In Pakistan, there is no disease more deeply rooted than our obsession with being ‘Ghairat-Mand’ (honourable), proud, defenders of dignity. But behind this pride hides a centuries-old licence to oppress the weak, suppress freedom, and control women in the name of honour – and an even older habit of replacing real morality with convenient illusions.
A brutal reminder of this surfaced in Balochistan, where a couple, identified as Bano Bibi and Ihsanullah, were shot dead by their own family to protect the tribe’s so-called honour. The entire murder was filmed by the same ‘honourable’ tribesmen. They shot the woman first, then the man, and kept firing into their dead and already bullet-riddled bodies just to prove how much honour they still had to defend.
The video sparked outrage, but YouTubers rushed to mint money by dragging the woman’s name through the mud. The Chief Minister of Balochistan seemed more interested in whether the couple was legally married than in exposing the murderers – as if that would somehow justify what happened or plant sympathy for murderers into the already shallow minds of society.
This idea of Ghairat (honour) is not just a tribal code – it’s a false sense of superiority that cuts across every social class in this country. Just last month, I had a small encounter that showed how deep this mindset runs. I was buying something from a roadside hawker. Out of concern, I asked him to move aside because a police van was clearing the street. He snapped back at me: “I’m not Be-Ghairat like these Saraiki hawkers who are running away. I’ll stand my ground… I’m a Ghairat-Mand.” (He mentioned his ethnicity.)
I was stunned. Even in that moment, pride in Ghairat became a slur for another ethnicity. I asked him what made Saraikis any less honourable. I told him this bubble of false pride only feeds our divisions. In the end, our actions and integrity define who is truly honourable – not our labels, not our tribes.
These twisted ideas of honour are kept alive by tribal Sardars (chiefs), politicians, and religious leaders who know exactly how to control what people fear, admire, and obey. From jirgas to pulpits, Ghairat is the easiest slogan to sell. A tribal Sardar uses it to justify murder. A politician uses it to attract cult masses. A religious group uses it to whip up a mob in the name of faith.
From tribal jirgas to national pulpits, Ghairat is our most convenient slogan. A tribal Sardar will invoke it to justify an honour killing; a politician will invoke it to reject compromise; a religious group will invoke it to justify mob justice in the name of faith.
Whether it’s a Sardar ordering a killing through a jirga, or religious groups forcefully imposing their version of religion using the word ‘Ghairat’, the same moral weapon keeps the powerless in their place. Even in national politics, the game is no different. Imran Khan has often called his followers the Ghairat-Mand, hinting that anyone who won’t stand by him must be Be-Ghairat (dishonourable). It’s the same emotional bait as using religion: a handy way to bypass the law, silence questions, and dress up fake pride as a noble cause.
Whether it’s a Sardar ordering a killing through a jirga, or religious groups forcefully imposing their version of religion using the word ‘Ghairat’, the same moral weapon keeps the powerless in their place
But this Ghairat-Mand syndrome isn’t just about tribal killings or street arguments – it’s part of a much deeper flaw in how we wear morality as a costume while ignoring its true demands.
Much of our so-called social work, charity, and religious activism is nothing but a cover for our collective guilt. Deep down, we know what true moral values are – but living by them takes real courage. So instead, we invent our own ‘values’: outdated, hollow codes that punish the weakest and let us feel righteous for doing it. Enforcing these obsolete traditions becomes a public flex, a badge of Ghairat for those too cowardly to stand for real justice.
Similarly, we commit monetary injustices all year, then throw charity at them to buy peace for our conscience. We ignore the true spirit of our faith – compassion, fairness, accountability – and instead build our religious identity around forcefully policing others, persecuting minorities, and pretending that defending this fake show of piety is the highest duty of all, while the real teachings lie abandoned.
If anyone thinks this hollow morality is limited to tribal jirgas, politics or religion, they should look at how we treat rape in this country. Years ago, after the motorway rape case, while covering sexual abuse in Pakistan, I spoke to criminologists and psychologists about how our society bends over backwards to blame the victim and create benefit of the doubt for the accused. They all agreed on one thing: our so-called ‘honour’ protects the criminal and punishes the victim. Families hush up the abuse, communities shame the survivor, and the system looks away – because our fake pride matters more than real justice.
What I concluded then still holds true today: the actual idea of morality is based on suitable illusions. Our patriarchy-driven society is full of predators waiting for the moment they can exercise power over a woman to feed their complexes, destroying her honour to uphold their own in the eyes of fellow predators, who wait for their turn.
This moral corruption is not limited to the rural corners of Pakistan – it’s very much alive in our cities too, where so-called ‘honour’ still decides how much freedom a woman has to study, work, or choose her partner. Well-educated people cling to these obsolete traditions every day. Even those who wear the badge of ‘progressive’ politics aren’t ready to abandon them when it hits close to home. Just look at Aimal Wali Khan, head of the Awami National Party – a party with a leftist legacy – who had a meltdown when the Senate passed the Child Marriage Restraint Bill criminalising marriage under 18. So much for progress when it comes to real-life choices for girls.
This hypocrisy runs through every seat of power – be it tribal, religious or political. People in our cities should also reflect on their lives with regard to the ways they suppress the weak around them. Similarly, if a tribal Sardar wants to call himself Ghairat-Mand, he should stand for truth, principle, and justice – even if he has to go against his tribal traditions. Just like that, if our religious leaders were truly Ghairat-Mand, they would prove it by defending the weak, and showing the world that real faith means mercy and fairness – not mobs and slogans. And if a politician wants to call himself Ghairat-Mand, let him stand by his word, admit his faults, and put Pakistan before his ego, instead of feeding a blind cult with slogans that silence questions and reward loyalty over truth. Anything else is just noise.
The truth is, real honour is not a tribal code or a loud slogan. It’s not how many women you control, how many critics you silence, or how loudly you perform faith. Real honour is standing up for the powerless when no one is watching. It’s telling the truth when it’s easier to lie. It’s demanding justice when silence would protect your name. But that takes courage – and only courage, not hollow pride, is the one thing our false Ghairat-Mandi can never give us.
To conclude, those bullets, later fired into the lifeless bodies of Bano Bibi and Ihsanullah, did not just tear through flesh – they ripped apart any illusion that our so-called honour is about dignity. In truth, they exposed it for what it really is: blind rage, empty pride, and a coward’s weapon turned on the powerless when real courage runs out.