War on women

Express Tribune

12 hours ago

Another Muharram approaches. Once again, we will gather and mourn wearing black while remembering a tyrant's violence and a family's sacrifice. But let this not be another year where we ritualistically grieve Karbala and then return to silencing our women. Let this not be another Muharram where we cry over Yazid's cruelty while enabling our own.
Because if not for a woman, Islam wouldn't have survived. Not the Quran you recite. Not the Hadith you forwarded. Not the faith you gatekeep while violating every principle it upholds. Islam would never have made it past its earliest trials, political boycotts, economic starvation and rebellions, if it weren't carried on the backs, in the arms, and through the voices of women.
Before Islam had a following, it had Bibi Khadijah (RA), not just a supporter, but the first believer. A businesswoman. A strategist. A financier. The one who bankrolled the mission of the Prophet (PBUH) when no man dared. When Quraysh exiled him, it was her caravan, her gold, her unwavering faith that sheltered him.
It was Bibi Fatima (AS) who bore the lineage through which the Ahlul Bayt lived on. The axis of legacy. The embodiment of strength in grief. It was Aisha (RA) who brilliantly narrated over 2,000 hadith and debated scholars. Her voice helped shape the jurisprudence we now cite while refusing to let women speak in the same rooms.
And then came Bibi Zainab (AS), shattered, shackled, but unafraid. After Karbala had become a graveyard and her brother Imam Hussain (AS) lay slaughtered in the sand, it was she who rose, not with weapons, but with words. Dragged to the court of Yazid, surrounded by mockery, she did not ask for mercy. She gave a sermon. She didn't break. She broke him. She was not just surviving. She was defying.
And yet today, in a land that recites their names in every sermon, we silence their daughters. We call it modesty when we erase them. We call it culture when we kill them. We turn their resistance into relics, then light candles at their graves. As though mourning without action ever saved anyone.
In 2024 alone, over 5,200 cases of gender-based violence were reported in Pakistan — murders, rapes, forced marriages, suicides, disappearances. We call our daughters Zainab, but fear their fire. We call them Aisha, but shush their speech. We call them Khadijah, but question their independence. We call them Fatima, but scorn their principles. We want them quiet. Covered. Passive. We fear their intellect, police their tone and question their clothing.
Every year, we mourn the tragedies of the past and the violence of now and walk in processions. We cry for Karbala and for today's graves. And then? We go back. Back to honour killings, child brides, acid attacks. To clerics who blame women, politicians who mock abuse, courts that shame victims, and homes where daughters are silenced. We mourn the dead but never protect the living. Guilt has never been enough.
You cannot grieve Karbala and ignore the women being buried in your own neighbourhood. You cannot claim love for Imam Hussain (AS) while tolerating Yazid's spirit in your own actions. If your grief does not make you just, then it is performance. If your rituals don't translate into compassion, then they are empty. If you cry for the women of Islam but ignore the pain of living women, then you are the problem.
Because Karbala was not just a battlefield. It was a woman with a voice. And she didn't whisper. Because Muharram will come and go. But the Yazid of today doesn't need a throne; he rules from homes, offices, police stations, pulpits, parliaments, WhatsApp groups, comment sections, and benches. All he needs is a gun, a platform, and our silence.
And too many others, like the armies that watched Karbala unfold, just looked away. Had Bibi Zainab stayed silent, you wouldn't even have a story to tell. So tell it. Live it. Let this be the year your grief grows a spine.