She walks fast, eyes fixed on the ground, her dupatta pulled tightly over her head-not for modesty, but as armor against the unrelenting gaze of men who claim the streets as their own. At the bus stop, she stands cautiously, calculating her distance from the staring eyes, the leering smiles, the ‘accidental’ brushes. She boards the bus, only to find that even the so-called ‘women’s section’ is not free from intrusion. At work, her competence is questioned; at home, her ambitions are dismissed. At every stage of life, she is reminded-through words, through silence, through laws and customs-that she exists in a world not built for her but against her.
It is the lived reality of millions of Pakistani women, whose lives are shaped by an invisible yet omnipresent force: a patriarchal system that reduces them to objects of control, honor, and sacrifice. From the moment a girl is born, her worth is measured in limitations-where she can go, what she can wear, whom she can marry. If she dares to step beyond the lines drawn for her, the system responds with punishment: harassment, ostracization, violence-even death.
Yet, the greatest injustice is not just the violence inflicted upon women but the normalization of their suffering. Gender-based violence is not an aberration in Pakistan; it is an accepted reality, woven into the fabric of the legal system, the economy, and social norms. The illusion of protection-whether through laws, family honor, or religious morality-collapses under the weight of statistics: Pakistan ranks among the worst countries in the world for gender equality, with domestic violence affecting 34% of married women, a rape conviction rate hovering below 3%, and over 590 women killed in the name of ‘honor’ in 2022, while 490 were killed in 2023, according to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan.
From the moment a girl is born, her worth is measured in limitations.
But beyond statistics lies a far more troubling reality: a state that continues to negotiate with misogyny rather than dismantle it. Laws meant to protect women exist only on paper. The Punjab Protection of Women Against Violence Act (2016) was met with fierce opposition from religious groups, who deemed it an attack on ‘family values.’ The Anti-Rape (Investigation and Trial) Act (2021) promised fast-track justice, but with police and judicial bias deeply entrenched, conviction remains rare. The Sindh Child Marriage Restraint Act (2013), which outlawed child marriage, is routinely disregarded in rural areas where girls as young as 12 are still married off.
Even when women fight back, the state stands with their oppressors. The case of Qandeel Baloch-murdered by her own brother in 2016-should have been a turning point. Instead, it became a reminder that ‘honor’ still holds more value than a woman’s life. Her killer, who proudly confessed, was later acquitted after her parents forgave him under Pakistan’s controversial Qisas and Diyat law, which allows killers to walk free if the victim’s family pardons them.
Structural violence against women is not limited to physical brutality-it extends to the economic and political realms. Women make up nearly half of Pakistan’s population, yet their labor force participation stands at a dismal 24%, among the lowest in the region. Even those who work face systemic discrimination: women in Pakistan earn 34% less than men for the same job, according to the World Bank. In politics, female representation remains symbolic, confined to reserved seats rather than genuine leadership roles. The backlash against women in politics-be it Benazir Bhutto, Maryam Nawaz, Sherry Rehman, or other women legislators often dismissed as mere placeholders-has always been laced with misogyny, reducing their struggles to personal attacks rather than substantive critique.
And then there is the war on women’s voices. Whether it is the harassment of female journalists like Asma Shirazi and Gharidah Farooqi, the cyberbullying of ordinary women who dare to speak online, or the crackdown on Aurat March, the message is clear: women who assert their agency must be silenced. The recent refusal to grant permission for the Aurat March in Islamabad on International Women’s Day, under the pretext of ‘security concerns,’ reflects the state’s growing intolerance toward even the most peaceful demands for gender justice. Michel Foucault’s concept of “disciplinary power” explains how control is not just imposed through physical force but through surveillance, humiliation, and societal conditioning. In Pakistan, this manifests in how women are constantly policed-by families, by clerics, by the state-until they internalize the fear and self-censor their existence.
History proves that silence never lasts. In Pakistan, women have long defied systemic oppression, from Asma Jahangir’s legal battles to Mukhtaran Mai’s resilience. But the burden of change cannot rest on them alone. The state must choose-perpetuate misogyny or enforce justice. Without real reforms, laws remain hollow, justice elusive, and education a tool of subjugation. A society that fears women’s autonomy only cripples itself. Change is inevitable-the question is whether the state will stand with it or against it.
The writer is a freelance columnist. He can be reached at zakiir9669@gmail.com