By Zainab Durrani

Zainab K. Durrani is a digital rights advocate and currently an MSc (Data, Inequality and Society) candidate at the University of Edinburgh

Strands of exclusion

The right to occupy public spaces is universal, stemming from the base concepts of equality amongst races, genders and socioeconomic classes. Yet, a host of institutional frameworks and deep-seated biases have been employed to keep certain sections of society out.

The U.S government’s practice of redlining minority or low-income community areas on maps, to demarcate and then discriminate against them, has been widely studied and its impact lasts to this day. Through this practice, home mortgages and other financial loans were denied to people of color.

“Historical redlining is linked to increased risk of diabetes, hypertension, and early mortality due to heart disease with evidence suggesting it impacts health through suppressing economic opportunity and human capital, or the knowledge, skills, and value one contributes to society, as per the authors of this paper, depicting the pervasiveness of such systematic othering.

Similarly, hostile architecture practices are employed in many parts of the world to discourage or rather eliminate options for homeless folks to find spaces to exist safely when exposed to the elements or just pass the night. They are seen as unwanted and unsightly and the idea is to remove them from visibility.

The concept of social exclusion can take many shapes, including physical or systematic obstruction as demonstrated above, or it can be made a part of the building blocks of the digital spaces we all now find ourselves entrenched within.

Indeed, a United Nations Special Rapporteur report from 2019 states that, as public spaces are no longer limited to strictly physical spaces, “that public powers, to fulfil their human rights obligations, may need to take measures to ensure access to and participation in cyberspace for all”. These measures, at the very least, need to enable safe and equitable participation.  However, this bid to ensure universal engagement is intrinsically at odds with the capitalist nature of the tech ecosystem.

Big bad Big Tech

That Big Tech is seen as a colonizing entity in today’s world is reason enough to question their operational practices and demand transparency, even if outright accountability seems too far-fetched. The role that has been played by Western-centric monoliths such as Meta and Google, two of the Big Five tech players in the world, over the past two decades in furthering online harms with very real-world consequences has by now been well-documented. Reports from Pakistan alone paint a dire picture as to the state of content moderation within these platforms. These ‘global’ policies, when applied to the cultural contexts of the Majority World, spell chaos in terms of human rights infringements and further the harms of tech-facilitated gender-based violence (TFGBV). As per digital rights advocate Shmyla Khan, “...especially when it comes to women and minorities from the Global South, there’s even much more of an intersectional issue here. It's not just about gender; it's often completely (that) the experiences of a particular community are just excluded and it shows up for example in content moderation conversations and now in generative AI and the kind of output that it produces, (which is)  often based on stereotypes and (is) discriminatory”. She also notes that whether it's in the context of social media or throughout the history of science and technology, women and minorities have always been placed in the margins or not been thought of at all. An example she provides is that when we look at social media design or tech design, a lot of times the specific needs of a particular group in terms of safety or representation end up being completely invisibilized. She posits that this is because those constructing these systems and the data that they are then trained on are often biased in the favour of a cis male or white male experience which ends up excluding other identities, resulting in either active or indirect discrimination as a result of such technology.

This point of view, coupled with the fact that three of the eight richest male CEOs in the world are that of X (formerly Twitter), Meta and Google with estimated wealth in actual billions, identifies the power dynamics pretty clearly, given that they make an excellent case-in-point as symbolic representations of the privileges accorded to those in the upper echelons of the sociocultural hierarchy in terms of gender and in some instances, race.

The oligopoly of large public tech platforms gains immensely from the surplus behavioral data that is churned out through users from the Majority World and yet they have yet to see proactive measures to include them as a part of the target audience and actually be able to access effective protections.

Going a layer deeper, the internal systems of these platforms have been profiling users based on entirely profit-maximizing metrics, to no one’s surprise, for the betterment of their own and partner advertising companies’ profit margins.

An inquiry by Bivens and Haimson on ‘Baking Gender into Social Media Design’ from 2016 explores ten English-speaking social media platforms by looking at user-facing gender category design strategies within them. These include Google+, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter and LinkedIn among others. This deep-dive illustrates that not only, as a user, is your interaction with these platforms a stepping stone into studying your life and personality by virtue of the extractive data practices employed, but that your self-identification is treated as worthless by their systems.

One of the most impactful statements from their findings encapsulates the evident difference in vantage points between user and platform by highlighting the disconnect between the offer (i.e why social media companies lay out the gender categories) and the use (i.e. the drivers of user behaviour such as motivations and desires) of choosing particular gender options.

The article states that social media platforms like to position themselves as neutral spaces curated specifically for users’ benefit, masking their primary goals of generating, capturing, and controlling user data, thus affording platforms greater power as the host of today’s golden goose: our collective data.

In looking at data categorization as a monetarily advantageous practice, the article notes that the advertising industry has embraced the capacity of market segmentation to “look for splits in the social fabric [of society]” as phrased by Joseph Turow, and to then exploit those splits for fiscal gain. This is in the context of social media companies acting as the bridge between advertisers and consumers, utilizing their platforms as data collection centers for the advertisement sector. So when Facebook or Twitter provides sections for self-identification of gender on their sign-up pages, it is more a formality than a legitimate space for expression. This is evidenced by how regardless of what a user enters as their gender, the analytics behind the scenes gather and collate data as per the gender binary. So at the backend of the system, your choices determine whether you are registered in the system as male or female, based on your activity (browsing, type content consumed etc.) on the platform. This is done keeping in mind that these binary categories provide ‘two large and profitable’ groups, reinforcing the purely capitalist framework these companies operate out of. A key perspective to note here is that simply put, being misgendered or excluded from both online and offline spaces is harmful for gender minorities, leading to increased stigma, negative mental health effects and in some cases, grievous bodily harm or death. Real-life exclusion for gender non-conforming individuals that is fairly common is the access to public services that is impacted based on where you identify yourself within the gender spectrum. Public bathrooms, for instance, with male/female labeling are reductive and an avenue for harm for transgender folks if they are seen as being the ‘wrong’ gender for the facility they are using. The right to healthcare is universally acknowledged and yet hospitals which provide life-saving services have also been known to discriminate, even in life-threatening, emergent situations. The bias against non-binary folks is so pervasive that in one horrifying instance in 2016, such prejudicial behaviour led to the death of a transwoman in Peshawar. Alisha, a transwoman who was shot eight times, succumbed to her wounds as a result of not receiving intensive medical care on time, instead her attendants had to address questions on whether she was a dancer and if she had HIV, while arranging for a private room as neither the male nor female ward was willing to accept her.

Looking at it from the perspective of those who do not fit or wish to fit in the binary construct, this emerges as a practice of erasure. As Bivens and Haimson frame it: “the production of gender as a binary category obstructs viable social life for those in our non-binary world who do not fit static and narrow constructions of gender identity.” This is marked by not only social exclusion and deprivation of key public services as highlighted above but the building of economic barriers that debar upward mobility. In Pakistan for instance, as a fallout of colonial attitudes, this has materialized in the form of begging and sex work being the key sources of income available to the transgender community. In other regions as well, as indicated by this study from the USA, transgender folks were found to possess lower income levels and elevated physical and mental health risks, compared to their cisgender counterparts.

In doing so, Big Tech is cementing its status as a neo-colonizer in today’s age, mirroring the colonial history of conventional empires of yore by redrawing the conceptions of gender as per its own understanding, thereby furthering inequality in today’s age. While their reaction came from conflicting sensibilities and the need to control, the Britishers rule over the Indian subcontinent resulted in draconian laws such as the Criminal Tribes Act  (also known as the Eunuchs Act), stemming from their moral panic and the apparent ‘ungovernability’ of the transgender community. This is the same community that served as venerated advisors to the Mughal Empire prior to the East India Company’s advent and has faced severe socio-economic exclusion since.

From providing free platforms in the early aughts for social connectivity to slowly merging the control of dominant market shareholders into one oligopolistic blob, the effect is that it is now virtually impossible to engage in present day life without having to conform to the terms and conditions laid out by Big Tech. Very few workplaces, for instance, can do without the connectivity afforded by Meta, G-suite or Outlook.

Given that this is the measure of their hold over our lives, it is not a long shot to lay out the lack of consent involved in engaging with their social media and digital platforms. And when those platforms ignore self-identification, disengage human presence from content moderation practices and fail to account for the violence they are more or less allowing by omission, it amounts to an egregious and wilful ignorance. Which incidentally is also doing a great job of helping them line their pockets and control key infrastructure of the internet, furthering their hegemony.

True to form, in January of this year, Meta released an update to its hate speech policy which now appears to actively allow that very category of speech. Gone is the clause saying you cannot compare women to "household objects or property." Also removed is a prohibition on claiming that there is "no such thing" as a trans or gay person, reports the Independent, while also flagging that the document Meta uploaded is a public-facing summary. The internal workings of content moderation rules of the tech giant are far less transparent, no matter how deeply they impact a sizable chunk of the global population. This action however draws a stark comparison to Meta (then Facebook)’s 2014 announcement of introducing 56 new gender categories for users to identify themselves from within, in the midst of a trans rights campaign in North America, seen by Bivens and Haimson as a sign that advocacy can impact rigid programming practices. That is a far cry from the status quo today.

