On an ordinary April morning, Shehzad Ghias, a Pakistani comedian and political commentator, opened his inbox to a message that would thrust him into the heart of a geopolitical standoff. His YouTube channel, The Pakistan Experience, had been blocked in India. No warning. No context. Just silence, except, of course, from the Indian government, which days earlier had banned 16 Pakistani YouTube channels, including major news outlets like Geo News and ARY, as well as independent creators, for allegedly spreading ‘anti-India propaganda’ in the aftermath of the Pahalgam terror attack that killed 26 civilians.
Pakistan hit back a few days later, blocking 16 Indian YouTube channels and more than 30 websites. Officials said the move was in response to misinformation, but for most people watching from the sidelines, it felt like a digital tit-for-tat. The impact was immediate. Audiences on both sides suddenly found channels they followed for years, news, commentary, even comedy, just gone. For creators, it was worse. Viewership dropped overnight. So did ad revenue. Some had built their platforms over years, video by video, only to be cut off from a huge part of their audience in a matter of hours. And just like that, another fragile bridge between India and Pakistan, one that the internet had quietly held up, was gone.
What’s unfolding now is more than a tech policy spat. It’s a chilling glimpse into the future of digital expression in South Asia, where creators risk becoming collateral in state-led campaigns of narrative control, and platforms like YouTube quietly bow to political pressure. As bans tighten and borders extend into cyberspace, the open web promised to this region is beginning to splinter, one takedown at a time.
The ban explained
The Indian government didn’t hold back. Days after the April 22 terror attack, India’s Ministry of Information and Broadcasting issued a sweeping order. Sixteen Pakistani YouTube channels were to be blocked across Indian territory. The official reasoning? The channels were accused of spreading ‘fake news, anti-India propaganda, and content detrimental to national security.’ It wasn’t the first time India had pulled the plug on cross-border content, but it was, by far, the most high-profile.
Among the banned were some of Pakistan’s biggest names in mainstream media. Geo News, ARY News, Samaa TV, GNN and Dawn News all made the list. But it wasn’t just the news giants. Individual creators and digital-first platforms were targeted too. The list included Shoaib Akhtar’s cricket channel, the political podcast ‘The Pakistan Experience’, satire-driven commentary from CBA (Comics by Arslan), and a few lesser-known but fast-growing digital voices. The move sent a clear signal — no channel was too big or too niche to be blocked.
India’s stance was firm. The content in question, authorities said, was harmful to public order and had the potential to incite communal unrest. Much of it, they claimed, painted a distorted picture of events in Kashmir, India’s internal security situation, and foreign policy. While India’s information ministry didn’t go into the specifics of each channel’s alleged violations, the language used left little room for interpretation. In their view, these channels were a threat, digitally armed with narratives that didn’t align with New Delhi’s version of events.
This wasn’t new territory for India. Back in 2022, the government blocked 35 Pakistan-based YouTube channels in one go. The reasoning then was similar, misinformation, threats to sovereignty, and manipulation of Indian audiences. At the time, many of the channels had relatively small followings. This time, though, the stakes were much higher. Several of the blocked channels had large Indian audiences, some reaching into the millions. Their removal wasn’t just symbolic, it disrupted an entire ecosystem of regional storytelling, commentary and online exchange.
For the creators, the ban came like a rug pulled out from under them. There was no advance notice, no strike warnings, no appeals process. One day they were live across South Asia, the next day they were gone from India’s digital landscape. Traffic dropped instantly. Monetization took a hit, especially for those who relied on Indian ad impressions. Even audience interaction slowed down as viewers from across the border vanished overnight.
Some creators, like Shehzad Ghias, took it in stride, with sarcasm, frustration, and a touch of resignation. Others, particularly in the news industry, saw it as part of a broader trend where governments are increasingly controlling who gets to speak and who gets to listen. There’s also a growing sense that platforms like YouTube are walking a fine line. While they technically follow local laws, they’re rarely transparent about how takedown requests are handled or whether content actually violates their community standards.
What’s clear is that the aftermath of this ban isn’t just about numbers or lost views. It’s about silencing voices that were already working on the margins. It’s about cutting off one of the last few spaces where Indians and Pakistanis could hear each other without filters, anchors or agendas. And in the current climate, that silence speaks volumes.
