I was born in a remote village deep in South Punjab—a place where tradition often runs deeper than love, and honor is traded at the cost of a woman’s life. In my hometown, education isn’t considered a right; it’s a privilege reserved for the few, and certainly not for girls. Honor there isn’t measured by honesty or integrity—it’s gauged by how well women remain controlled, silent, and invisible. Growing up, I lived amidst the stillness of suppressed voices, the quiet sorrow of girls taught never to speak, dream, or demand anything for themselves.
But in the middle of this silence stood my father, a man who, by village standards, was strange. He chose books over rigid boundaries and dignity over domination. While other men warned that education would corrupt their daughters, my father insisted it would save us. He didn’t just send us to school, but also protected our right to learn like it was sacred. Despite taunts, threats, and isolation from fellow villagers, he never gave up. When he passed away in 2022, he left behind a legacy of courage and love that still echoes in every word I speak today.
I carry with me memories that still haunt me. I was in class 3 when a woman in our neighborhood was killed by her own brother, murdered in the name of honor. No one knew her exact “crime.” Maybe she had spoken to someone, maybe she had stepped out alone, or maybe she had dared to ask for her share in the family property. Whatever it was, it didn’t warrant a death sentence. That incident scarred me. I began sleeping with the light on. For years, I lived in fear, thinking: What if my brother feels dishonored one day and decides to kill me too? That fear seeped into my everyday life. I became quieter, moved cautiously, and avoided conflict—all in a desperate attempt to stay alive.
In my village, honor killing isn’t a rare occurrence; it’s woven into the culture. If a girl speaks up for her legal rights, especially property rights, her life becomes disposable. She’s shamed, degraded, and often murdered—all to uphold a twisted idea of family dignity. But honor, as I’ve come to understand, is not about ethics or values. It’s about control. It’s about silencing women so that men can continue to dominate without question.
One story still haunts me deeply. In 11th grade, a girl my age, full of dreams and potential, got married young, like many of us were expected to. Just a few months later, we heard that she had been brutally murdered by her in-laws. They beat her with a wooden stick, shattered her fingers, twisted her limbs, and left her lifeless. Her only fault? She hadn’t brought enough dowry. There were no protests, no arrests, and not even a proper burial. Her life was erased as if it had never mattered. That night, I cried quietly, realizing that I, too, could vanish without a trace, for reasons beyond my control.
People say Pakistan is progressing, but in villages like mine, women remain shackled by fear. A recent case from Balochistan shook me again. A woman with four children was accused of running away and was murdered. The man involved was also killed, but the public outrage was reserved for the woman alone. Social media and neighbors alike condemned her, calling her shameless. No one questioned the morality of the man. Why is honor always a burden on women? Why do we scrutinize a woman’s character and ignore the man’s sins? This is the painful truth: women are executed for missteps, while men’s wrongdoings are either ignored or excused.
I wasn’t always so outspoken. As a girl, I believed the only way to survive was to stay quiet, to give up my rights, and never challenge tradition. I thought if I didn’t cause trouble, I wouldn’t become a target. But things changed when I began preparing for the civil service. Education transformed my mind. I learned that real honor lies in fairness, not fear. That my rights were not acts of defiance; they were legal entitlements. Slowly, fear gave way to courage. I moved from saying “I will stay silent” to “I will fight for everything I deserve.”
Now I understand fully: honor killings are not rooted in religion or culture; they stem from deep insecurity and a desire to dominate. In my village, a man who murders his sister becomes a symbol of bravery. His masculinity is praised. But no one asks the obvious: What sort of man kills his own blood in cold blood? Violence against women is not just accepted; it’s celebrated. And that’s where we’ve failed as a society.
Our collective failure begins at home. We are not raising better men. We’re raising boys who believe their masculinity depends on controlling women. We don’t teach them empathy or responsibility. Instead, we confine our daughters, while letting our sons roam freely at night without question. When girls return late, they’re interrogated. But what about the boys on those same streets? Who are they with? What are they doing? Why does no one ask?
The emotional wounds that women carry in such environments often go unnoticed. The psychological trauma of constantly fearing for your life, of tiptoeing around male egos, is soul-crushing. Honor killing doesn’t begin with the murder. It begins with the slow, daily erasure of a girl’s self-worth. It begins when a girl is shamed for wearing jeans, for using a mobile phone, or simply for having an opinion.
In the middle of all this cruelty, my father stood firm. He wasn’t perfect, but he was kind, patient, and just. He treated us like human beings, not like burdens. When villagers mocked him for raising “bold” daughters, he walked us to school with pride. When warned that education would ruin us, he said, “If education ruins them, let them be ruined with honor.” He would always tell me, “If you fear the world, the world will own you. But if you fear God and live justly, no one can touch you.” These words built the foundation of my courage.
When he passed in 2022, he left behind more than memories; he left behind the strength to stand up and speak out. And so today, I raise my voice not just for myself, but for every girl who didn’t survive long enough to speak, for the woman in my childhood murdered for nothing, for my schoolmate who died for dowry, and for the mother in Balochistan who was condemned despite having four children. I speak for them and for the girls who still live in fear, thinking their turn might be next.
Change won’t come from silence. It will come when we speak loudly and fearlessly. It will come when laws aren’t just written, but enforced. When men are held accountable, not glorified for violence. When fathers like mine become a common story, not a rare exception. When girls are applauded for claiming their rights, not blamed. When women walking alone at night are protected, not policed. When boys are taught that true honor lies not in bloodshed, but in respect, justice, and equality.
Until that day comes, I will keep telling these stories. I will keep remembering my father—not just with grief, but with pride. I will honor every silenced girl with every word I write. Because someday, honor will no longer be used as a weapon. It will mean dignity, fairness, and the freedom to live fully, proudly, and without fear.
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