By allowing a range of vile permutations to fester legally on its platforms in the name of free speech, Meta is strengthening its legacy of inducing harm to already vulnerable and impacted communities.

Identity politics

If we bring our focus to this corner of the world, i.e. to Pakistan, women face tangible harms, both in online and offline spaces. This is an undebatable fact, evidenced by our abysmal Global Gender Index rankings, year after year. A step further is the danger baked into the identity of the transgender community through decades of socioeconomic rejection and treatment as society’s pariahs. The fruition of many community members’, activists’ and lawyers’ efforts over the years culminated in 2018 in the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act. After three years, in 2021, this Act was met with a nefarious campaign alight with disinformation and deceit, leading to a sharp increase in violence and even fatalities within the trans community. While this may be different in form from what has been discussed above, the parallel being drawn is to the erasure of identity. As per Bivens and Haimson: “While a social media sign-up page is unlikely to be the first time that a trans or gender non-conforming person has encountered social practices that exclude their identity or reify the gender binary as the only viable option, clicking a box for one binary gender or the other can still be an emotionally harmful or stressful experience”. This is especially the case when social networking sites premise the experience of engaging with their portals on the notion of building a digital identity. Today, that identity is not only being stripped of protections through sweeping changes to content moderation policies but also being exploited ‘behind the scenes’ within the internal processing of behavioral data that fuels the vast profitability of Big Tech.

The harms we are seeing emanate from keeping a purely capitalist approach to enhance data production at the cost of very human lives has only worsened since the active propagation of generative AI. Shmyla Khan notes that though initially there were some safeguards and guardrails put in place after years of hard work put in by women's rights activists and activists from the Global South in order to keep biases in check, “a lot of that is also being rolled back and replaced by automated systems that have a veneer of neutrality around them which most technology does”. In line with what Bivens and Haimson stated on how gender categorization is treated as within internal metrics, she shares that technology “flattens existing biases that would otherwise exist and this is really, really dangerous and being exacerbated by automated systems in AI where they are less transparent. It’s harder to check and challenge the ways in which these biases come up”.

What exactly a cogent call to action here would be is difficult to say, given the rapid speed at which harms are not only being experienced but deepening. However, this much is clear that matters continuing as they are would be ruinous for those kept on the fringes. The online-offline continuum means that technology only serves to strengthen the discrimination that exists in the analog world, aided by a profit-maximising, neo-colonizer mindset. The very first task in moving forward, this author contends, is recognizing our rights and increasing awareness of the level of accountability owed to us as the producers of the prized data that powers Big Tech. Our ability to demand our rights lies foremost in knowing them.

By Fatima Hassan

In a small bungalow in humid Karachi, Zainab balances her toddler on one hip while scrolling through the buzzing WhatsApp school group on her phone. She had logged on hoping to find the updated weekly reading list. Instead, dozens of messages swarmed her screen. One parent had asked whether the school was changing the timing of the assembly that week. But as she swiped upward, the thread had spiraled into confusion; families insisting they had heard different things, speculating about new rules, and forwarding voice notes from other parents, each claiming to have ‘heard from someone at the school.’

“It’s like Chinese whispers,” Zainab would later say, though in this version of the game, the stakes feel higher. For mothers already carrying the mental load of childcare, household management, and navigating complex school systems, digital confusion is not harmless. It piles into an already overcrowded day, demanding attention, anxiety, and time.

Across Pakistan, scenes like this have become ordinary. The caregiving mother, already overworked, underslept, and operating without reliable support systems, now finds her phone transformed into an extension of her labor. From WhatsApp school groups and neighborhood mum chats to tele-health consultations, Instagram parenting advice accounts, and YouTube health tutorials, urban and semi-urban Pakistani mothers are increasingly relying on digital platforms to make caregiving manageable.

But with this convenience comes a set of invisible burdens: digital harassment, misinformation that can dangerously shape health decisions, the quiet surveillance of women’s device use at home, online comparison culture, data privacy risks, and a growing digital fatigue that many mothers don’t yet know how to name.

The stories of many such mothers reveal a profound truth: Pakistan’s digital ecosystem was not designed with caregiving women in mind. And as the state pushes toward a vision of ‘Digital Pakistan’, mothers remain positioned at the intersection of empowerment and vulnerability.

The Rise of the Digital Mother

In many Pakistani households, motherhood is increasingly mediated through screens. Noreen described her day as ‘a series of pings’. WhatsApp groups for school, daycare, Quran class, the neighborhood, the cousins, the mothers support circle, plus YouTube videos on infant nutrition, Google searches about fevers, and the constant scroll of Instagram mom influencers selling everything from Montessori play kits to ‘gentle parenting hacks.’

For new mothers, this digital immersion is almost inevitable. Pakistan’s school systems have embraced WhatsApp as the default communication channel. Pediatricians frequently consult over voice notes. Grandmothers send forwarded remedies from TikTok. Mothers exchange advice in group chats that, while comforting at times, can become chaotic and overwhelming.

According to PTA’s most recent gender-disaggregated internet-use data, only 38% of women in Pakistan have regular internet access, compared to 64% of men, a staggering gender gap that shapes who gets to navigate digital life independently and who must rely on shared devices or censored access. According to DRF’s 2023 report, women in Pakistan face high levels of device exclusion and a lack of control over their phones.

And yet, despite these barriers, Pakistani mothers are among the most active digital caregivers. UN development agency reports, such as UNDP’s report on Digitalisation and Women in Pakistan shows that many women in Pakistan increasingly turn to digital tools for health information and children’s education, even as they continue to face significant barriers to access, affordability and digital autonomy.

This contradiction forms the heart of digital motherhood in Pakistan. Women are expected to manage child-related responsibilities digitally, but they are not given the autonomy, privacy, or safe access to fully benefit from these systems.

School Groups: Connection, Chaos, and the Mental Load

Every mother interviewed for this story mentioned WhatsApp school groups as both a blessing and a source of daily stress.

In some cases, the groups offer real value. When Zainab’s daughter fell sick, she used the class WhatsApp group to ask for missed homework. Another mother immediately sent photos of the workbook pages. In a country where schools often give five printed notices for the same instruction, WhatsApp can sometimes provide the clarity that the official channels lack.

But the overwhelming pattern, mothers say, is noise.

In Karachi, Purnia described days when the school group crossed 250 messages by noon. A question about a uniform detail could trigger a flurry of contradictory answers. A parent sharing an unofficial instruction would escalate into panic. Voice notes, sometimes from other mothers, sometimes forwarded from ‘someone’s cousin whose relative knows the principal’, introduced even more confusion.

One semi-urban mother from Sheikhupura, Nazia recounted how a discussion about a school event devolved into a debate about whether a rumor was real. “By the time the teacher finally replied, everyone had already argued based on misinformation,” she explained.

This dynamic reflects in DRF’s findings that women face a deep gender digital divide shaped by care-giving roles . The constant checking, clarifying, and responding adds to the cognitive load that mothers carry.

And because Pakistani schools increasingly expect mothers, not fathers, to manage these digital channels, the burden rarely distributes evenly.

When Digital Advice Turns Dangerous

Digital motherhood is not just overwhelming. At times, it becomes frightening.

In a neighborhood WhatsApp group in Karachi, a mother posted that her infant had developed a high fever and she didn’t know what to do. Several mothers chimed in with sympathy. But one mother confidently responded that she should nebulize her infant with steroids she happened to have at home. Steroids are highly controlled medication that requires strict medical supervision.

Before the advice could escalate, another participant in the group, a pediatrician, firmly intervened. She warned the mother against using steroids and urged her to see a doctor immediately. The original mother later informed that she had not realized how risky the suggestion was.

This incident is not isolated. JMIR’s research found that mothers in South Asia frequently rely on informal digital health advice due to limited access to affordable medical care or reliable information. DRF’s reports highlight that women are often targeted with misinformation through WhatsApp forwards, especially related to children’s health, vaccines, and home remedies.

For Pakistani mothers who lack access to verified medical information, and who often consult digital sources late at night when clinics are closed, the risk of acting on incorrect or harmful advice is real.

Digital-health practitioners confirmed this trend. Dr Sagheer Ahmed, a pediatrician, neonatologist and digital health practitioner, explained that many mothers message him after trying “WhatsApp cures” that worsen symptoms. He described mothers who administer antibiotics without prescriptions, follow incorrect dosing guidelines from Facebook posts, or panic after reading unverified articles.

The problem isn’t that mothers are uninformed. It’s that digital platforms amplify noise faster than facts.

The Promise and Pressure of Online Support Communities

For many mothers, the internet is the only space where they can be vulnerable.

Mothers interviewed described online support groups as ‘lifesaving,’ ‘comforting,’ and ‘a place where someone finally understands.’ In cities where families are often nuclear, and in-laws may not live nearby, digital mothering communities can provide a sense of solidarity. Mothers described sharing breastfeeding struggles, postpartum depression symptoms, toddler tantrums, or exhaustion; topics they felt uncomfortable discussing with family.

