The recent killing of a couple in Balochistan, recorded on video and circulated widely on social media, has once again dragged into public view the dark, persistent stain of ‘honour’ killings in Pakistan.
The footage, which shows the pair being shot dead in cold blood, is not only horrifying—it is emblematic of the deep-rooted patriarchy and the systemic failures of the country’s justice system that continue to enable such violence.
Despite decades of condemnation and sporadic legal reforms, honour killings remain a brutal and disturbingly common reality in many parts of Pakistan.
The term “honour” becomes a convenient cloak for murder, frequently used to justify the execution of women—and often men—whose choices defy the rigid moral codes set by conservative families, tribes, or communities.
A culture of control and violence
At the heart of the honour killing epidemic lies a cultural framework that sees women not as individuals, but as custodians of male and family honour.
Any assertion of autonomy—be it in matters of marriage, dress, education, or association—can be interpreted as a provocation worthy of punishment.
The killing of women in the name of honour is less about religion and more about control.
The rules are unwritten but clearly understood: a woman must not love freely, must not disobey, must not embarrass her family. If she does, her blood can be spilled, and in many cases, with impunity.
Men, too, fall victim to this twisted moral logic. In the Balochistan case, the male partner paid with his life as well, a reflection of the belief that both parties in such relationships must be punished to “restore” honour.
Law as a spectator
Pakistan’s legal system has long been complicit—sometimes passively, sometimes actively—in allowing such crimes to flourish.
The Qisas and Diyat laws, which allow victims’ families to pardon killers or accept compensation, have often led to families forgiving the perpetrators, especially when the killer and the victim belong to the same household.
This legal loophole turns honour killings into “private” family matters, where justice becomes negotiable.
Though there have been amendments to the law, including a 2016 bill that aimed to close these loopholes, the implementation has been weak, and enforcement has been patchy.
In most rural areas, parallel justice systems like jirgas and tribal councils still exert control, issuing extrajudicial punishments and shielding perpetrators.
Police, in many cases, are unwilling or unable to challenge these structures.
In the Balochistan incident, it is telling that the video went viral before authorities responded.
This recurring pattern—where social media outrage precedes legal action—exposes the inertia of the state and its law enforcement agencies.
Justice, in many such cases, is reactive at best and selective at worst.
Tribal norms vs constitutional rights
The tension between tribal codes and constitutional rights is at the heart of Pakistan’s governance dilemma.
In places like Balochistan, Sindh, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, and South Punjab, tribalism overrides the rule of law.
Here, patriarchal honour is sacrosanct, and dissent is viewed as betrayal.
Women who elope or marry without consent are seen not just as rebels but as threats to the social order.
Even when the law prohibits such practices, enforcement is hamstrung by a combination of political expediency, religious conservatism, and institutional fear.
Many politicians fear alienating powerful tribal or feudal elites who serve as their vote banks.
The result is a system that tolerates the intolerable—a modern nation still trapped in the shadows of medieval justice.
Media attention as a double-edged sword
The fact that the Balochistan couple’s murder was filmed and shared widely has stirred rare national attention.
But the viral nature of the video also reflects a chilling normalisation of violence. That someone felt emboldened enough to record and broadcast this act suggests not only a lack of fear of prosecution but a disturbing sense of righteousness.
In such cases, the camera becomes both a tool of exposure and a weapon of intimidation.
For every crime captured on video, countless others remain hidden, quietly condoned by communities and ignored by the state.
The role of media, while crucial in raising awareness, cannot substitute for a justice system that acts swiftly, independently, and without bias.
A pattern of impunity
This killing is not an isolated event. According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP), hundreds of women are murdered every year in honour-related crimes.
The actual figures are likely higher, as many cases go unreported or are falsely recorded as suicides or accidents.
Perpetrators, often close relatives, are rarely convicted.
Witnesses refuse to testify, police often look the other way, and families collude to cover up.
The entire system, from the first information report (FIR) to the final verdict, is riddled with loopholes and local pressures.
In the few cases that do reach court, lengthy delays, lack of evidence, and weak prosecution result in acquittals.
This culture of impunity reinforces the notion that honour killings are beyond the reach of law—that they are, somehow, understandable or forgivable.
Women as property
Underlying all of this is the deeply entrenched notion that women are property—first of their fathers, then their husbands, and later their sons.
A woman who makes her own choices is not seen as a citizen exercising rights, but as property gone rogue.
This dehumanisation allows entire communities to participate in or condone such killings.
In many cases, the perpetrators do not flee; they stand proud, believing they have done the morally upright thing.
Society, in large parts of Pakistan, does not shame them. It shames the victim.
The fear of being labelled dishonourable drives families to act with lethal intent.
Daughters are married off early, often against their will. Education is denied.
Mobility is restricted. All in the name of protecting honour—a concept whose weight falls almost exclusively on female shoulders.
National outrage, local silence
The contradiction between national outrage and local silence is a damning indictment of Pakistan’s fractured moral compass.
Urban Pakistan, with its educated middle class and social media activism, expresses revulsion. But rural Pakistan, where traditional norms hold sway, often views such crimes with ambivalence, or worse, approval.
This disconnect between progressive rhetoric and regressive reality is at the core of the problem.
Laws passed in Islamabad do not automatically translate into protections in interior Sindh or remote Balochistan. Justice is not just a matter of legislation—it is a matter of enforcement, and more fundamentally, of societal transformation.
A mirror to the nation
The murder of the couple in Balochistan, now burned into public consciousness through a viral video, is more than just a tragedy.
It is a mirror—reflecting a nation torn between modernity and tradition, between law and tribalism, between justice and control.
Honour killings are not a fringe issue. They are a systemic blight, deeply embedded in Pakistan’s cultural, legal, and political frameworks.
Until that is acknowledged—not with token outrage but with unflinching introspection—such horrors will continue.
And each time a woman or a man is gunned down for love, for freedom, or for daring to choose, it will not just be a death. It will be a reminder of the freedoms denied, the lives stolen, and the justice that never came.