunition — the confessional video becomes evidence of coercion, of prejudice, of a compromised investigation. It also leaks case details before trial, letting accomplices flee or destroy evidence.
So this is not the court versus the police. The police told the court the practice hurts their work. The judgment simply turned that admission into law.
Aksar log ye ghalti karte hain — they assume the confession-on-TV helps convict the bad guy. It doesn't. It helps acquit him.
What do the new guidelines mean in practice?
The court issued strict, written guidelines. Let me translate them from legal language into what changes on the ground.
For every SHO, investigating officer, and agency official: you may not facilitate a media interview of any person in your custody. Full stop. Not the serious-crime suspect. Not the "high-profile" accused. Not the man the news channels are already speculating about. Nobody.
For checkpoint operations: media teams are not to be invited or allowed at nakay for the purpose of filming detained citizens. Citizens stopped at checkpoints have the same dignity as anyone else. Filming them for humiliation's sake is banned.
For agency heads: compliance is their personal responsibility. The judgment places the burden of enforcement on the heads of the police, FIA, and Excise Department. If an officer arranges a camera confession, the head of the agency cannot say he didn't know. Ignorance will not be an excuse — which means circulars, training, and internal monitoring are now mandatory, not optional.
For the media: the court did not gag the press. Freedom of expression remains. But freedom of expression does not override the dignity, privacy, and fair-trial rights of a suspect. The media was urged to show responsibility and restraint — to report the facts of the case without turning the accused into a spectacle.
What happens to an officer who violates the order?
This is the part that gives the ruling teeth.
Justice Bajwa directed that any violation of the guidelines would lead to misconduct proceedings against the responsible officers. In Pakistan's service law, misconduct proceedings are serious business. They can mean suspension, demotion, dismissal, or — at minimum — a disciplinary record that follows an officer for the rest of his career.
Think about what that does to incentives. Earlier, an officer who arranged a confessional video for the cameras might get a pat on the back — the case looked "solved" on television. Now the same officer faces disciplinary proceedings. The risk-reward calculation has flipped.
And because agency heads carry compliance responsibility, a violation also puts the senior command in the dock of accountability. A DIG or an FIA director who lets this slide is now answerable.
Why did the court criticise PEMRA and PTA?
The judge didn't stop at the police. PEMRA (the electronic media regulator) and PTA (the telecom regulator) came in for pointed criticism for failing to stop the practice from the broadcast end.
The logic is straightforward. PEMRA licenses the news channels and sets the code of conduct they must follow. PTA regulates the platforms where these videos circulate. If a channel airs a lock-up "confession" that humiliates a suspect and prejudices a trial, that is not a one-off news decision — it is a systemic failure of regulation. And it has been happening for years.
Mere tajurbe me aksar, regulators in Pakistan act only after damage is done — a complaint here, a notice there, months late. The court wants proactive monitoring: regulatory authorities must ensure media conduct stays within legal limits and does not trample fundamental rights.
The Advocate General Punjab, appearing in the proceedings, acknowledged the harm. He told the court that such media practices damage the suspects' self-respect and corrode the broader justice system. When the province's top law officer agrees the practice is rotten, the argument is over.
If you get arrested: your rights after this ruling
Let's make this practical. Rights on paper mean nothing unless you know them when the handcuffs click.
You have the right to silence. Under the law of evidence in Pakistan, a confession made to a police officer is inadmissible — it cannot be used against you in court (Section 25 of the Qanun-e-Shahadat Order, 1984). A confession on a news camera, arranged by those same officers, is even weaker legally. But it can destroy you socially long before any court hears your case.
You have the right not to be paraded. No officer may invite cameras to film you at a checkpoint or in the station for a "confession." If it happens, it is now a violation of a High Court order — and grounds for misconduct proceedings against the officers involved, plus a possible constitutional petition by you or your family.
You have the right to a lawyer. Demand one. Immediately. The Constitution guarantees the right to consult and be defended by a legal practitioner of your choice (Article 10). The moment a lawyer is involved, the camera games usually stop — because officers know a lawyer will document the abuse.
You have the right to dignity. Article 14 is not poetry. After this judgment, it is an enforceable shield. Humiliation for media entertainment is persecution, in the court's own words.
One more thing. If your family sees you on television being made to "confess" — do not panic, and do not let anyone convince you to talk to the media to "clarify" things. Call a lawyer first. Always the lawyer first.
What if you're the victim's family?