But these support spaces can also create new forms of pressure.

“Everyone’s life looks perfect online.”
 This sentiment echoed across all the mothering experiences gathered for this article.

UNESCO’s analysis of gender and digital transformation highlights how social norms, including expectations around women’s caregiving roles, shape how women access and use digital platforms.

On Instagram, mothers follow influencers who post routines with immaculate kitchens, Montessori playrooms, and unbroken sleep schedules. Many mothers admitted to feeling inadequate in comparison. This pressure trickles into real life, creating what researchers call ‘parental algorithmic imaginary’: the sense that the algorithm is constantly serving content that reminds mothers of what they should be doing, buying, preparing, or performing.

For Nayab, Instagram became a source of constant anxiety. “Every reel I saw was about sensory play, organic food, gentle parenting. It made me feel like I was failing,” she said. She eventually unfollowed the accounts, but the imprint of those expectations lingered.

Digital empowerment, in this context, becomes intertwined with digital perfectionism.

Gendered Access, Shared Devices, and Domestic Surveillance

Digital access in Pakistan is deeply gendered, shaped by socio-economic status, education, and family dynamics.

In semi-urban and working-class households, mothers often use shared phones. Several mothers interviewed mentioned having restricted access to apps because their husbands did not want their data misused or did not trust women’s digital interactions. Others described situations where family members regularly checked their messages or controlled their online interactions.

DRF’s research shows that many Pakistani women experience family-imposed restrictions, disapproval and monitoring of their digital activity, which significantly shapes how and when they can access the internet.

This impacts how mothers seek information. If a woman can only use her phone when her husband is home, she cannot consult a pediatrician discreetly late at night. If she knows her messages are being checked, she may hesitate to share her struggles with postpartum depression in a support group.

Digital safety is not simply about avoiding online harassment; it’s about navigating the digital gaze within the home.

And yet, in spite of these limitations, mothers push through. They adapt. They create filters of trust. They find safer spaces.

Digital Fatigue: The Silent Epidemic

Perhaps the most unspoken part of digital motherhood is the exhaustion it generates.

Several mothers admitted to feeling ‘always available’ and ‘never mentally switched off’. The constant notifications, health reminders, school messages, parenting tips, replies from relatives abroad, Instagram parenting reels, and baby milestone comparisons create a sense of endless mental multitasking.

Ms Zehra, a psychologist, has described mothers who develop decision fatigue from juggling contradictory advice. She said mothers often reach digital health practitioners when they are already overwhelmed, unable to distinguish between credible information and digital noise.

UNESCO research and U.N. regional research suggest that gender norms constrain women’s digital use. Cultural expectations around caregiving, family roles, and social relationships limit how freely women can engage online, contributing to the stress and inequality.

Navigating Socio-Economic Disparities

Urban middle-class mothers may face digital overload, but working-class and semi-urban mothers encounter a different challenge - digital exclusion.

In interviews, several women described rationing their mobile data so they could watch a single pediatrician’s video at night. Others said they avoided engaging in school groups because they feared exhausting their prepaid data on irrelevant chatter.

According to GSMA’s report, women in low-income households in Pakistan have far lower mobile and internet access than women in higher-income households, reflecting the deep economic and gender disparities in digital inclusion.

This creates an uneven digital landscape:

• Middle-class mothers are overwhelmed.
• Working-class mothers are under-equipped.
• Both groups are underserved.

Mothers who share devices, often with multiple family members, also face privacy risks. One semi-urban mother, Ambar, said her teenage brother often borrowed the phone. She constantly feared he would accidentally open her postpartum support group messages.

In rural Pakistan, studies show that women’s access to technology is constrained by limited literacy, shared or male-controlled devices and a lack of infrastructure, which means many can only use digital tools for basic communication and health-related information making it harder to navigate apps (often in English) and increasing vulnerability to misinformation.

In this context, “Digital Pakistan” becomes a geography divided by class and gender, where access does not equal empowerment.

The Double-Edged Promise of Tele-Health

Tele-health has quietly revolutionized maternal care in Pakistan.

Every mother interviewed had used WhatsApp to consult a doctor. In cities where doctor appointments involve long waits, expensive fees, and logistical hurdles, digital consultations offer a lifeline.

But tele-health, too, sits on uneven ground.

Practitioners described cases where mothers sent blurry photos of rashes, unclear voice notes about symptoms, or incomplete histories because they didn’t know how to articulate their concerns digitally or feared judgment in the group.

The same digital channels that make medical care accessible also risk normalizing casual or incomplete consultations.

Practitioners have stressed that digital care should complement, not replace, in-person visits but many mothers rely on it heavily due to affordability and convenience.

And misinformation thrives in these gaps: when mothers cannot distinguish between a certified pediatrician on YouTube and an influencer recommending home remedies, digital health becomes a gamble.

Mothers as Digital Navigators of a Flawed System

Through all these narratives, from Chinese-whisper WhatsApp groups to dangerous medical advice threads, a clear pattern emerges: mothers are navigating a digital ecosystem not designed for them.

DRF’s research highlights that women in Pakistan enter digital spaces shaped by patriarchal norms, low digital literacy, and domestic surveillance, yet are expected to manage children’s education, social connections, and caregiving responsibilities online.

UNESCO’s South Asia findings echo this: women are digital users, not digital decision-makers.

Pakistan’s digital infrastructure, from school communication systems to health platforms, relies on mothers without equipping them. Mothers interviewed often felt they had no choice but to adapt, absorb the pressure, and make do.

But many expressed the desire for:

• Better-designed school communication systems
• Verified health information channels
• Digital literacy programs for mothers
• Privacy protections for women using shared devices
• Safe online communities moderated by professionals
• Local language content that is accurate and accessible

Mothers do not reject technology. They reject the burdens it places on them without support.

What True Digital Inclusion Could Look Like

If Pakistan’s digital future is to be inclusive, it must center caregiving women.

Digital Rights are not abstract - they shape intimate daily experiences. A mother’s ability to privately message a doctor, to ask questions without surveillance, to use apps safely, or to protect her child’s images online, is part of her fundamental right to autonomy and security.

Telecom policy, app design, school practices, and digital-literacy programs must reflect the lived realities of women, not just those with high-end smartphones, but those with limited data, shared devices, or low literacy.

A meaningful vision for Digital Pakistan must understand that women are not passive recipients of technology but active navigators of complex, often hostile digital terrains.

True digital empowerment would require:

• Ethical design that recognizes women’s privacy needs
• Localized digital-literacy programs targeting mothers
• Official channels that reduce misinformation
• Moderated support spaces for new mothers
• Policy safeguards that protect women from household surveillance
• Data privacy laws that protect children’s information
• Affordable access for low-income households

Because when mothers are digitally empowered, entire families benefit. When mothers are safe online, children grow up safer. When mothers have autonomy, the country moves closer to actual digital inclusion.

Conclusion: The Unseen Digital Labor of Motherhood

In the end, the story of digital motherhood in Pakistan is one of resilience shaped by inequity.

Mothers have built support systems from scratch, learned new digital habits, navigated misinformation, and carried the emotional weight of online communities, all while raising children in an increasingly uncertain world.

They have done this not because technology is perfect, but because they have had no choice.

If Pakistan truly wants a digital future where women thrive, it must begin by listening to these mothers, the ones piecing together clarity from chaotic group chats, filtering through dubious advice at midnight, and scrolling through their exhaustion to find help in the only spaces available to them.

Ayesha Mirza

The author is a journalist focusing on social justice, climate change, minority rights, and gender issues.

[Disclaimer: The article does not compare the experiences of these women; rather, it highlights how misinformation, moral policing, and misogyny surrounding deceased women online have intensified over time.]

In the last few years, Pakistan has witnessed a sharp rise in internet and social media use. While a seemingly promising expansion for many, especially women, given increased access and opportunities, social media platforms have become an increasingly dangerous terrain. They are now ripe spaces for misinformation, disinformation, misogyny, and targeted harassment of women, particularly those in the public eye.

From the murder of Pakistan’s first social media influencer, Qandeel Baloch in 2016, to actress Humera Asghar Ali’s tragic death in 2025, social media users have become increasingly relentless towards women not only when they’re alive but especially after their deaths. The moral policing, public scrutiny and speculative claims made about deceased women are especially alarming with an increase in users assuming that it’s their responsibility to inform or misinform others about the circumstances of these deaths, their families’ responses, and spread imagined moral lessons that they believe to be important.

Shmyla Khan, a researcher on gender and digital rights, says, “Grief becomes gendered online. A woman’s death is never just a tragedy; it’s treated like a moral lesson.”

Given that Qandeel Baloch was the country’s first social media influencer and openly challenged traditional notions of gender and sexuality, the media and public’s reaction to her content, and their response to her eventual death, set the precedent for how people would view the cases that followed.

