A woman's home is supposed to be her safe space. So what does it say about us when the person she fears most is not a stranger outside her door, but someone already inside it? Hina Javed was found dead in her Rawalpindi home, her hands tied behind her back and a wire around her neck. Her family says she had previously complained of abuse by her husband. Police have arrested her husband and a domestic worker in connection with her murder. Hina's death is horrifying, but it is not isolated. In Taxila, 28-year-old TikToker Shamsu Bibi, known as Ayesha Gilamana, was shot dead in her car. Police allege family members conspired to kill her in the name of 'honour', reportedly because of objections to her social media activity. In Islamabad, 25-year-old Hina Zareef, who had reportedly been married against her will, obtained a khula and left the marriage. She was brought back from Lahore after assurances she would not be harmed, but was allegedly killed shortly after returning home. Different women, different circumstances, but the same disturbing thread runs through their stories: a husband allegedly asserting control over his wife, a family allegedly deciding a woman's choices had dishonoured them, and a young woman allegedly killed after exercising her legal right to leave a marriage.
For too many Pakistani women, violence begins with the belief that somebody else owns their choices. Sahil's Six Months Cruel Numbers Report documented 3,172 reported cases of gender-based violence across Pakistan between January and June 2026, including 644 murders, 514 cases of torture, 462 abductions, 280 rapes and 132 so-called "honour" killings. More than half occurred inside victims' own homes. Yet the cycle is painfully familiar: a woman is murdered, there is outrage, arrests are announced, politicians condemn the crime and television debates follow. Then the country moves on. We have seen this before. Qandeel Baloch was strangled by her brother in 2016. Her murder helped propel parliament to strengthen the law against honour killings. Yet her brother, initially sentenced to life imprisonment, was later acquitted. Her case left us with an uncomfortable lesson: passing a law and delivering justice are not the same thing. I know that distinction from experience. I drafted the ICT Domestic Violence Act 2026 and defended its provisions through the Standing Committee process, resisting attempts to weaken or dilute the protections it sought to provide.
I believe deeply in legislation. Laws establish rights, create remedies and tell society where the state stands, but I also know their limits. Pakistan's greatest deficit today is not legislation, but enforcement. And that failure often begins long before a woman is murdered. The warning signs are rarely invisible. Abuse often announces itself gradually. A husband isolates his wife from her friends. He takes control of her phone, movements or money. Bruises are explained away. Threats become normal.
A man refuses to accept rejection and begins harassing or stalking a woman. A family increasingly restricts a daughter because it fears what relatives or neighbours will say. Addressing these systemic issues requires more than just passing laws; it demands a fundamental shift in societal attitudes towards women's rights and autonomy, ensuring that state machinery acts swiftly and decisively before warning signs escalate into fatal tragedies.