Pakistan has a domestic abuse problem – but there’s a way to turn the outrage into action

Saba Karim Khan

After a TV host in Pakistan made light of the issue days after the wife of Pakistani actor Mohsin Abbas Haider accused him of violence, it’s clear a cultural shift is needed to de-normalise this behaviour.

Several years ago, at my uncle’s funeral, a distant relative next to me, whispered: “Good riddance. His poor wife is finally free.” Struck by newly palpable grief, her words choked me. How could someone be callous enough to curse the dead even before they were buried? My uncle – as it turned out – was a chronic wife-beater and my aunt, a brave yet convention-bound woman.

More than a decade later, as #saynotodomesticviolence gains virality in Pakistan, I recalled those words. Should my aunt have confided in someone? Is there something we had missed? Would I offer newfound advice to my daughters? But first, what even comprises domestic violence? Is the “see what you made me do” alibi legitimate? And beyond the blame-game, how do we fix things? These questions are complex, unsettling, and Pakistani society has mostly shirked them.

Back then, the words at the funeral offered relief – the knowledge that for my aunt, the worst was finally over. Today, I realise that a trusted member of our extended family, intimidating his partner, signalled a graver dilemma: that domestic violence is normalised and the price for whistle-blowing, often too rancorous for victims to speak up.

As I sifted through my university years and entered the job market, stories from workmates, house-help and one time even a stranger on a flight, surfaced, signalling how domestic violence permeates society in a privileged, agnostic fashion in Pakistan, cutting across race, class and religion. The elderly lady who cooks in my mother’s home and the fashion celebrity earning a six-figure salary are both susceptible to abuse. Accounts ranged from evident coercion to invisible bruises, both equally harrowing.

In 2018, a United Nations report cut to the bottom-line: The most dangerous place for a woman is her home. According to the World Bank, almost one in three married Pakistani women report facing physical violence. So every time a victim is shamed for speaking up, or a court refuses to convict a perpetrator, or a TV show jokes about domestic violence, we are lowering the stakes and emboldening home-grown terrorism, literally.

Commonly understood reasons for domestic violence often fuel confusion: a stroke of bad luck; wrong place, wrong time; substance abuse; financial stress; laudable possessiveness; a sex game gone wrong; a man hard-wired to hurt; and the false guarantee that with time it will vanish. These myths must be dismantled. Toxic masculinity, cultivated in male upbringing across South Asia, is largely responsible for normalising, even applauding an imbalance of power between the sexes. By privileging typically “masculine” traits of aggression, control and a natural killer instinct, domestic violence offers an ego-boost, buttressing the belief that it is, after all, a man’s world. When this gets augmented with society’s blind-eye, abuse blossoms; by remaining tongue-tied, we are all complicit.

However, before judging victims for suffering, we must examine the cost of speaking up. From the outside, silence appears synonymous with cowardice but this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Often, victims are rippled by prospects of shame, fatigued with fear, yet wondering when to take the plunge. They are planning a careful exit, calculating risks, devising strategies that don’t place their children in jeopardy – none of it is simple, especially not in Pakistan – where even affluent women are labelled troublemakers for casting the die against men.

A year ago, an ex-colleague broke down mid-conversation at our dining-table – her husband would throw furniture at her in front of their six-year-old son and had recently begun choking her during role-play. Her cry was a water-shed; it stoked within me, the deepest revulsion, but I disallowed the fury to curdle into bitterness. It was an invitation to reflect on how to make the leap from outrage to action.

I realise that Pakistan needs its own revolution to stir things up but how might such a movement be ignited? The answer can be found via a two-pronged approach.

First, domestic violence must occupy a higher seat on every agenda: global, national, political and personal. Words come cheap so instead of what we’re used to, from our partners to the president, practical, life-saving solutions must emerge – policies, helplines, accountability bureaus, rapid court case resolutions, therapy units, funding for shelters. Only then can the benefits of unsilencing outweigh the costs. But foremost, what must accompany curative measures is conversation – a cultural shift that de-normalises domestic violence. So that mothers stop admiring sons for abusing wives because they suffered similarly or because “she must have asked for it”. So that we stop relying on post market failure fixes but instead, offer proactive support, which makes perpetrators rethink violent acts before they occur.

When I look back, in an ideal world, my advice to my aunt and colleague would’ve been: “Don’t walk, run”. Nothing about our world, though, is ideal. So, I’ve made their stories come alive to show that domestic violence is non-negotiable, that nothing about abuse is funny and that all of us are responsible to pick up the pieces. Only with collaborative will can we hope for bells to chime and ring in change, for a world where no one has to wait for a partner’s death to set themselves free.