Qandeel Baloch (2016)

Born Fouzia Azeem, Qandeel Baloch was known for her outspoken persona and unapologetically bold online content, most commonly found on Facebook or YouTube. She was strangled by her brother in July 2016, who claimed to have done so to “protect family honour” because of her “shameful” pictures on Facebook. Though the discourse on television and in print was intense, the social media conversation was less widespread than what we see today possibly since, despite it being 2016, fewer social media platforms operated with concepts such as engagement and algorithmic reach being close to non-existent.

From our review, there were fewer comments overall. Moral policing existed in the form of criticism of her content, shaming her family, but it was limited in scale. In many ways, her death paved the way for the voyeuristic obsession and moralistic commentary that now routinely follow women’s deaths online.

Though on the one hand, most posts about her death at the time were news coverage, her song videos, or compilations of her earlier content - i.e. modest engagement compared to today’s viral posts - the comment sections were increasingly hostile. Some users branded her a “prostitute” and reprimanded her publicly, criticising not just her behaviour but her entire online persona.

Under a Facebook post by The Express Tribune about her father’s reaction to her death, many comments accused her family of exploiting her fame for financial gain, intending to shame both Baloch and her grieving family.

Sana Yousaf (2025)

In June 2025, 17-year-old social media influencer Sana Yousaf, known for her popular content on TikTok and Instagram, was shot dead by a 22-year-old man named Umar Hayat. As per police accounts, the accused, who confessed to the murder soon after his arrest, broke into Yousaf’s home in Islamabad on 2 June 2025 and shot her twice in the chest

When news of Yousaf’s death first broke on social media, users quickly attributed her death to an honour killing. Even under posts that simply announced her passing, commenters insisted that her father, brother, or cousin was responsible. This influx of unverified claims created an immediate wave of misinformation surrounding her death.

Platform dynamics also played a major role. The rise of short-form reels has allowed misinformation to spread more rapidly than it did in 2016, when content was mostly limited to static posts or longer videos. Reels have made misinformation easier to package and more shareable. For instance, Shirin Shokrollahi’s analysis of Instagram reels showed that their brevity and sensory intensity allow complex narratives to be condensed into emotionally engaging clips, which the platform then amplifies through engagement-driven algorithms. Similarly, a multimodal study of TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube health videos found that authority cues and fear-based storytelling make misleading content appear credible.

In the aftermath of Yousaf’s death, Facebook in particular was flooded with misleading and false claims in the form of reels. While reviewing viral posts surrounding her death, I repeatedly came across unrelated videos of people crying or mourning, footage of dead bodies, and clips claiming to show the perpetrator. Most of these claims were false.

The viral posts attracted thousands of comments ranging from people celebrating her killing to blaming her parents for “poor upbringing,” to policing her social media presence, and ultimately blaming the 17-year-old for her own fate. Even today, months after her death, Sana Yousaf’s content continues to circulate on social media regularly and is often filled with negative comments.

Comments left under different posts reporting Yousaf’s death

Comment sections function as more than just spaces for individuals to engage with and react to content; they are places where people converse, shape narratives, and collectively form opinions. As these cases show, they also serve as powerful accelerators of misogyny, misinformation, and public moral judgment.

Ayesha Khan

On 20 June 2025, veteran Pakistani actress Ayesha Khan was found dead in her Karachi apartment. Her body appeared to be around a week old when discovered, as reports stated that the actress had been living alone. “As per the station house officer, she passed away naturally,” Senior Superintendent of Police Dr Farrukh Raza told Arab News.

One might have expected that social media users would at least spare an older and widely respected figure, who seemingly died under normal circumstances; however, a different form of misinformation took over. Most posts announcing her death were accompanied by captions offering condolences and regret. In the comments, many users expressed sympathy and lamented the showbiz industry’s neglect. Others quickly jumped to conclusions about her personal life, alleging she had strained relationships with her children or had neglected them in their early years to pursue a career in entertainment.

Some dragged in “feminist values,” “liberalism,” “Western models of living,” and independence. Such comments imply that a woman who lives independently is ultimately responsible for whatever happens to her. Her circumstances, rather than being understood with empathy, were recast as character flaws. A few even claimed this is the “fate” of women who work in showbiz, ultimately blaming the deceased for being found dead in her apartment.

X posts regarding Ayesha Khan’s demise

Humaira Asghar Ali

In the first week of July 2025, actress Humaira Asghar Ali was found dead in her Karachi apartment when a court bailiff arrived on 8 July to vacate the property following a complaint by her landlord. The bailiff forced the door open and discovered her dead body inside.

Karachi Police Surgeon Dr Summaiya Syed initially noted that the body was in a “very advanced stage of decomposition,” suggesting she may have died around a month earlier. Further investigation into Humaira’s phone records, her social media activity, and interviews with neighbours, pointed to an earlier timeline.

In Ali’s case, her family’s initial refusal to claim the body added yet another layer for public scrutiny. It gave many social media users more ammunition for criticism. Under posts reporting her death, people attacked her for defying “family values,” pursuing a career in showbiz, and even in death, policing her choices.

On X, three separate users posted about her passing and questioned why her family or friends had not checked on her. Below these posts, several users claimed her family was justified in disowning her. Others insisted she had chased fame, rejected traditional values, or that this was the fate she deserved for pursuing independence. Some users cursed her outright. She was also claimed to be a feminist, and that this is what happens to women “for being feminist,” implying she somehow deserved her cruel fate.

Posthumous commentary

Digital commentary and reactions are not random. They draw from long-standing cultural notions about women’s morality, independence, and honour. When commenters invoke “feminist values,” “liberalism,” or “Western lifestyles,” they are suggesting that a woman’s autonomy is inherently dangerous or socially corrosive, and therefore a plausible cause of her suffering or death. These comments reflect an attempt to impose meaning on tragedy by presenting women’s choices, visibility, or careers as moral failings. In doing so, they recycle familiar misogynistic narratives, i.e., that women invite harm by stepping outside prescribed roles, and that their behaviour, not violence, is what requires scrutiny. In this way, the online response to these cases becomes less about the facts and more about policing the boundaries of acceptable womanhood. Speculation about the private lives of these women was treated as moral evidence, allowing strangers to assign blame rather than confront the violence or tragedy itself.

Women’s Public Presence

In Pakistan, a woman’s public presence has always been a contentious issue. Feminist scholar, activist, and author Afiya S. Zia traces this back to Benazir Bhutto’s tenure as prime minister. Bhutto’s body and choices were subjected to constant commentary, but at the time, the criticism was mostly confined to newspapers, Zia explained. Today, the landscape is different because news breaks online first and then moves to TV and print. Online conversations now directly shape offline attitudes.

Female public figures, then, are almost like a litmus test, and even in death, they are not granted any grace. Unsurprisingly, most people do not see anything wrong with posthumous commentary, particularly on one’s character or choices. Shmyla Khan aptly points out that, “People think they’re providing moral commentary and not harassment.”

Another issue is that people equate women’s public visibility with “feminism,” something both Zia and Khan noted. In Pakistan, “feminism” is often used as a catch-all accusation implying that a woman is immoral or rebellious. Her public presence is then treated as a political stance rather than ordinary visibility, which in turn becomes justification for hostility, scrutiny, and moral policing in the comments. This presumption adds another layer of scrutiny, particularly when the woman is young, outspoken, or challenges social norms.

The situation becomes especially troubling when it comes to dead women. Their absence emboldens audiences, allowing people to speak with more cruelty, certainty, and entitlement than they do about living women.

Comment section as a narrative machine

People leave comments to either acknowledge content or to feel acknowledged, express an emotion or a feeling, and join in on a conversation. However, for platforms, comments posted under content serve as a performance indicator of which topics are or aren’t gaining more traction online. On Facebook, for example, a comment is not just a response, but a signal to the algorithm that the post is provoking interest, which then prompts Facebook to push it to more users. More comments lead to increased visibility, which leads to even more comments. This process, invariably, ends up creating a visibility loophole - while people may comment with the intention of challenging or refuting the harmful narratives, they only end up further boosting engagement. Pushback, therefore, can unintentionally promote what it’s trying to shut down.

Facebook does hide or downrank certain comments, such as spam, suspicious links, heavily reported replies, or words filtered by page admins, but these mechanisms have major gaps.

Community guidelines

Meta’s Community Standards prohibit hate speech, bullying, harassment, and the non-consensual sharing of intimate images. The platform outlines protections against attacks based on gender, prevents the shaming of private individuals, and provides reporting tools intended to keep users safe. However, its 2025 policy overhaul relaxed certain prohibitions. For example, Meta now allows allegations of mental illness based on gender or sexual orientation, and permits exclusionary language rooted in political or religious discourse.

Most of the misogynistic comments found under posts about deceased women do not directly violate these narrow definitions.  They don’t include hate speech or sexual content. Instead, they weaponise moral judgment through insinuations, “warnings,” and victim-blaming commentary framed as cultural concern – forms of harm that policies do not recognise.

Even when Meta’s third-party fact-checkers rate content as false or misleading, the comments on such posts remain visible. People are more likely to scroll through comments than read the fact-check. This is partly driven by social proof, the tendency to trust other people’s reactions more than verified information, which allows misinformation to survive even after moderation.

