he people have the power to turn individuals into symbols. These symbols turn into posters, and shortly after, posters into permission slips. We act surprised when a symbol wobbles; soon the permission collapses. The problem isn’t that individuals are imperfect; it’s the pedestal that demands a single, flattering story. Everything that does not fit the story is trimmed away, dehumanising a person into an emblem. Scrutiny thus feels like disrespect or bad-faith.

It is a communication strategy, not just culture. Classic propaganda isn’t only about censoring facts. It is also about replacing complex systems of power with a single face that is easier to sell and share. Because people share people, not processes, moral tales spread faster than policy specifics. The result is a shortcut for what Herman and Chomsky call manufacturing consent, through fear, affection, aspiration and repetition.

The pedestal manifests in several ways. First, the halo effect, as argued by social psychologist, Edward Thorndike. An admired trait is made to certify others. A stirring speech or visible sacrifice becomes a proxy for competence as we skip the monotonous but necessary checks on governance. Media logic reinforces it through human-interest arcs; elite-friendly sourcing privileges the already audible; and flattering frames of PR campaigns. In this situation, criticism triggers organised backlash in the form of campaigns and dog-whistles, that redefine honest questions as betrayal. The person on the pedestal gains a reputational force field. The institutions lower their guard, trusting the person and replacing due process.

Second, the scapegoat cycle. Pedestals elevate as well as set up the downfall. After pinning too much hope on one person, the inevitable disappointment gets weaponised by opponents or the media to discredit the cause or avoid real reform. As natural-cycle contradictions surface, the narrative shifts from sainthood to expulsion. The cause is discredited by one person’s flaw, as if the poster was the plan. Public is left with cynicism instead of reform. This is when we hear “everyone is fake,” “nothing changes.” We learn nothing in between.

Third, platform amplification. On social platforms, repetition and a false sense of familiarity put people on algorithmic pedestals, where nuance thins out and certainty spreads. When a single face is tied to a cause, the economics of virality reward the simplest, digestible snippets and drops the context. The dynamics that crown symbols can also destroy them, but the systems underneath remain unexamined. The poster is not a constitution.

To retire the pedestal is not to empty public life of inspiration. It is to insist that inspiration is not a cover. We can honour a contribution without sanctifying the contributor, just as we can criticise without erasing a life. The point is to keep the tool and bin the plinth.

The phenomenon is dangerous for reasons that matter in Pakistan. It lures the public into fantasy. Since worship is quicker than judgment and fury easier than reform, we outsource thinking to charisma and then outsource blame to the same address. In the process, we stop asking slow questions on how accountability works. It also damages institutions by corroding oversight. If character is assumed to guarantee outcomes, scrutiny can feel like rudeness and procedure becomes optional. As a result, systems drift toward personality cults or permanent emergency. Finally, it is also harmful for the person on the pedestal. To be canonised is to be flattened. Private contradictions are stockpiled as future ammunition. The risk is a saint or a scandal, never a citizen among citizens.

The alternative is simple. Critical admiration that doesn’t demand innocence and criticism that doesn’t demand annihilation. Keep what works, be honest about the harm, but don’t confuse a method with the man. In practice, that means shifting attention from faces to repertoires. This calls for a form of civic action outlasting a biography.

Feminist movements have come up with sturdier vocabulary. Consider three patterns visible across places as different as Istanbul’s Saturday Mothers, Argentina’s Mothers/ Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo and the Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace. We witness weekly rhythms that turn politics from emergency into practice. This is followed by documentation of names, dates and case files to build institutional memory. Finally, a coalition that earns legitimacy through breadth, not lightning in a bottle. These repertoires resist the pedestal because the work stays collective. The record becomes the centre of gravity.

To retire the pedestal is not to empty public life of inspiration; it is to insist that inspiration is not a cover. We can honour a contribution without sanctifying the contributor, just as we can criticise without erasing a life. The point is to keep the tool and bin the plinth.

This change lowers the heat in debates. If we stop pretending that important figures are flawless, we will also overcome the need to call critics our enemies. It will refocus our energy on institutions and durable public records that are hard to distort and easy to continue.

The pedestal makes striking photographs; institutions make durable freedoms. If we want less theatre and more justice, we should stop asking for saints and start demanding systems. Keep the best tools of our traditions - non-violence as developed by Gene Sharp among them - without outsourcing judgment to a face. A republic is built by habits and records, not halos.

Admiration without cover, goes hand in hand with criticism without annihilation. That is the mature attitude of a public that refuses to be managed by posters.

The writer is a doctoral student at Kent State University, USA. Her research interests include media, gender and technology in the Global South.