Voices from the shadows
For Ghias, the news came via email. A short note from YouTube telling him that his podcast, The Pakistan Experience, had been blocked in India. He read it, laughed out loud, and shook his head. “I never thought I’d be banned by the Indian government before the Pakistani one,” he said while laughing. “It was even more amusing to see the initial list of 16 banned channels, it had Pakistan's mainstream news channels along with our little podcast channel.”
But once the joke faded, the reality set in. About 30 percent of his audience came from India. That’s a big chunk. “I am guessing we will not lose most of them, they will still watch using VPNs,” he added. But that connection, being accessible without any barriers, is now gone.
The ban hit more than just numbers. Creators like Shehzad aren’t just chasing views. They’re building communities, trying to create space for honest, critical conversations, something mainstream platforms often avoid. When a country as big as India cuts off that access, it narrows the conversation. “If the truth is a threat to someone,” he said, “then the problem lies with them.”
To Shehzad, this wasn’t about national security. It was censorship, clear and simple. “Calling our channel a national security risk for India is nothing short of a joke,” he said.
That’s the part that stings for many creators - the silencing. For years, YouTube had allowed a space, however messy or unpredictable, for cross-border engagement. Pakistanis and Indians argued, laughed, agreed, disagreed, but they listened to each other. Now that space is shrinking.
Shehzad believes this isn’t going to stop political commentary. “Commentators in Pakistan make videos with the ever-looming threat of a Black Vigo, a ban in India is unlikely to deter them.” But he admits the message is loud and clear. “Repression is used around the world to silence critical voices, and to signal to others to fall in line, those who truly believe in what they say continue on despite the hurdles.”
The ban has also exposed the double standards of global platforms. Shehzad doesn’t expect YouTube to fight back. “Big tech will always follow the money,” he said. “To expect YouTube to side with the freedoms of a few content creators of the might of the Indian Economy is naive in my opinion.” According to him, platforms have made peace with the idea that they’ll say one thing about freedom of expression and do another when a government comes knocking.
Still, what hurts more than the algorithm or the analytics is the sense of being cut off. “The jingoism that you now see on mainstream Indian news shows why the Indian Government might have severed their population from critical voices from Pakistan,” Shehzad said. “If Indian audiences were exposed to what we were saying they might be less likely to believe in every piece of propaganda put forward by the far-right Indian media.”
He isn’t alone in that thinking. Many digital creators in Pakistan believe that while politicians build fences, they had been quietly breaking them, through stories, podcasts, comedy, cricket banter. Now it feels like the internet itself is being carved up into territories.
Shehzad isn’t changing his content. He won’t soften his tone. But the ban has forced him, and others, to rethink what it means to operate in a region where one takedown can wipe out years of work.
Cross-border digital tensions
While creators like Shehzad are directly impacted by the ban, the ripple effects go far beyond subscriber counts and video views. The situation points to a much larger problem, one that has to do with how states are trying to redraw borders on the internet, and how tech platforms are quietly letting it happen.
Asad Baig, Executive Director and founder of Media Matters for Democracy (MMfD), has been watching this space for years. For him, India’s move to block 16 Pakistani YouTube channels isn’t just another policy decision. It’s something deeper.
“India is setting a deeply problematic precedent by using regulatory powers to silence cross-border speech,” he said. “These actions represent a shift from democratic digital governance to a securitised model of internet control. Blocking entire channels suggests an unwillingness to engage with pluralistic discourse. This doesn’t just harm creators in Pakistan; it restricts Indian audiences from accessing diverse regional perspectives, especially around conflict and diplomacy.”
According to Baig, this doesn’t only hurt Pakistani creators, it affects Indian audiences too. By cutting off these channels, India is creating “an act of information isolation, not protection.” It limits the kinds of perspectives Indian viewers are exposed to, especially on issues like Kashmir, foreign policy, and diplomacy.
This approach, he added, shows an unwillingness to engage with pluralistic discourse. And it’s not just about governments. The platforms themselves are complicit.
“YouTube and others often defer to local legal frameworks, even when those frameworks are being used to suppress free expression,” Baig said. What’s worse, he explained, is the lack of transparency. “The compliance is usually opaque. Platforms rarely clarify the legal grounds or whether content violates platform policies.”