People look toward others to reaffirm their biases, so comments often reinforce the misogynistic stereotypes already deeply embedded in Pakistani society. Comment threads ultimately shape collective memory. What people “remember” about a deceased woman often comes from what strangers speculated online, and not what actually happened.

Digital misogyny

Sociologists Sarah Banet-Weiser and Kaitlyn Miltner, in their study “#MasculinitySoFragile: culture, structure, and networked misogyny”, argue that gendered hate is not random trolling but structured, coordinated, and sustained through male-dominated digital spaces. Users reinforce each other’s hostility through comments, threads, memes, and group identities. This is clearly visible in comment threads under posts about deceased Pakistani female public figures, where people echo, escalate, and legitimise harmful narratives. While men dominate these threads, women also participate in posthumous moral policing. Banet-Weiser and Miltner suggest that algorithms reward outrage and anonymity protects abusers allowing such narratives to flourish.

Anonymity emboldens users who know they can protect their real identities. Even if their accounts are suspended, they can reappear with new ones. The problem is twofold. Platforms lack adequate mechanisms to intervene, and Pakistani laws do not always offer a pathway to report or address such behaviour – especially in cases involving deceased women, where no one is likely to pursue action anyway.

Afiya S. Zia and Shmyla Khan both emphasised that digital misogyny is a continuation of older patriarchal scripts, now amplified by technology. Zia believes “online misogyny is an extension of an old patriarchal system that seeks to control women’s sexuality, autonomy, and even property.” Social media has accelerated its spread, but the root remains the same, “fragile masculinity, sexual policing, and structural inequality.”

Abuse in the form of social media posts and comments is often seen as harmless or humorous making it easy to dismiss. However, Banet-Weiser and Miltner note, online hate often appears playful or normal, which is why it spreads more effectively. They assert, simply being visible as a woman is dangerous. This danger is magnified in Pakistan, where women’s online presence is often equated with feminism, liberalism, or Western values. “It doesn’t matter what women wear; simply being visible violates the boundaries patriarchy has set,” says Zia. “In Pakistan, women’s bodies are treated as national property; symbolic of modesty, religion, and identity,” she added.

While Qandeel Baloch’s case set the precedent for how public outrage and moral policing unfold online, the situation has intensified in recent years. The systems that enable misogynistic narratives have only grown more sophisticated, and the consequences more severe.

In Yousaf, Khan, and Ali’s case, many users may have shared posts simply to “inform” others of their deaths but intent becomes irrelevant on platforms driven by engagement. Once a post enters the algorithmic cycle, it attracts comments, and these threads quickly fill with misogynistic, moralising, and speculative remarks about the deceased and their families.

These comments reinforce patriarchal control over women, both in the public eye and in their private lives. Banet-Weiser and Miltner argue that misogynistic harassment can push women out of digital spaces, limiting their democratic representation. Ordinary Pakistani women face even higher risks. When families or male guardians see how female public figures are treated online, they tighten restrictions on the women in their own households, particularly when their deaths are framed as warnings about what happens to women who are too visible.

Is there a way forward?

Account owners or moderators often argue that public figures are exempt from privacy concerns, and platforms themselves are unlikely to disincentivise content centred on viral tragedies. Shmyla Khan pointed out, “Platforms have no real incentive to remove misogynistic content because it drives engagement.” Emotionally charged posts, especially those involving the death of young or famous women, attract higher engagement.

When false, misleading, or negative comments appear under news coverage, social media managers rarely intervene to correct misinformation because engagement boosts visibility.  In reality, there is no effective mechanism to report or remove these comments. “Reporting systems don’t work because they weren’t built with gendered harassment in mind,” Khan explained. “The burden is always on women to report, document, explain, even when they’re the ones harmed.”

Platforms do technically allow users to report comments, but their guidelines overlook misogynistic moralising, sympathy baiting, and posthumous shaming. Journalist Sidra Dar notes that “many of these platforms operate in Western contexts where hate speech, bullying, or harassment differ significantly.” Consequently, the narratives that emerged around the four deceased women seldom register as violations and remain online.

In the absence of meaningful laws and amid gaps within platform policies, dead women in Pakistan are left without the dignity they deserve. Misinformation and disinformation about them continue to flourish, reinforcing the same patriarchal controls that seek to limit women’s presence in the public sphere, both online and offline. Banet-Weiser and Miltner say women face emotional, psychological, and political harms simply for existing online. Unfortunately for Pakistani women, these harms do not end with death.

خالدہ نیاز

" اگر مقتولہ کے والدین اپنی بیٹی کو اتنی آزادی نہ دیتے تو یہ واقعہ رونما نہ ہوتا، شریعت کے مطابق اپنے ہی گھر میں سکونت پذیر ہوتی تو اس کو کسی بھی نامحرم کی نظر نہ لگتی۔ اسلام میں جو محرم اور نامحرم کے درمیان پردے کا تصور ہے وہ عورت کے تحفظ اور عزت کے لیے ہے اور جب عورت ان دونوں سے آزاد ہوگئی تو اس کی زندگی اور عزت دونوں غیر محفوظ ہوگئی۔ مرنے والی ہزاروں مردوں سے باتیں کرکے تسکین حاصل کرلیتی تھی اگر وہ ایسی ویڈیوز نہ بناتی تو ایسے جنونی لوگ اس تک پہنچ نہ پاتے" یہ اور اس جیسے کئی جملے تب سوشل میڈیا کی زینت بنے جب معروف ٹک ٹاکر ثنا یوسف کو اسلام آباد میں صرف اس لیے قتل کیا گیا کہ اس نے مارنے والے سے ملنے سے انکار کیا۔ پولیس کے مطابق ثنا یوسف کو رواں برس دو جون کو اسلام آباد کے سیکٹر جی 13 میں قتل کر دیا گیا تھا۔

اگرچہ ملزم نے اعتراف بھی کرلیا ہے کہ اس نے ملنے سے انکار کی وجہ سے ثنا یوسف کو قتل کیا لیکن سوشل میڈیا پر کئی صارفین نے اس قتل کو جرم کی بجائے خواتین کی آزادی، مذہب اور سوشل میڈیا سے جوڑ دیا کہ اگر ثنا یوسف ویڈیوز اپلوڈ نہ کرتی تو ملزم اس کو نہ دیکھتا، اسکی طرف نہ بڑھتا اور اس کو قتل نہ کرتا۔

یہ قصہ صرف ثنا یوسف تک محدود نہیں ہے ہمارے معاشرے میں جب بھی کسی عورت کے ساتھ ناانصافی ہوتی ہے، اس کو مار دیا جاتا ہے یا اس کو تشدد کا نشانہ بنایا جاتا ہے تو بعد میں قصور وار بھی اسی کو ٹھہرایا جاتا ہے کہ اس کی غلطی تھی اگر وہ ایسا نہ کرتی تو اس کے ساتھ ایسا نہ ہوتا، آزادی نے اس کا دماغ بگاڑ دیا تھا، وہ کیوں سوشل میڈیا پر آتی تھی؟ اس نے انکار کیوں کیا؟ اس نے آواز کیوں بلند کی؟ بے شرم بے حیا وغیرہ وغیرہ۔

ثنا یوسف کے بعد جب سامعہ حجاب کی ہراسگی کا کیس سامنے آیا تو بھی اس کوہی قصور وار ٹھہرایا گیا کہ اس کو مہنگا فون لے کردیا ہے، اس کے خرچے اٹھاتا تھا وغیرہ وغیرہ۔ بلوچستان میں جب ایک خاتون کو سرعام گولی مار کر غیرت کے نام پر قتل کیا گیا تو بھی اس کو قصور وار ٹھہرایا گیا کہ اس نے غلط کام کیا تھا جو اس کو موت کی جانب لے گیا۔

رات کو گھر سے باہر کیوں نکلی

اس معاشرے میں روزانہ کی بنیاد پر خواتین کو تشدد کانشانہ بنایا جاتا ہے، غیرت کے نام پر انکو قتل کردیا جاتا ہے، آن لائن ان کو ہراساں کیا جاتا ہے، گھریلو تشدد کا نشانہ بنایا جاتا ہے لیکن ملزمان کو سزا دینے کی بجائے ان خواتین کو ہی مورد الزام ٹھہرایا جاتا ہے کہ انہوں نے روایات کی پاسداری نہیں کی، رات کو گھر سے باہر کیوں نکلی، ویڈیوز کیوں اپلوڈ کی۔

خواتین کے خلاف تشدد میں اضافے کا احوال حالیہ اعدادو شمار سے باآسانی لگایا جاسکتا ہے۔ وزارت انسانی حقوق نےرواں ماہ نومبر میں قومی اسمبلی کو آگاہ کیا ہے کہ 2021 سے 2024 کے چار سالہ عرصے کے دوران ملک بھر میں خواتین کے خلاف تشدد کے 173,367 خطرناک کیسز رپورٹ ہوئے ہیں۔ یہ ہوشربا اعداد و شمار وزارت کی جانب سے سوال و جواب کے سیشن کے دوران پیش کیے گئے جس میں قتل، گھریلو تشدد، غیرت کے نام پر قتل، جنسی تشدد، ہراسانی اور اغوا کے واقعات کی تفصیلی جھلک پیش کی گئی۔

