Bridging Gender Gaps in Pakistan
“When you are a woman in a male-dominated society, you have to work twice as hard to prove yourself,” observed Asma Jahangir, the late human rights lawyer whose tireless advocacy exposed systemic injustice. In a world where every institution, policy, and social norm—whether tangible or intangible—is infused with gendered expectations, the status of women remains precarious across all dimensions of life. Yet, in Pakistan, this fragility of position deepens into a crisis of empowerment and protection.
Recently, the Thomson Reuters Foundation ranked Pakistan the sixth most dangerous country for women, citing rampant sexual violence, honor killings, domestic abuse, and a lack of legal recourse. If Pakistan’s men already face significant risks, one can only imagine where women stand: at the sharp end of cultural prejudices, legal loopholes, and societal neglect. In decisions from the household to the national assembly, women in Pakistan struggle to secure a meaningful voice. In corporate boardrooms, their presence is often symbolic rather than transformative. In local councils, their candidacies encounter intimidation and threats, not to mention the pervasive “glass ceiling” that stalls careers before they truly begin.
Yet these statistics only scratch the surface. In rural districts, where about two-thirds of Pakistani women live, literacy rates lag dramatically behind men’s. Without education, economic independence remains elusive. Even among educated urban women, professional advancement is stymied by workplace harassment and inflexible norms around ‘family reputation.’ A young female engineer may engineer skyscrapers abroad but find herself discouraged from leading a project in her own neighborhood, simply because her visibility—public, professional, autonomous—is deemed ‘improper.’
At home, many women endure suffocating relationships enforced by patriarchal prescriptions. A wife raising children, caring for elderly in-laws, and expected to conform to strict codes of dress and behavior can be punished for too little obedience—or too much aspiration. Those who challenge these codes may encounter violence that escalates from verbal abuse to physical assault, from coerced abortion and forced ‘honor’ marriages to acid attacks. These tragedies are not isolated incidents but the predictable result of a value system that equates women’s purity with family honor and reduces their personhood to a reflection of male prestige.
Consider the harrowing cases that have shaken the nation in recent years. Zainab Ansari, a seven-year-old girl from Kasur, was abducted, raped, and murdered in January 2018; her story galvanized civil society protests but ended in more frustration as perpetrators slipped through legal cracks. Noor Mukadam, a 27-year-old in Islamabad, was tortured and killed by someone of privilege in July 2021, revealing how feudal attitudes shield the powerful. More recently, Sana Yousaf, a young woman in Lahore, was set aflame by her brothers in the name of restoring ‘honor.’ These women’s names have become synonymous with the state’s failure to safeguard its citizens—particularly its daughters.
Underlying these abuses is a culture of hegemonic masculinity, glorified by media portrayals of men as brash heroes or ruthless providers, with no space for vulnerability or partnership. Television dramas and advertising often reinforce narrow archetypes: the domineering patriarch, the long-suffering mother, and the dutiful daughter—rarely the empowered professional, the assertive leader, or the equal partner. Young boys internalize this script, believing that true manhood demands domination rather than dialogue, control rather than collaboration.
Rewriting this narrative demands a multifaceted strategy. Education is the first line of defense: curricula should challenge gender stereotypes, promote critical thinking, and ensure girls and boys learn side by side in safe environments. Empowering women economically—through microfinance, vocational training, and fair hiring practices—can shift family and community dynamics. Legal reform must close loopholes in laws against domestic violence and honor crimes, standardizing enforcement and protecting whistleblowers. Police and judiciary training should emphasize survivor-centered approaches, making reporting less risky and more effective.
Beyond these structural reforms, Pakistan’s media industry must embrace responsible storytelling. Content creators should feature strong female protagonists who command respect for their intellect and integrity, and male characters who model compassionate leadership. Civil society campaigns can harness social media to amplify women’s voices, document abuses in real time, and build solidarity networks that transcend class and geography.
Finally, the state must recognize that protecting women is not a concession to foreign pressure or a narrow ‘women’s issue,’ but a prerequisite for national progress. A Pakistan that values half its population unlocks innovation, boosts economic growth, and strengthens social cohesion. When women lead—whether in science, commerce, politics, or at home—they bring perspectives that enrich decision-making and resilience.
As Asma Jahangir insisted, the burden of proof lies not on the marginalized but on the structures that gatekeep opportunity. It is time for Pakistan’s leaders, institutions, and citizens to dismantle the walls that force women to work twice as hard—so that every Pakistani, regardless of gender, can live with dignity, equality, and the undisputed right to contribute to their country’s future.
