n a Thursday evening in Old Lahore, the courtyard of Data Darbar fills with a familiar blend of sound. A group of qawwals sits under strings of yellow bulbs, their harmoniums and tablas tracing phrases familiar to South Asia for centuries.

For the hundreds who visit on these nights, the music is part of a living tradition.

In recent years, the visitors have included young people ---- teenagers and 20‑somethings in sneakers and windbreakers. One might see a girl in a faded denim jacket tie a saffron thread to the courtyard rail, murmuring a hope she keeps to herself. Nearby, others listen as verses weave praise and yearning to Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) and the imams (with whom Allah was pleased), absorbing the rhythm more than the theology.

Qawwali at shrines like Data Darbar and Bibian Pak Daman is well documented in Lahore’s cultural life. Performances on Thursday nights and during the annual urs celebration draw the religious, the grief-stricken, the musicians and listeners from across the province. Historically, devotional music at the shrine has been a space where poetry and spirituality meet. It continues to anchor the living practice for people of all ages.

The recent shift in the pattern of attendance is noteworthy. At smaller shrines tucked in narrow lanes near Bhati Gate and Mozang, students and young professionals can be found lingering in courtyards after classes and work. Some come for the qawwali sessions; others arrive early to sit with friends before the music begins.

At a lesser‑known shrine near Bhati Gate, a group of college students watches a live performance on a phone. Their friends attempt to record short clips. It is not performance for an outside audience but a way of keeping the moment alive between obligations and deadlines. What scholars like David Hall call “lived religion” emerges here as faith as practice and experience, rather than institutional adherence.

It is not only within shrine walls that qawwali resonates with young Lahoris. Across the city in cultural spaces and cafés, qawwali nights and Sufi music events draw listeners who might never make it to the Old City after dark. At these gatherings, the music carries the same poetry and cadence but is framed by a different social rhythm, one that feels more like gathering with friends than pilgrimage.

Shrines historically functioned as spaces of porous sociality, accommodating music, debate and movement across gender and class. Today, young visitors inhabit this flexibility differently. Their engagement is often quiet and introspective, yet inherently political: a subtle negotiation of identity in a city structured by surveillance, academic pressures and social scrutiny.

Among the visitors are young people ---- teenagers and 20‑somethings in sneakers and windbreakers ---- sitting cross‑legged on the cool marble. One might see a girl in a faded denim jacket tie a saffron thread to the courtyard rail, murmuring a hope she keeps to herself.

Millennials, who came of age in the 2000s, often lost this desi-ness somewhere along the way, swept up by Western pop, Bollywood remixes and streaming culture that prioritised global trends over local heritage. Ghazals by Mehdi Hassan or old devotional naats were replaced in playlists by Spotify recommendations, YouTube hits and hip-hop rhythms.

In another layer, shrines provide a subtle counterpoint to the constant pull of digital life. The Gen-Z Lahoris inhabit a world dominated by Instagram and X (formerly Twitter), streaming platforms and global entertainment: Netflix shows, TikTok trends, and Western music saturate their peer networks. The shrine, with its rhythms and ritualised pauses, offers an analogue experience. It is a sensory and temporal contrast to screens and algorithms.

In sociological terms, these sacred spaces function as cerebral refuges where young people reclaim attention and presence in ways that digital life rarely allows, blending heritage with contemporary identity work.

Shrines, for all their history and spiritual resonance, are not entirely safe spaces. Crowding, poor lighting in side alleys, lack of formal security and occasional harassment make some visits precarious, particularly for young women. These same risks have sparked a quiet form of collective responsibility among Gen Z visitors.

Friends will watch out for one another, documenting routes, sharing safe meeting points on social media and supporting smaller shrine caretakers who maintain order. In this sense, engagement with these spaces becomes both spiritual and civic, a way for youngsters to practice community vigilance, ethical participation and safety-conscious curiosity.

Encouraging awareness campaigns, better infrastructure and peer networks could help these historic spaces remain vibrant, meaningful and secure for generations to come.

By night’s end, the courtyard thins. Threads flutter like fragile records of intention and the harmoniums fade, leaving only the resonance of presence. Young visitors rise and slowly head out. Some drift towards the yellow lights of Model Town’s streets; some stop for a quick scoop of ice cream at Liberty. For young Lahoris, these moments articulate a claim that heritage can be experienced on one’s own terms, yet lived fully in the pulse of the city.

Kiva Malick is an academician and a writer. She focuses on education, philosophy, music and culture