نیشنل پولیس بیورو کے زیر انتظام رجسٹرڈ کیسز کے اعداد و شمار کے مطابق چار سال کی اس مدت میں 5,948 قتل، 8,799 مار پیٹ اور 2,304 گھریلو تشدد کی دیگر اقسام کے واقعات رپورٹ ہوئے۔ غیرت کے نام پر قتل کے زمرے میں 1,553 خواتین کو اپنی جان سے ہاتھ دھونا پڑا، جبکہ اسی دوران 127 تیزاب پھینکنے (ایسڈ اٹیک) اور 300 چولہا جلانے کے واقعات بھی ریکارڈ کیے گئے۔ سب سے زیادہ تشویشناک اعداد و شمار اغوا اور آپریشن کے زمرے سے سامنے آئے جہاں 89,599 کیسز رجسٹرڈ کیے گئے جبکہ 44,057 واقعات کو "تشدد کی دیگر اقسام” میں شامل کیا گیا۔

خواتین کی غلطی بھی گناہ سمجھی جاتی ہے

خیبرپختونخوا میں خواتین کے حقوق کے لیے سرگرم نوشین فاطمہ کا کہنا ہے کہ اس معاشرے میں طاقت کا راج چلتا ہے، جو جنس جتنا طاقتور ہوتا ہے اتنا ہی اس کی بات مانی جاتی ہے۔ " نہ صرف آن لائن بلکہ عام زندگی میں بھی چاہے غلطی مرد کی ہو قصور وار عورت کو ہی ٹہھرایا جاتا ہے اسکی کو برا کہا جاتا ہے کیونکہ اس معاشرے میں مرد طاقتور اور خاتون کمزور ہیں، مرد کا گناہ بھی غلطی نہیں ہوتی، یہاں خواتین اور خواجہ سرا مرجنلائزڈ ہیں اس لیے انکی غلطی بھی گناہ سمجھی جاتی ہے"

نوشین فاطمہ بتاتی ہیں انٹرنیٹ اور سوشل میڈیا پلیٹ فارمز پر مردوں کی اجاہ داری ہے ایسے میں کیسے ہم کہہ سکتے ہیں سوشل میڈیا پر خواتین محفوظ ہیں۔ وہ بتاتی ہیں اس ملک میں پہلے سے خواتین مسائل میں گھری ہوئی ہیں لیکن سوشل میڈیا کے آنے سے انکی مشکلات میں اضافہ ہوا ہے، سوشل میڈیا پر خواتین کو طرح طرح سے ٹرول کیا جاتا ہے، ظلم اور زیادتی بھی انکے ساتھ ہوتی ہے اور قصور وار بھی انکو کہا جاتا ہے، دوسری طرف یہاں قانون کی بالادستی بھی نہ ہونے کے برابر ہے۔ یہاں اگر کسی خاتون کو غیرت کے نام پر قتل کردیا جاتا ہے تو کہا جاتا ہے کہ یہ بے راہ روی کا شکار تھی۔

خواتین دوسروں کی توجہ کے لیے سوشل میڈیا پر آتی ہیں

جب ایک خاتون خودمختار ہوتی ہیں یا معاشرے کے جو قاعدے ہیں حیا کے ان پر کوئی عورت پورا نہ اترتی ہو تو اس کو اگر کوئی مار بھی دے تو وہ جرم نہیں سمجھا جاتا بلکہ یہ تاثر دیا جاتا ہے کہ مارنے والے نے اس عورت کو مزید بے حیائی سے بچالیا۔ نوشین فاطمہ کے مطابق آجکل زیادہ تر واقعات سوشل میڈیا پر وائرل ہوجاتے ہیں جس میں اسی خاتون کو مورد الزام ٹھہرایا جاتا ہے جس کے ساتھ ناانصافی ہوچکی ہوتی ہے، انہوں نے کہا لوگوں کی جو سوچ ہے اس سے انکو نہیں لگتا کہ ایسے واقعات میں کمی آسکتی ہے۔ " جو خواتین سوشل میڈیا پر آتی ہیں، پھر اگر وہ اپنی تصاویر اور ویڈیوز بھی شیئر کرتی ہو تو لوگ اس کو گناہ گار سمجھتے ہیں، ایسی خواتین کو بے حیا بولا جاتا ہے، عام لوگ یہی خیال کرتے ہیں کہ ایسی خواتین دوسروں کی توجہ کے لیے سوشل میڈیا پر آتی ہیں، یہی سب کچھ مرد بھی کرتے ہیں لیکن انکو برا نہیں سمجھا جاتا، میں کہتی ہوں اگر ایک کام غلط ہے تو پھر وہ سب کے لیے غلط ہے نہ کے کسی ایک جنس کے لیے، وہی بات آجاتی ہے کہ مرد طاقتور ہیں اور عورت کمزور ہیں" نوشین فاطمہ نے بتایا۔

نوشین فاطمہ بتاتی ہیں سماجی روئیوں کے ساتھ یہاں قوانین پر صحیح عمل درآمد نہ ہونا بھی ایک بڑا مسئلہ ہے، باہر ممالک میں سوشل میڈیا پر خواتین کی ٹرولنگ کا کوئی سوچ بھی نہیں سکتا لیکن یہاں سائبر کرائم میں اگر کوئی خاتون اپنا مسئلہ لے کر چلی بھی جاتی ہے تو بھی مختلف حیلوں بہانوں سے اس کو ٹرخا دیا جاتا ہے، یہی وجہ ہے کہ زیادہ تر خواتین آن لائن ہراسمنٹ پر خاموشی اختیار کرلیتی ہیں یا سوشل میڈیا سے دور ہوجاتی ہیں۔

نوشین فاطمہ کے مطابق المیہ یہ ہے کہ جب کوئی خاتون دوسری خواتین کے لیے یا فرسودہ روایات جیسے سورہ وغیرہ کے خلاف آواز اٹھاتی ہیں تو اس کو بھی آن لائن ٹرول کیا جاتا ہے۔ " میں جب سورہ اور باقی فرسودہ روایات پر بات کرتی ہوں تو نیچے کمنٹس نہیں پڑھتی کیونکہ وہاں میرے خلاف ایک محاذ کھڑا ہوجاتا ہے"

عورت اگر پڑھیں گی تو یہ اس کی سوچ میں خرابی لائیں گی

سابق بیورو کریٹ اور پالیسی ایکسپرٹ فوزیہ یزدانی نے اس حوالے سے بات کرتے ہوئے کہا کہ صنفی برابری کا نہ ہونا صرف پاکستان کا نہیں بلکہ پوری دنیا کا مسئلہ البتہ پاکستان میں صنفی برابری کے حوالے سے صورتحال باقی ممالک کی نسبت زیادہ ابتر ہے۔ پاکستان میں معاشرتی اقدار، مذہب کے نام پر، خاندانی روایات کے نام پر کہا جاتا ہے کہ عورت یہ کام نہیں کرسکتی، پھر عورت کے سر پر حیا، عزت کا تاج رکھ دیا جاتا ہے، پورے خاندان کی عزت عورت سے منسوب کردی جاتی ہے، پھر اسی عزت کے نام پر عورت کو قصور وار ٹھہرایا جاتا ہے۔ " ہم نے یہاں سیٹ کردیا ہے کہ عورت ایک خاص لباس میں گھر سے نکلیں گی تو اس کا قصور ہے، عورت اس وقت پر گھر سے نکلیں گی تو اس کے ساتھ برا واقعہ پیش آئے گا، عورت اگر پڑھیں گی تو یہ اس کی سوچ میں خرابی لائیں گی، اس کی سوچ کی خرابی سے اس کے کردار میں خرابی آئیں گی اور وہ اخلاق باختہ ہوجائیں گی، پھر جو خواتین مردوں کے ساتھ ایک جگہ پر کام کرتی ہیں تو بھی اس کے کردار کو اچھالا جاتا ہے، جب ہم نے خواتین کو اتنا کمزور بنادیا ہے لوگوں کی سوچ سیٹ کردی ہے خواتین کے حوالے سے تو ظاہر سی بات ہے مورد الزام اسی کو ٹھہرایا جائے گا کیونکہ لوگوں کی ذہن سازی ہی ایسی ہوئی ہے"

وہ کیوں اس وقت سفر کررہی تھی؟

فوزیہ یزدانی نے موٹروے واقعے کا ذکر کرتے ہوئے کہا جب موٹروے پر ایک خاتون کا ریپ کیا گیا تو بھی اس کو مورد الزام ٹھہرایا گیا کہ وہ کیوں اس وقت سفر کررہی تھی، یہ اس معاشرے کی وہ سوچ ہے جس میں وہ ایک خاتون کو خودمختار نہیں دیکھ سکتی، عورتوں کے لیے اس معاشرے نے جو رولز سیٹ کیے ہیں اگر وہ اس سے باہر ہوتی ہیں اپنی مرضی کا کچھ کرتی ہیں تو بس پھر وہ قصور وار ہوجاتی ہیں۔

