The other day, while sitting in a women’s gathering in my village, a woman from my neighbourhood, when asked about a mark on her arm, said her husband had “only” burned her arm slightly with a heated iron, “out of love,” she added, almost defensively. What struck me more than her words was the response of those around her. Her friends, some of them her own relatives, comforted her not by condemning him, but by advising her to adjust. “Men have their moods,” one of them said. “A good wife doesn’t provoke.”
That conversation has stayed with me. I’ve heard versions of it in city drawing rooms, offices, and family gatherings, where women laugh off bruises, mothers warn daughters not to “ruin the home,” and families insist that endurance is a virtue. We like to think domestic violence happens elsewhere, in poorer or less educated households, but the truth is it hides comfortably in every class.
And behind these private stories lie brutal public truths, just to name a few, and only those that have been reported. According to Pakistan’s National Commission on Human Rights, 90% of women have faced some form of domestic violence. Between 2020 and 2023, the Ministry of Human Rights recorded 63,000 cases of gender-based violence, 80% of them related to domestic abuse. Yet these figures represent only a fraction of the reality, as most cases go unreported.
Domestic violence in Pakistan is not just a criminal issue; it’s a cultural one. Patriarchal norms, woven into family traditions, social expectations, and even misused religious beliefs, normalise control and submission. From childhood, girls are taught that love and suffering go hand in hand: that a man’s anger is a sign of passion, that silence is a mark of grace, and that endurance keeps a marriage intact. When abuse occurs, it’s not met with outrage, but with apology. Maybe I should have stayed quiet. Maybe I pushed him too far. That’s not weakness; it’s social and cultural conditioning.
Economic dependence makes things worse. The World Bank estimates of 2022 tell that 47 million Pakistani women are not part of the labour force, and 55 million remain unbanked as of 2024. While 84% of men own a mobile phone, only 35% of women do. A mere 3% of women report owning a home, compared with 72% of men; only 2% own land, compared with 27% of men. These numbers aren’t just about economics; they reveal dependence, vulnerability, and a lack of escape routes. With limited access to property, work, or savings, women often have nowhere to go and “adjusting” usually becomes the only viable option.
From childhood, girls are taught that love and suffering go hand in hand: that a man’s anger is a sign of passion, and that silence is a mark of grace
Yet even when women find the courage to seek help, the system they turn to is often indistinguishable from the one they’re fleeing. Reporting abuse means facing humiliation, from police officers who dismiss it as “ghar ka maamla” (a private matter) to courts that push reconciliation over justice. FIRs are delayed, evidence is mishandled, and protection services are chronically underfunded. In Rawalpindi alone, Pakistan’s fourth most populous city, complaints have been recorded with delays of up to 23 days. Conviction rates rarely cross one% in gender-based violence cases in Pakistan. For every woman who appears in a courtroom, they are told at least for hundred times by their families, acquaintances, and by the state, to go back home.
This cycle of silence is often reinforced by distorted religious interpretations. A verse from the Holy Quran (Surah An-Nisa 4:34) is routinely misused to justify a man’s “right” to discipline his wife, though scholars have clarified that the Arabic daraba refers not to violence but to symbolic separation. The best follower of the Qur’ān was the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and he never struck a woman and condemned such behaviour. The problem isn’t religion, it’s patriarchy speaking in its name.
It’s not that women don’t want justice; it’s that the process punishes them for seeking it. Divorce remains taboo, shelters are few and unsafe, and social respectability is weaponised against survivors. Most women learn early that silence ensures survival, while defiance brings disgrace. This apologetic mindset is not instinctive; it is taught. From lullabies to wedding rituals, women are raised to forgive faster than they are taught to defend.
Change will not come from outrage alone; it must come from dismantling the structures that keep women dependent and apologetic. While a national framework that unifies provincial laws, standardises definitions, and mandates protection services in every district is paramount, equally important is to treat abuse with the same seriousness as any other violent offence. The courts must move beyond mediation to true justice.
Having said that, legal reform, on its own, cannot undo centuries of conditioning. Change begins at home, in how we talk about marriage, how we raise sons, and how we define honour. Schools and media must teach what families have long forgotten: that love without respect is control, and forgiveness without accountability is surrender. Religious leaders, too, have a role to play in reclaiming Islam’s compassion from the grip of patriarchy. Faith should heal, not harm.
Domestic violence in Pakistan isn’t just about men’s brutality; it’s about a society’s quiet complicity in preserving it. Every time we tell a woman to stay silent “for the family’s sake,” we strengthen the very culture that breaks families apart. We often say, “She didn’t deserve it.” But until we act like she didn’t, in our homes, in our courts, and in our laws, those words will remain empty.