In December 2013, five girls from a cricket club in Pakistan came forward with allegations of abuse against the club’s chairman. Their complaint, instead of triggering accountability, resulted in their own suspension. Each received a nine-month ban. There was no inquiry, no protection, and no support. The message was unmistakably clear: in Pakistan’s sporting institutions, speaking up is often punished, not applauded.
While the sports world internationally has been forced to reckon with a series of abuse scandals in recent years, most notably the Larry Nassar case in the United States, the conversation in Pakistan remains largely muted. There is growing global recognition of the issue and the need for safeguarding mechanisms, but in Pakistan, institutional silence continues to shield the problem from scrutiny. Athletes-especially women-are left to navigate a terrain where abuse exists, but the systems meant to respond to it do not.
It would be unfair to suggest there has been no progress. The POA has made attempts to initiate reform. Reporting channels have been introduced, and safeguarding is now at least mentioned in some policy discussions.
The tragedy lies not only in the abuse itself but in the lack of response. The Pakistan Olympic Association (POA), the central body for sports management, has recorded hardly any formal complaints of abuse. This absence of reporting is not a sign of health; it is a sign of mistrust. Victims simply do not believe the system will protect them.
Yet, when we examine what little data exists, a different picture emerges. A 2020 survey of 600 women athletes in Pakistan-most of whom had represented the country internationally-found that nearly half admitted to experiencing harassment during their careers. Not one of them had reported it. Another study found that 44 per cent of women athletes cited coaches as perpetrators of harassment, while 32 per cent pointed to other men associated with the sport. The common theme was silence. Some of these cases do come to light, but the consequences are often devastating. An emerging cricketer in Multan died by suicide after reporting harassment. In another case, two field hockey players were suspended after one of them accused her coach of entering her room uninvited and holding her hand-allegations made public through a video. In both instances, institutional response focused more on controlling the narrative than investigating the claims. In interviews conducted for my research, officials at the POA acknowledged the gap between policy and practice. One admitted that while reporting forms are available on the website, most athletes have no idea they exist. Another informed that the organisation holds seminars and educational programs to raise awareness, but conceded that the safeguarding mechanism has not been adopted by most of the national sports federations. The result is a vacuum-one in which a framework technically exists, but functionally fails.
This disconnect is not unique to Pakistan. Until recently, even in countries with more advanced systems, safeguarding in sport was either non-existent or ineffective. The United States only established its Centre for SafeSport in 2017, following public outcry over the Nassar scandal. The Centre is independent, legally mandated, and empowered to investigate and sanction. Since its creation, over 10,000 reports have been filed, and millions of athletes, coaches, and parents have received training through its digital platform.
Austria followed a similar path after allegations emerged from former skiing athletes. Safe Sport Austria was launched with backing from the government and a clear mandate to offer support, training, and investigation. The UK, too, has moved toward reform, piloting a single-point reporting project called Sport Integrity, after its gymnastics community was rocked by revelations of systemic emotional and physical abuse.
These models share common features. First, independence. The safeguarding bodies are structurally removed from sports federations, reducing conflicts of interest. However, the Integrity Unit has to be a part of every single sports organisation. Second, accessibility. Athletes can file reports online or via phone, anonymously if needed. Third, education. Victims, coaches, and administrators are trained to understand their rights and responsibilities. Finally, legal legitimacy. These bodies are either created or backed by national law, lending them credibility and authority.
In contrast, Pakistan’s current structure lacks all four elements. The POA’s committee on harassment includes individuals closely tied to national federations. The mechanism is not backed by law. There is no dedicated budget. And most crucially, the system is voluntary-there is no requirement for federations to adopt it.
The cultural dimension makes things even more complicated. In a society where even general conversations about abuse are hushed, speaking up in the male-dominated world of sports can be professionally and personally perilous. Victims fear being ostracised, disbelieved, or dismissed. A psychologist I interviewed described it as a “society that is not survivor-friendly and tends to start victim-blaming and shaming.” Is this happening in everyday life around us? That fear is compounded by the perception that even when mechanisms exist, they are toothless and easily manipulated.
It would be unfair to suggest there has been no progress. The POA has made attempts to initiate reform. Reporting channels have been introduced, and safeguarding is now at least mentioned in some policy discussions. But awareness remains low, and trust, lower. Some independent professionals were approached to serve on the committee on Abuse and Harassment of POA, but declined due to the lack of formal structure and compensation.
Until this system is rebuilt with a focus on independence, legal authority, financial viability, and above all, credibility among athletes, the silence will continue. And silence, in this case, does not mean safety-it means suppression.
Pakistan stands at a crossroads. Other countries have shown that safeguarding is not only necessary but possible. The next article in this series will explore what a functional and context-appropriate abuse reporting mechanism could look like for Pakistan, and what lessons can be adapted from abroad. Because, unless we create a safe sporting environment, we will continue to fail the very people we claim to celebrate-our athletes.
The writer is a civil servant and volunteers for sports organisation management.