فوزیہ یزدانی نے کہا کہ معاشرے نے مرد اور خواتین کے لیے رولز سیٹ کیے ہیں کہ مرد باہر جاکر کمائے گا خواتین گھروں میں بیٹھ کر کھانا بنائیں گی بچے پالیں گی، مرد گھر کا کوئی بھی کام نہیں کرے گا کیونکہ وہ کماکر لاتا ہے اور خاتون کی ذمہ داری ہے وہ کہ گھر کا کام بھی کریں اور بچوں کا بھی خیال رکھیں پھر یہی سے گھریلو تشدد کا معاملہ بھی شروع ہوتا ہے، خاتون کو جب تشدد کا نشانہ بنایا جاتا ہے کسی بات پر تو یہی کہا جاتا ہے کہ اسی نے مرد کو اس حد تک پہنچایا کہ اس نے اس پر تشدد کیا۔ اس معاشرے میں صنف کی بنیاد پر تشدد ازل سے موجود ہے جب سوشل میڈیا نے ترقی کی تو ہمارے ہاں بھی لوگوں نے سوشل میڈیا کا استعمال شروع کیا اور یوں صنفی تشدد نے ایک نیا رخ اختیار کیا کہ سوشل میڈیا پر خواتین کو ہراساں کیا جانے لگا، انکو برا بھلا کہنا شروع ہوا، اور ساتھ میں انکی کردار کشی شروع ہوئی، چاہے قصور وار مرد ہی کیوں نہ ہو۔

ڈیجیٹل وائلنس کی نا تو حکومت پرواہ کررہی ہیں اور نا ہی سوشل میڈیا پلیٹ فارمز اس جانب کوئی توجہ دے رہے ہیں، اکثر اوقات ہراسانی کے واقعات مقامی زبان میں پیش آتے ہیں تو فیس بک یا ٹوئٹر اس پر ایکشن نہیں لیتا۔ اس کے علاوہ پیکا ایکٹ کے تحت سوشل میڈیا اتھارٹی بننی تھی لیکن ابھی تک نہ بنی، اتھارٹی اگر بن جاتی تو شاید کچھ کیسز دیکھ لیتی لیکن وہ بھی نہ بن سکی، یہی وجہ ہے کہ ڈیجیٹل وائلنس کے کسی بھی کیس میں سزا نہیں ملی کسی کو۔ جب تک سزا نہیں ملے گی تب تک ڈیجیٹل وائلنس میں کمی نہیں لائی جاسکتی، ایک اور بات جو بہت ضروری ہے کہ ڈیجیٹل وائلنس فزیکل میں تبدیل ہورہا ہے یہی ثنا یوسف کے کیس میں دیکھا گیا، اس لڑکے نے سوشل میڈیا پر اس سے رابطہ کیا، لیکن چونکہ ثنا یوسف نے انکار کیا تو اس سے برداشت نہ ہوا اور یوں ثنا یوسف قتل والا کیس سامنے آیا۔

عورت کو ہر حال میں صفائی پیش کرنی پڑتی ہے

سماجی کارکن نادیہ خان بتاتی ہیں بدقسمتی سے ہمارے معاشرے میں جنسی ہراسگی یا تشدد کا شکار ہونے والی عورت ہی کو موردِ الزام ٹھہرایا جاتا ہے۔ ہماری خواتین روزانہ اس رویّے کا سامنا کرتی ہیں کہیں سوال اُن کے کردار پر اٹھائے جاتے ہیں، کہیں اُنہیں ہی ذمہ دار ٹھہرا کر اصل مجرم کو پس منظر میں دھکیل دیا جاتا ہے۔ یہ صدیوں پرانی پدرشاہی سوچ کا نتیجہ ہے جس میں عورت کو ہر حال میں صفائی پیش کرنی پڑتی ہے، جبکہ ظلم کرنے والا بے خوف رہتا ہے۔

انہوں نے کہا وکٹم بلیمینگ نہ صرف ناانصافی کو بڑھاتی ہے بلکہ تشدد کو ایک نارمل عمل بنا دیتی ہے، جس کی وجہ سے عورتیں اپنی آواز بلند کرنے، واقعہ رپورٹ کرنے یا انصاف لینے سے ڈرنے لگتی ہیں۔ اس سے نہ صرف اصل مجرم چھپ جاتا ہے بلکہ معاشرہ مجموعی طور پر بے حس ہوجاتا ہے اور انصاف کے نظام پرعوام کا اعتماد بھی کمزور پڑ جاتا ہے۔

نادیہ خان مزید بتاتی یہ مسئلہ ایک فرد تک محدود نہیں یہ وہ بوجھ ہے جو ہماری بہت سی خواتین ہر روز خاموشی سے اٹھاتی ہیں، بہت کم خواتین ایسی ہوتی ہیں جواس کے خلاف آواز اٹھاتی ہیں کیونکہ انکو پتہ ہوتا ہے آواز اٹھانے سے انہیں کے کردار پرانگلی اٹھائی جائیں گی۔ ایک المیہ یہ بھی ہے کہ یہاں جب بھی کوئی خاتون دوسری خاتون کے لیے آواز اٹھاتی ہیں تو اس کے آواز کو بھی دبانے کی کوشش کی جاتی ہیں، اس کے کردار پر بھی کیچڑاچالا جاتا ہے۔

" جب سامعہ حجاب کا کیس سامنے آیا تو ہر کوئی اس پر بات کرنے لگا، شروع میں تو لوگوں نے اس کے حق میں بات کی لیکن پھرلوگوں نے اس کے کردار پر ہی انگلی اٹھائی کہ اس کا اس لڑکے ساتھ تعلق تھا، وہ اس کو تحائف دیتا تھا وغیرہ وغیرہ، خواتین کو مورد الزام ٹھہرانا لوگوں کی عادت بن چکی ہے، لوگوں کی سوچ میں اس حوالے سے تبدیلی بہت ضروری ہے کیونکہ ظلم سہنے والی خواتین ایک تو تشدد اور زیادتی کا شکار ہوتی ہیں اوپر سے انکی کردار کشی انکی ذہنی صحت تباہ کردیتی ہے"

By Anmol Irfan

Across social media platforms, women and gender minorities are increasingly utilizing tools of anonymity and self-censorship to protect their safety whilst participating in divisive public discourse. If you're a Pakistani woman active in online community groups on Facebook, chances are you’ve recently started seeing a whole lot of posts by anonymous members. Move this conversation to Instagram, X (formerly Twitter) or TikTok - particularly when it comes to public profiles - and you’ll hear comments like “don’t post about that topic, it's not safe” or “I don’t share my face online.”

Even on public platforms, many women choose to keep anonymous accounts, where they might share their art, thoughts or creations but keep their names and identities a secret. A growing number of women have shared that they no longer feel comfortable posting their faces online, sharing parts of their identity, or even just sharing opinions, because of the impact it can have on them online and offline. After all, with our digital reality so interwoven with our offline lives, it’s hard to separate the two.

This rise in anonymity is linked to a rise in more misogynistic content and gendered hate that has quickly become common amidst Pakistani digital spaces - following on from global trends amidst the rise of manosphere culture. The manosphere is an umbrella term for a loose network of online communities, websites, and influencers that promote male-supremacist and anti-feminist ideologies. These groups are united by the general belief that society is biased against men due to the influence of feminism and that men are victims of social change but present in different societies in different ways. This growing online narrative pushes men towards violent, controlling behaviours by making them believe that they are trapped in a “feminist conspiracy”, and demands that they reclaim their supposed manhood by showing women what they believe is their apparent rightful place.

In Pakistan, a growing number of women have expressed fear for their physical and mental health in light of these rising beliefs online that have caused them to either self-censor their online identities, or choose to be as anonymous as possible when it comes to sharing public information. “I think it [self-censorship] emerges in subtle forms and is often internalised, like choosing my words carefully or being mindful in public forums. I often avoid or touch delicately on topics that can trigger misogynistic backlash [from men and women online], even though at times I feel that those topics are very important to discuss. Even then, I still choose safe words or tone, or for me to stay mentally sane and avoid the emotional cost of online abuse,” says Wardah Iftikhar, a gender rights advocate and development practitioner with over 8 years of experience in women’s economic empowerment, inclusive policy development, and rights-based governance across South Asia

This isn’t a recent phenomenon. Anonymity online has been a way for people to speak their mind without repercussions or consequences - on both ends of the spectrum. In Pakistan, this has increased amongst women over the last 5 years, with 2020 and 2021 seeing anonymous accounts leading the charge when it came to Pakistan’s own #MeToo movement. But it’s not all about gaining control.

