"Shab ko mai ḳhuub sī pī sub.h ko tauba kar lī
riñd ke riñd rahe haath se jannat na ga.ī"
"I indulged at night, repented at dawn
A sinner still, yet Paradise not gone." — Jalal Lakhnavi
For me, activism is not a photoshoot. It is not a donor pitch. It is not a well-calculated, pleasant statement made to win approval. Activism, for me, is a way of living. I am a 57-year-old woman from Pakistan’s marginalised Bihari community. I survived a genocide at the age of one and a half, endured multiple forms of violence and abuse, and have spent a lifetime working at the intersections of gender, health, and human rights—not in glamorous corridors, but on the ground. I am also a medical doctor who understands trauma not as theory but as something carved into bodies, lived daily, remembered in pain.
Advising anyone, particularly young women who aspire to be activists, has never been easy. Yet the question keeps finding its way to me, whether through direct messages or after talks during Q&A sessions. When I ask why they want to be recognised as activists, because to me, all of us should be activists (and feminists too) if we stand for equality, truth, and justice, I receive a mix of answers.
Many young women today view activism as a ladder to fame, media visibility, access to diplomatic spaces, prestigious scholarships, financial security, or the chance to transition from “activist” to “public figure” or even “global celebrity.” Sometimes I offer what may sound like an unpopular suggestion: why not reverse the trajectory? Look at Emma Watson or Angelina Jolie. They gained global visibility first, then used it to advocate for causes they genuinely cared about.
None of these aspirations is inherently wrong. But I find it undeniably problematic when they are packaged under the label of activism. Not everyone must carry the public title of “activist.” Yet those who choose to, and especially those who gain name, fame, and fortune through a cause, carry an ethical responsibility.
In the past, high-profile activists were associated with sobriety, moral authority, and a distance from glamour. Figures like Fatima Jinnah, Rosa Parks, Asma Jahangir, Rashid Jahan, Frida Kahlo, Maya Angelou, Martin Luther King Jr., Angela Davis, and Nelson Mandela stood for causes with a moral clarity that could never be confused with self-branding.
Today, activism increasingly coexists with mass media culture, influencer economies, and celebrity branding. Contemporary activists, particularly women and people of colour, face enormous pressure to maintain a personal brand, engage younger audiences, and appear “relatable.” This does not mean they stop believing in their causes, but they navigate an ecosystem very different from that of activists 30 or 50 years ago.
My personal, unsophisticated bias is that while activism today may overlap with branding and lifestyle media, it must also carry an element of austerity. Activists and feminists must have a moral compass, and that moral clarity must be consistent, not selective. Choosing visibility and glamour at the cost of sobriety may be a clever PR strategy, but it robs something essential in activist leadership. Charming appearances and curated personal disclosures may bring good PR investments, but they can also compromise or overshadow the cause itself.
Despite all challenges, I have spoken bluntly, sometimes at great personal cost, learning that idol worship in activism is dangerous, for when idols fall, young activists are left disillusioned
I request young women activists to understand that your positionality is your power.
You cannot choose to remain silent while atrocities are live-streamed, and you must never outsource your political conscience.
Your activism must outlive hashtags. Visibility is not the same as impact.
Activism is not about being palatable; it is about being principled.
Understanding the difference between activism and branding is essential: if you want a comfortable career, polish your brand. If you want to change the world, polish your conscience.
The world may love you until you speak uncomfortable truths. Silence constitutes moral complicity, but noise without substance is dangerous too.
Not every platform belongs to you, and it is acceptable to say “no” without guilt.
Hero worship is a trap; do not confuse admiration for leadership. Embrace modernity, fashion, and self-expression without lying about who you are.
Childhood should never be a podium; no child should bear the burden of being the world’s conscience. And while safety strategies are essential, do not romanticise hypocrisy.
Authenticity is the most radical stance in a world addicted to curated images.
I still remember the moment my belief in certain celebrated women began to rupture. My first (hushed) heartbreak came when I saw an admired author, a woman who had overcome immense gender and socio-economic barriers, turn to the same glossy, performative rituals that actresses and fashion models are pressured into. I had imagined she would reject objectification; her words were her crown. Did true queens ever need a crown? Then came the disappointment of watching once-defiant icons, women who had stood against regimes, violence, and oppression, grow silent or selective. Their political correctness eventually became louder than their conscience.
It is far better to live an honest, quiet life than to live with a carefully constructed mask
The final setback (to date) is witnessing a young survivor’s story turned into a polished, globally marketed brand a trauma packaged for the world, wrapped in photogenic empowerment, while the real, rumpled combats and campaigns of grassroots women remained invisible. I do not hate fashion or liberal choices. I respect women who live openly. But I despise deception and hypocrisy, the enactment of empowerment without the mettle to speak when it matters. I expect those with power, platforms, and privilege to defy the hypocrisy ordinary women must adopt for survival.
Over time, I began to see a pattern: the corporate world exalts certain figures not for their radical courage, but because they are safe; safe for power, safe for donors, safe for polite rooms that do not want to hear oppression too loudly. I understand why many girls and women in my country live dual lives: modest on the street, meek looking at home, but expressive and unrestrained elsewhere. It is survival in a society that polices women’s bodies and choices. I do not judge them. But when someone lives in a position of safety and privilege, I demand more candour, not less.
I have never been a favourite of Pakistan’s elite, or even of the so-called non-elites in social development circles filled with activists, feminists, and liberals. My social class, ethnicity, trauma, language, and culture are not my weaknesses but my truth. I own them. I do not dilute them to fit someone’s NGO brochure. Years ago, I was even ridiculed and humiliated at the very forum where I am occasionally published now. Back then, women’s voices like mine were not just unheard; they were usually dismissed. I was brutally traumatised, mentally and emotionally, by someone I had once admired and still respect, a woman journalist I had considered a role model.
Despite all challenges, I have spoken bluntly, sometimes at great personal cost, learning that idol worship in activism is dangerous, for when idols fall, young activists are left disillusioned.
But silence is not an option.
We must tell the next generation the truth.
It is far better to live an honest, quiet life than to live with a carefully constructed mask. A false persona is not only exhausting; it can become a mental and moral health hazard.
Expect backlash.
Expect silence from those who once clapped.
Expect loneliness.
But also expect self-respect.
And that is priceless.
Poverty, pain, and oppression should never be props for self-promotion or personal branding.
Glamour without conscience may shine for a while, but it slowly destroys the soul of activism.