In the dusty villages of Sindh, where the sun beats down on mud-brick homes and family ties bind tighter than chains, a mother’s scream echoes unanswered. In the first nine months of 2025, 142 lives were snuffed out in the name of “family honour”—karo-kari, they call it here—a brutal pretext that has claimed 105 girls and women at the hands of those who should protect them most: husbands, fathers, brothers, sons.
These weren’t random acts of strangers in the shadows; they were betrayals in broad daylight, triggered by whispers of illicit relationships or the simple audacity of a woman choosing her own marriage. Imagine a 16-year-old girl in Jacobabad, dreaming of a life beyond her father’s control, only to be dragged into a field and silenced forever by his hand. This isn’t ancient history; it’s Pakistan today, a national shame that stains the soul of a nation and exposes the gaping chasm between progressive laws and the patriarchal iron fist that crushes women’s lives.
The numbers chill the blood: 142 souls in nine months, with women and girls making up three-quarters of the toll. Civil society and human rights groups, from the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan to local activists in Hyderabad, are sounding alarms that echo across drawing rooms and protest squares. “This is genocide by custom,” one survivor-turned-advocate told me, her voice trembling over a crackling phone line from Sukkur. Karo-kari isn’t just murder; it’s a cultural cancer, festering in rural and tribal pockets where jirgas—unelected councils of elders—dispense death sentences like village wisdom. A woman steps out for work, laughs with a neighbor, or says “no” to an arranged match, and suddenly she’s “kari,” the black mark that justifies her burial alive. In Upper Sindh alone, 47 cases this year; in Larkana, 32. These aren’t statistics on a report—they’re daughters, sisters, futures stolen in the dead of night.
Pakistan took a stand in 2016 with the Criminal Law (Amendment) Act, a beacon of hope that plugged the loopholes in Qisas and Diyat laws. No more pardons from grieving families coerced into forgiveness; honour killings were reclassified as straight-up murder, non-compoundable, punishable by life or death. Parliamentarians from across aisles thumped tables in applause, and women’s rights groups celebrated a victory for justice. Yet, nine years on, that law gathers dust like an unread book. Police in remote thanas file FIRs with one hand while taking bribes with the other, investigations fizzle under pressure from waderas and tribal chiefs. Courts, overwhelmed and under-resourced, see conviction rates hovering below 5 percent—emboldening killers who know the system winks. In one heartbreaking case from Dadu last month, a 22-year-old widow was shot by her brother-in-law for “dishonoring” the family by seeking divorce; the jirga nodded approval, the police looked away, and the court? Still pending, two months later.
This impunity isn’t accidental; it’s engineered by a society that views women as property, their bodies battlegrounds for male ego. In Sindh’s feudal heartlands, where landlords hold sway like medieval kings, a girl’s autonomy is a threat to inheritance, alliances, and ancient codes. Jirgas, those self-appointed courts, thrive in this vacuum, ordering stonings or acid attacks with the authority of mullahs and mustaches. Across provinces, the names change—watta satta in Punjab, swara in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa—but the poison is the same: toxic masculinity dressed as tradition, sanctioned by silence.
The state’s failure runs deeper than lazy cops or clogged courts. It’s a refusal to confront the rot at education’s core, where textbooks glorify obedience over rights, and mullahs in village mosques preach submission as piety. Religious leaders, with their vast reach, could flip the script—sermons on Friday that thunder against karo-kari as un-Islamic murder, not divine duty. Yet too many stay mute, fearing backlash from bearded brigades. Media, that fourth pillar, flashes headlines but fades fast, chasing political scandals over sustained campaigns. Educators in government schools, starved of funds, teach rote history but skip gender equity, leaving generations blind to dignity’s true meaning. And politicians? They pass laws for photo-ops, then retreat to air-conditioned villas, leaving rural women to fend against feudal fury.
But change isn’t a pipe dream; it’s a fire waiting to be lit. Start with zero tolerance for jirgas: ban them outright under a new Anti-Honour Killing Enforcement Act, with mandatory 10-year sentences for participants. Deploy all-women police units—expand the 5,000-strong force tenfold—to rural posts, trained in trauma-sensitive investigations. Courts need fast-track benches: 100 new ones nationwide, deciding cases in 90 days, with video links for terrified witnesses. Convene a national fatwa council to declare karo-kari haram, broadcast from every minaret. Media must commit: a year-long “Break the Silence” series, partnering with NGOs for survivor stories that humanize the horror.
Political will is the spark. Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif, with his PML-N machinery, must lead: tie MPAs’ performance to conviction rates in their districts, slash budgets for non-compliant thanas. Provinces like Sindh, with its 2013 Child Marriage Act, can pioneer—extend it to honour killings with provincial task forces. Civil society, from SPO to Save the Children, isn’t waiting: street theater in Larkana villages, helplines buzzing 24/7, safe houses springing up like lifelines. International pressure helps—UN Women funding trials, Amnesty amplifying voices—but real power lies in Pakistani hands.
Pakistan, land of the pure, can’t claim purity while blood soaks its soil. Ending karo-kari isn’t women’s work; it’s everyone’s duty—to dismantle patriarchy brick by brick, law by law, heart by heart. The 105 women of 2025 demand it; the daughters of tomorrow deserve it. With unwavering resolve, we can bury this shame forever, rising as a nation where honour means humanity, not homicide. The time for whispers is over—roar for justice, or the screams will never stop.