He believes that in high-growth markets like India, where political pressure runs high, platforms tend to over-comply. “In India’s case, where freedom of expression is increasingly under strain, platforms have a responsibility to apply higher scrutiny, particularly when the takedowns target journalistic or political content. Unfortunately, platforms tend to over-comply in high-growth markets like India, prioritising access to user bases over rights,” he said.
And this is where the situation becomes dangerous, not just for Pakistanis, but for the broader digital region. “India’s bans may embolden similar retaliatory actions from other states,” Baig said. “It shifts content moderation from a question of community safety to one of nationalistic control.” And that, he warned, is already creating a chilling effect for independent voices on both sides of the border.
He didn’t hold back on what platforms like YouTube should be doing either.
“YouTube must be held to a far higher standard of transparency in politically sensitive contexts,” Baig said. At the very least, he believes, they should disclose when content has been blocked due to government requests, clearly state the legal justifications, and differentiate these from violations of community guidelines. “Without this, platforms become silent enablers of Indian state censorship.”
And for Pakistani creators, he had a message — don’t rely on a single platform. “Creators must understand that platform policies and geopolitical trends increasingly overlap,” he said. His advice? Diversify. “Explore other platforms, email newsletters, even independent hosting.”
More importantly, he urged creators to document what’s happening. “They should build solidarity with regional and international digital rights networks. It’s no longer enough to produce content, you have to defend your right to be seen.”
Baig also pointed out the elephant in the room, Pakistan’s own history of banning Indian content. While not defending the tit-for-tat, he put it in context.
“While blocking content is never an ideal solution, it’s important to recognise who set this precedent,” he said. “India has aggressively used its regulatory powers to censor Pakistani news and independent voices across platforms. Pakistan’s response, while not commendable in itself, is clearly reactive, maybe even seen as a defensive measure in an increasingly hostile digital environment shaped by India’s actions.”
He stressed that this escalation didn’t happen in a vacuum. “India, as a much larger digital market and regional power, bears significant responsibility for triggering this race to the bottom.” What’s needed now, he said, isn’t more mutual censorship. “India needs to step back from its hyper-nationalist digital posture and re-commit to regional openness and informational exchange. And Pakistan shouldn’t follow the same flawed logic introduced by India.”
In the end, Baig said this fight isn’t just about India or Pakistan, it’s about the future of the internet in South Asia.
“What’s at stake is whether platforms like YouTube can uphold any consistent standard of rights across jurisdictions or whether they’ll bend entirely to political pressure,” he said. “If companies don’t step up, the internet in South Asia could become a fragmented, platform-controlled patchwork, unrecognisable from the open web we were promised.”
What lies ahead
This isn’t just about blocked videos or regional rivalries playing out online. What’s happening now feels like a shift. The internet, once imagined as a space where borders mattered less, is slowly starting to mirror the political divides on the ground. And for creators, audiences, and even tech platforms, that shift is becoming harder to ignore.
For Pakistani YouTubers, the ban isn’t just a content issue, it’s personal. Their stories, opinions, and creative work are no longer reaching a massive audience that once engaged with them freely. For Indian viewers, it means being cut off from perspectives they may not always agree with, but that were part of a much-needed regional dialogue.
The ban also raises tough questions for platforms like YouTube. Can they really call themselves champions of free speech if they quietly give in to political pressure every time a government pushes back? If a creator’s visibility can be erased overnight because a country doesn’t like what they say, then what kind of internet are we building?
And what about the viewers, the millions who tuned in not for politics but for shared laughs, cricket commentary, or longform conversations about society and life on the other side of the border? They’ve lost something too. A small but meaningful connection that survived despite history, headlines, and hostilities.
What’s clear is this. The more governments turn the internet into a battleground, the more it loses the openness that once made it powerful. And while creators like Shehzad continue speaking up, and experts like Asad call out the system, it’s hard not to feel that something important is slipping away.
But not all hope is lost. People are still watching through VPNs. Conversations are still happening in smaller corners of the web. Creators are finding new platforms, new ways to reach out. Because the truth is, while states may try to silence voices, stories have a way of finding their way through.
The question now is, who gets to decide what we hear, and who we hear it from?
And maybe more importantly, who’s still listening?