This ruling may feel like a loss for you. Your loved one was harmed, and now the suspect can't be shown on television admitting it? That can feel like injustice.
It isn't. Let me explain why media silence actually helps your case.
First, a televised confession can weaken the prosecution. The agencies admitted it themselves in court. A defence lawyer will play that video before the Sessions Judge and argue coercion — and if the "confession" was extracted for cameras, that argument has real bite. Cases have collapsed on exactly this ground.
Second, media noise can prejudice the accused — which sounds good to you — but prejudice cuts both ways. If public pressure becomes the real judge, the trial becomes theatre, witnesses get influenced, and the verdict loses its legitimacy. A clean, quiet prosecution produces a conviction that stands up in appeal. A media circus produces a conviction that gets set aside — and then the accused walks free and your family is back at square one.
Third, once the trial is over and the court has convicted the man, the verdict is public. Nobody is protecting him then. The ban protects the process, not the criminal.
The mistake almost everyone makes: "confessing" on camera to look innocent
Aksar log ye ghalti karte hain — and I see it constantly. An arrested man, told the cameras are waiting, thinks: "If I speak nicely and explain myself, people will see I'm innocent." His family sometimes agrees. They think the camera is a megaphone.
It is a trap. Whatever you say on camera is on the record of public opinion forever. You cannot unsay it. You cannot control the edit — the channel decides which ten seconds air. And your words can be twisted in the trial itself: "The accused admitted on television that he was present at the scene," the prosecutor will say, even if your admission was a frightened babble about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The rule is simple: never make statements about your case to the media, ever, without your lawyer standing beside you — and even then, usually not at all. Your statement belongs before the magistrate and the Sessions Judge, recorded properly, with safeguards. Not in a 9 p.m. bulletin.
Practical guidance for lawyers handling high-profile arrests
This ruling is a new tool in the practitioner's kit. Use it.
At the police station: If officers are entertaining reporters or threatening a media "interview," cite the LHC order immediately — by name, in writing, in the station diary if necessary. Officers now face misconduct proceedings for violating it. That changes the conversation fast.
Before the magistrate: If a remand is being sought and the accused has been shown on television, raise it in the remand proceedings. Prejudice and humiliation are relevant to the propriety of further remand, and now you have a High Court judgment saying the practice is persecution.
During trial: A broadcast confession is gold for the defence and poison for the prosecution. If you are defending, obtain the broadcast (channels archive their bulletins), and use it to demonstrate coercion, prejudice, and compromise of the investigation. If you are assisting the prosecution, advise the investigation team to keep media completely away from the accused — the agencies' own admission in this judgment helps you make that case.
If the order is violated: Document everything — channel name, time of broadcast, the officers visible or identifiable. Then move: a complaint to the agency head (who now bears compliance responsibility), a contempt or constitutional petition before the High Court, and a complaint to PEMRA against the channel. The judgment gives you the foundation for all three.
Two stories that show why this ruling matters
Ahmed from Rawalpindi — picked up, paraded, presumed guilty
Ahmed, 32, ran a mobile accessories shop near Saddar in Rawalpindi. One evening in early 2026, a district police team picked him up in a theft investigation — his number had appeared in a suspect's call record. He was held at the station for two nights.
On the second night, a reporter was brought in. The camera rolled. Ahmed, exhausted and frightened, was made to "answer" questions about the theft. The bulletin ran that night: his face, his name, the police officer nodding beside him. His shop's regular customers watched it. By morning, half the market was certain he was a thief.
Three weeks later, the call record was explained — a wrong-number call, nothing more. Ahmed was discharged. No challan. No case. But the video never went away. People in his market still bring it up. "Wohi jo TV par aaya tha," they say.
That is exactly what Justice Bajwa called persecution. Ahmed was never tried, never convicted — but he was punished, on television, by the state.
The Chaudhry family of Faisalabad — when the viral confession destroyed a strong case
In Faisalabad, a family lost their 24-year-old son in a street robbery. The police arrested a suspect quickly and — eager to show progress — arranged for him to "confess" on a news channel. The video went viral across WhatsApp. The family felt vindicated. Justice, they thought, was working.
At trial, the defence lawyer played the broadcast in open court. Frame by frame, he argued the confession was extracted for the cameras — the suspect was trembling, officers were visible just out of frame, and the statement was never recorded before a magistrate. The judge could not treat it as a valid confession. Without the confession, the prosecution's case relied on weak identification evidence. The suspect was acquitted of the main charge.
