This July marks nine years since Qandeel Baloch was drugged and strangled to death by her own brother in the name of honour. Her murder sparked nationwide uproar, ignited important conversations around our perception of “honour”, and even prompted the government to pass new legislation. For a brief period, many of us had hoped that this tragedy might just serve as the catalyst that puts an end to honour-based crimes in Pakistan. But nearly a decade later, we must ask ourselves: has anything truly changed?
Earlier this month, as we approached Qandeel’s ninth death anniversary, another tragedy made the headlines. A Pakistani actress, Humaira Ali, was found dead in her home, and her family refused to claim her body. Humaira had died over six months ago and the cause of her death remains unclear. But even in the loneliness of death, her family turned their backs on their own child. What kind of honour makes one do that? Perhaps the same honour that emboldened Qandeel’s brother to kill her.
Following Qandeel’s murder, the Pakistani government swiftly passed the Anti-Honour Killing Bill 2016, which finally addressed the legal loophole that had previously allowed perpetrators to escape liability by being pardoned by the victim’s heirs. However, despite new legislation, honour killings continued to surge at an alarming rate across Pakistan. It begs the question: why have state efforts to curb the epidemic of honour-based crimes failed so spectacularly?
Limitations of state policy
Many legal scholars rightfully note that harsher punishments alone do not deter crimes that emanate from a sense of cultural entitlement. Nowhere is this more true than Pakistan. How can harsher punishments possibly deter criminals who believe they are performing a heroic act by redeeming family or community honour? In fact, the harsher the punishment, the more heroic they feel.
If we are truly serious about eradicating honour-based violence, we must dismantle the misogynistic concept of honour itself and replace it with one rooted in dignity, justice, and equality
The state’s legislative response, though well-intentioned, treated the symptom and not the disease. It ignored the fundamental truth that such incidents do not occur in a vacuum. Honour-based crimes are not isolated events but a manifestation of a socially sanctioned form of control over women’s bodies, embedded deeply in our social and cultural ecosystem. We see it in our television dramas where abusive and controlling men are portrayed as romantic heroes and subservient women are idealised. We hear it in our social and political discourse, where rapists are compared to robots for lacking sexual control. And we witness it in our courtrooms, where female bodies are dissected to discuss a woman’s menstrual cycle as a shaming tactic. The list is endless.
But when misogyny becomes so deeply woven into the social fabric of a nation through relentless, regressive interpretations of religion and culture, addressing issues such as honour-based crimes becomes an insurmountable task.
Our institutional problems
This deeply entrenched misogyny does not stop at culture, it permeates the very institutions tasked with protecting women. International human rights experts stress that law enforcement is often the first point of contact for survivors in gender-based violence cases. However, many women seeking help are often turned away by police who sympathise with perpetrators or dismiss such cases as private family matters.
The judiciary, too, has a history of complicity. In one striking example, a judge of the Lahore High Court stated in open court that murders committed in the name of honour are not intentional and therefore deserve leniency. Since the police and the judiciary are part of the same communities that sanction honour-based crimes, effective intervention remains a major challenge.
On the other hand, the role of jirgas or panchayats within the tribal justice system across Pakistan is rather overlooked. Although jirgas lack legal recognition, they continue to exercise influence across the tribal belt and often dispense orders for honour killings or mandate harmful practices such as vani (giving a girl in marriage as compensation). Simply ignoring them because they lack legal authority does not take away their power nor does it address the problem.
However, it is also pertinent to note that jirgas are not monolithic. In 2002, a tribal leader of the Leghari tribe in southern Punjab announced a complete ban on honour killings in his area. This example reveals an opportunity for the state: instead of ignoring or attempting to erase informal justice systems, there is potential to engage with them and regulate them.
A case for pragmatism
Ultimately, at the heart of tackling honour-based violence lies a deep tension between universal human rights values and regressive societal norms and cultural interpretations that often stand in opposition. Yet culture is not fixed. It is fluid and constantly evolving, tainted by colonial legacies, imperial interference, and decades of influence from right-wing dictators who imposed some of the most regressive interpretations of religion and culture upon the Pakistani society. And so to effectively address such crimes, we must challenge the societal norms that sustain them. That begins by reclaiming and redefining our cultural and religious values in harmony with fundamental rights.
Human rights policies rooted in western frameworks simply cannot work in countries like Pakistan. Real and sustainable progress will only be achieved when reforms are tailored to local realities and the discourse is harmonised with vocabularies that communities trust. In this way, religion, culture, and tradition, so often invoked to justify violence, must be reclaimed as powerful tools for justice.
Because if we are truly serious about eradicating honour-based violence, we must dismantle the misogynistic concept of honour itself and replace it with one rooted in dignity, justice, and equality. For as long as honour is tied to control over women’s bodies, violence will follow.