Within the last few days, we have read news of an elderly man killing his wife for refusing to be intimate with him, a brother selling and then killing his newlywed sister, and a man and his brother setting his wife of 15 years and daughter on fire . And these are only the cases that made it to the news and went viral.
The latest in this horrifying but unsurprising cycle of news is a man who threw acid on a female doctor, Dr Mahnoor Nasir, for saying no to him. Balochistan Health Minister Bakht Muhammad Kakar spoke to the media and shared that the man had been harassing Dr Nasir for months. He also expressed surprise that she had not reported the matter to hospital authorities nor her family.
But as women, we know it’s not surprising at all.
What makes women stay silent? Why don’t women always tell their families or the authorities when men harass, abuse, or blackmail them?
The answer is simple. It’s because both men in the family and men outside of the family exist within the same social structure that was founded on intentional or unintentional collusion between these men. It’s also because, more often than not, the men who commit violence against women are men within their families. So how do we understand family both as a perpetrator and protector in violence against women?
When a man blackmails a woman, a common threat is that he will report the details of her life to her family. This usually includes sending messages, photos and videos as evidence of a woman’s failure to abide by familial, social or patriarchal rules. And often, women do get blackmailed and continue getting blackmailed until they reach a breaking point or until the man loses interest.
What gives a man the confidence that a woman’s family will inflict similar violence — or worse — upon her than he would? What drives a woman to fear that confiding in her loved ones will bring harsher consequences than enduring violation at the hands of another man?
Men within the family and men outside of the family often work towards a similar patriarchal goal of maintaining control over a woman. This shared goal remains implicit, and men fail to see how they collude and cooperate with those who target their daughters and sisters. When women feel like they can’t confide in their families, it is in part due to this implicit collusion.
Women choose not to tell their families when they experience violence because they do a cost-benefit analysis. Often, the decision to tell their families has complex and high costs for women’s lives. Since women’s bodies and what other men do to women’s bodies are often tied to family reputation and stability, telling one’s family about harassment or abuse can lead to increased control over the woman herself, rather than meaningful protection from the man who threatens her.
It leads to more confinement, rather than protection. This shows up in things like: You can’t leave the house anymore because what if it happens again or what if he does something? Don’t go to college or university because everything is lost if honour is lost. Stop going to work because safety comes before money. You can’t be on social media because that’s inviting attention. It’s time to get you married to ward off the violence. We trust you but we don’t trust men or the world.
The perpetrator aims to violate a woman’s autonomy, and the families might end up stripping away whatever remains of it. Telling their families results in more restrictions on women’s access to education, their long-term prospects of financial autonomy, and their access to public spaces. Putting up with seemingly short-term violence for long-term gain appears more reasonable than telling the family and risking their future.
Unintentionally, the family ends up facilitating the perpetrator by controlling their own daughter. Women’s strategic silence then becomes a rational attempt to preserve freedom, opportunity, dignity, and financial autonomy.
Have you ever read the comments under posts that report violence? You might have read comments like, “why didn’t she leave the job if she was being harassed?” “ iss ki bhi koi ghalti hogi hi (she must be at fault here too),” “ kuch tau aisa hua hoga k mard aisa kernay per majboor hua (something must have happened to compel the man to do this),” “ koi aisay hi tau nahi uth k kisi ko maar deta , (no one just gets up and kills someone) one-sided story,” “this is not justifiable lekin aurton ko bhi khayal kerna chahye (but women must be mindful too),” “ aisay kapray pehnay gi tau aisa tau hoga (if she wears clothes like this, stuff like this will happen),” “ mardon se relation banao gi tau aisa tau hoga (if you have relationships with men, this will happen).”
These comments redirect attention to women, to the victim, instead of holding the aggressor accountable. Often, these comments are made by men where they assure other men that it’s not their fault, that they only react to something that happens to them. This victim-blaming — scrutinising what a woman might have done, said, worn, or failed to do instead of focusing on what a man actually did — also discourages women from confiding in their families.
This focus on hypothetical mistakes by the victim rather than the perpetrator’s real actions creates a sense of anticipatory shame.
It also leads to anticipated skepticism, which includes having to face questions like why didn’t you tell us before, why didn’t you tell us right away or why did you talk to him at all. The family ends up surveilling a woman’s life and scrutinising her behaviour rather than the perpetrator’s. Women might intellectually understand that they’re not at fault but still feel embarrassed, uncertain, and afraid. This increased scrutiny and surveillance, even if it is to protect women, contributes to their decision to tell or not tell their families.
In this crisis of femicide, men often cite examples like those of Abdul Razzaq Khilji, who helped Dr Nasir. While his actions are undoubtedly commendable and deserving of recognition, the frequent emphasis on such examples can reinforce a “male saviour” narrative, where men are portrayed as rescuing women from dangers largely created by other men. While we can appreciate these exceptions, it is critical to address the underlying social conditions that make such interventions necessary. The discussion should shift from individual heroism to the need for systemic change and accountability.
We, as women, are often socialised into a relational understanding of our identity. In other words, we grow up learning about ourselves only as daughters, sisters, and future wives — not as girls and women. Our girlhood or womanhood exists only as we perform various roles. This means we think about ourselves in relation with others more than we think about ourselves. Men, however, are socialised into thinking of their roles as boys and men in the family and society.
This relational sense of identity compels women to think not “how will this affect me” but rather “how would this affect my family or those connected to me?” Women might choose to risk their own safety for the family’s stability and normalcy. We can think of this as socialised coercion, since women sure make these decisions, but often do so within the learned boundaries of their obligations to others.
Women face so much violence in so many forms every day, violence that often leaves no visible trace — trying to please everyone in our roles as sisters, daughters, mothers, wives, constantly looking over our shoulders in the workplace or in public, carefully curating our wardrobes and appearances so as not to invite too much attention or scrutiny, calculating our words in the workplace and in public so as not to say something that a man might misinterpret, shrinking in public under the male gaze, wondering if or when a man will decide to do something more than stare, and if a man does decide to do something more having to decide whether to report it or not, whether to tell our families or not, because kahan tak suno gay, kahan tak sunaaon, (how much can you listen to, how much can I tell you).