The family lost twice: once to the robbers, and once to a police force that chose a television moment over a courtroom conviction. If the officers had kept the cameras away and done the slow, boring work of evidence, the verdict might have been different. That is the prosecution-side lesson of this judgment, and the agencies admitted it themselves.
Frequently asked questions
Does this ruling ban news channels from reporting on arrests?
No. Channels can still report that someone was arrested, what the FIR says, and what happens in court. What they cannot do is air an "interview" or confessional statement of a person in custody — the ban targets the practice of making the accused perform for cameras while detained, not crime reporting itself.
Can a suspect agree to give an interview? Doesn't consent fix it?
The court banned the broadcast even where the suspect appears willing — because consent given inside a police lock-up, with officers watching, is not free consent. That is the whole point. Once you are in custody, you cannot meaningfully "agree" to anything in front of the people holding you. The ruling protects you from yourself, in a sense.
What about videos the suspect records himself and gives to the media?
Still prohibited if he is in custody. The ban covers recording and broadcasting of confessional statements of under-custody suspects — the custody status is what triggers it, not who pressed record. Once a person is released on bail or discharged, the situation changes.
Does the ban apply to all of Pakistan or only Punjab?
The order was issued by the Lahore High Court, so it binds directly within Punjab's jurisdiction — district police, FIA offices, Excise Department within the province. But its reasoning draws on constitutional rights, which are the same everywhere, and lawyers in other provinces will cite it as persuasive authority. Expect similar petitions in Sindh and KP courts soon.
What law makes a confession to police inadmissible anyway?
Section 25 of the Qanun-e-Shahadat Order, 1984: no confession made to a police officer can be proved against the accused. Section 26 covers confessions made in police custody generally. These provisions exist precisely because custody produces unreliable statements — the new ruling extends the same logic to the television screen.
What should I do if my relative's video is already on the air?
Act fast. Get your lawyer to write to the channel and PEMRA demanding the footage be pulled, citing the LHC order. Keep a recording of the broadcast as evidence — it may help the defence later and supports a misconduct complaint. Do not give the media a counter-interview; talk only through your lawyer.
Can a journalist be punished for airing such an interview?
The judgment directs misconduct proceedings against the responsible officers — the police and agency side. For the media side, enforcement runs through PEMRA's code of conduct: the regulator is expected to monitor and act against channels that air custody "confessions." A channel could face PEMRA action, and the broadcast itself can be used in court to challenge the fairness of the proceedings.
Does this affect CCTV footage of crimes being aired on news?
No — that is different. News footage of a robbery, a crash, or a public incident is reporting. The ban is specific to interviews and confessional statements of persons in custody. Footage of a crime scene is not a statement by an accused.
What does "misconduct proceedings" actually mean for an officer?
It means formal disciplinary action under the officer's service rules — depending on rank, this can include censure, withholding of promotion, demotion, compulsory retirement, or dismissal. For a police officer in Punjab, that runs through the departmental accountability framework. It is not a warning letter; it is a career-threatening process.
What to keep ready: a short checklist
If someone in your family is arrested and there is media interest, don't rely on memory in the panic. Keep it simple.
- Your lawyer's number, saved in every family member's phone — call before talking to anyone, including reporters.
- A written note of everything that happens: time of arrest, officers' names if visible, whether cameras were present, channel names. Dates and times matter.
- A copy of the FIR, once registered — your lawyer can obtain it; it is the document the media should be reading, not your relative's frightened face.
- If a broadcast happens, a recording of it (screen recording, with date and channel visible) — this is evidence for a misconduct complaint and for the trial.
- No statements to media. Not "just one clarification." Not "to set the record straight." None.
The sight of a handcuffed man "confessing" into a microphone has been part of Pakistan's evening news for so long that we stopped noticing how strange — how wrong — it is. No courtroom. No judge. No lawyer. Just a reporter, a camera, and a frightened person surrounded by the people who arrested him, telling the nation what they want to hear.
On October 4, 2026, the Lahore High Court called it what it is: persecution. Not justice, not transparency, not public interest — persecution. And it gave the practice a burial with teeth: guidelines every agency head must enforce, misconduct proceedings for every officer who ignores them, and a reminder to the regulators that silence is complicity.
The judgment won't stop with the agencies. It asks something of the rest of us, too — to stop treating a televised accusation as a verdict, to let the courts do the judging, and to remember that the man on the screen has a name, a family, and rights that no arrest can cancel. Justice that needs a camera is not justice. It never was.