Infact Annam Lodhi, a gender researcher and strategic communications specialist, wrote about this as early as 2019. Over the last 7 years, Lodhi has seen this culture evolve - although not for the better - and it prompted her to explore this further for her research. “In almost 7 years the dynamic has changed. In my masters, I wanted to explore this further. Anonymity is much more common, boys and girls are smarter now, but things have gone down the drain for women,” she shares. With a growing number of public creators and bloggers either choosing to hide parts of their identity or self-censor in the way that they speak - anonymity amongst Pakistani women may be letting them speak more, but at what cost?

The Manosphere & Pakistani Misogyny

The manosphere isn’t just about men’s behaviour, it has a deep online and offline impact on shaping women’s behavior as well. In fact, it isn’t even just men who are propagating these hateful beliefs or attacking women online. Much of this hate often comes from other women as well, who’ve internalised these misogynistic beliefs and will go out of their way to police other women if they feel that the way they’ve portrayed themselves online is “incorrect.”

“The Manosphere doesn't just impact the way men behave and perceive the world, it directly influences women. We become fearful of being labeled as the evil instigators who are gold diggers, man-haters and whores when taking a leap of faith to display our interests in bodily-autonomy, independence and artistic liberation,” says Anha Chaudhry, an artist and content creator who chooses to keep her name and face anonymous on her public art profile.

This manosphere, or content related to it, isn't unique to Pakistan. In fact, its rise has largely been credited to the likes of influencers like Andrew Tate and Jordan Peterson, but it seems that Pakistani society and its already rampant patriarchy became the perfect space for these beliefs to thrive and grow.

Within a Pakistani context, we’ve seen this play out in the reaction many feminist campaigns have received online. Conversations around period justice have been called shameful and wrong because many people believe these topics shouldn’t be talked about in public. Organisations like Mahwari Justice have been attacked for their name being “vulgar”. Religion is often used as a way to silence women’s public personas, which makes it even more difficult for women to speak out against these controls due to the sensitive nature of the topic. Those who do continue to speak out have to constantly worry about personal information getting leaked or putting themselves in harm’s way.

While women may react in different ways, the consequences cannot be ignored. Sajeer Shaikh, a content creator and journalist observes, “It's interesting, because on one hand, one would expect a greater degree of self-censorship and policing to avoid it coming from external sources. Some women are definitely more selective about what they post online. But you also have pushback by certain creators who combat the manosphere, ridicule it, raise awareness about its talking points and even rage bait creators in the manosphere.”

Lodhi sees this manifest in Pakistan slightly differently to how it has in other parts of the world. “It's a very cultural, very patriarchal issue. In my first story I called them incels. I don’t do that anymore, because incels are men in a society where people can be with each other and women don't want to be with them. In our society, men have so much social leverage they don't really care what women think,” she says of why the phenomena is slightly different in the way it impacts Pakistani society.  For Pakistani society, the manosphere impacts cross-gender relationships differently than it does in other cultures, because these relationships are already so guarded and controlled in our culture. Women are in many cases often already seen as weaker, and their opinions seen as less important, and so they themselves begin to internalise these beliefs and restrictions and slowly take up less space online.

A defining feature of manosphere culture is what can only be described as taking up all the air in the [digital] room. There is a deliberate silencing and twisting of women’s voices through trolling, attacks, derogatory personal comments, threats, and offline blackmail. Much of this control and hate stems from beliefs made popular by the manosphere, specifically a conspiratorial attitude towards perceived changes in gender roles. The conclusion reached is that men need to re-establish their “manhood” by asserting dominance over women. This increases into a hatred for women who many men feel are stepping out of their place or who are blamed by men for apparently being the reason that they cannot be masculine in the way that they want.

For those who are part of this problematic culture, regardless of whether they are men or women, it’s clear that in their eyes women should neither be seen nor heard.

“Women and children are already vulnerable. Topics that deal with the female demographic, like  health or femininity already have a limited audience so women already occupy a restricted space. Men take over that space and limit it even further” says Sarosh Ibrahim, a journalist, content creator and host of podcast Dear Body, whose own content around women’s bodies and taking up space is often in direct conflict with the men trying to silence these very conversations.

Ibrahim, whose content has often brought her under attack from such men shares some common behaviors she has noticed: “When you talk about topics concerning women, they immediately bring up topics concerning men, and will ask why are you only talking about women not men,” she says, addressing those men and adding  “There’s power imbalances all around you in the domestic space, in the work space, and yet you choose to say “why don't you talk about men”, You continue to turn a blind eye to women’s issues.” But the men she’s addressing don’t get swayed by questions like this, because the beliefs they are following are so entrenched in the spaces they occupy online. Algorithms online support this radical and harmful content, creating echo chambers for men and young boys, so this becomes the only content they often see and are influenced by. They begin to see women as enemies rather than allies, and that makes solutions even harder to implement.

When Women Are Silenced - Even as They Speak

Even as Ibrahim says that her response to such comments is often to laugh them off because of how long she’s been within this space, she admits that she too chooses to censor what parts of herself she’s showing online.

“I’ve seen that when women choose to portray themselves, there’s always a reason why they can portray themselves the way they are. I feel like where you’re situated matters a lot, and it shapes the way you portray yourself. For example, me being a single Pakistani woman who is living with her parents,I do censor myself in various ways, so the way I touch on certain topics like religion. It matters how I talk about it because of the consequences,” she shares.

Safinah Danish Elahi, an author and founder of Reverie Publishers, also has a similar approach to her public profile. What started as a page dedicated to her writing grew into a more personal space where she felt comfortable posting videos about her life. However, when a recent video with her husband went viral, it served as a chilling reminder of how vulnerable one can be to online hate.  “You realise whatever you put out there can be perceived in whatever way.”

She says that awareness about how people can respond online keeps her from taking too much of a stance on politics or other issues that can be made controversial. Now that her daughter has also been building a public profile as a padel player, Elahi says that she has instructed her to only post about padel and refrain from remarking on controversial social or political issues.

“Yes, even that [padel] can trigger people so that is a concern I would have if I see someone commenting on her body or clothes or someone invading her space and saying she shouldn’t be doing that,  because in the online world it is 10x or 100x easier to be made a target,” she says.

Ibrahim and Elahi still choose to share their identities online, albeit partially. For Chaudhry and countless other women, self-censorship is practiced to a more extreme degree. By prioritizing their safety over their expression, women in Pakistan often choose to exclude their public persona from online spaces.

“Honestly, I've had minimal reaction. That's not because I have a welcoming audience that is open to discomfort and conversation, but because I have been too afraid to speak. It is easy to find my personal account, and I have proudly tagged both accounts on both pages to extend my visibility, but the moment I gain traction for being a distraction to the manosphere, my face will be abused with false information to defame me. I am genuinely too afraid of getting hurt to actually be myself. Upon viewing my art page, you can clearly see how curated the space is,” she shares.

She chooses to do this despite the fact that she knows it limits her work. “My work not having my face does make it limiting.  My incentive to make art is my personal grievances and trauma, but I must remove traces of nuance to make it digestible for the chronic Instagram scroller,” she adds.

For other women who choose to stay anonymous, particularly in advice forums such as certain women’s groups on Facebook or to talk about topics considered “private” or “vulgar”, the choice to do so can feel empowering. After all, they can finally discuss topics that may otherwise invite judgment or attacks - not just from men but oftentimes from women as well, who become part of that same culture and pull women down. They’re not completely wrong. Anonymity, in some cases, does allow them to open the door to deeper conversations, sharing more experiences and speaking more openly about things that are taboo in our society.

Shifa Lodhi, a Humanistic Integrative Psychotherapist, also adds that the decision to stay anonymous has both pros and cons, “Yes, we can say whatever, there isn’t any track record, but it's also harming us because it's taking away the autonomy we used to have once,” she says.

As we become more and more comfortable in our anonymity, it raises the question of whether Pakistani women can ever safely take up space again. “Even the connection women build by bonding and supporting one another behind their online alter egos is only a coping mechanism for us. We shouldn't have to hide and have tight circles to support one another. We deserve to be loud and public about our love and interests in each other's work,” says Chaudhry.

After all this, silencing online isn’t just limited to the digital realm. It’s slowly shaping women and girls’ perceptions of their voices and where they are acceptable.  “Online spaces are public spaces and they are a demonstration of how we deal with life offline. So when we target women in online spaces, we are shaping narratives, shaping influence and behaviour. We are trying to determine who gets to lead, who gets to speak, who gets to stay visible and have a voice,” says Iftikhar, adding that “when you’re targeting women, you're challenging their agency, you’re policing them and that means you’re restricting their participation in political, social and civic processes. Because if they cannot exist safely online, they cannot engage in public discourse.”

Mehreen Khalid 

"لوگ ہمیں صرف خواجہ سرا سمجھ کر ہر حد عبور کرنے کا حق اپنے پاس سمجھتے ہیں، حالانکہ ہم بھی اس معاشرے کے دوسرے افراد کی طرح انسان ہیں۔"

 یہ کہنا ہے

ڈیرہ اسماعیل خان سے تعلق رکھنے والی 27 سالہ خواجہ سرا نگینہ کا انہوں نے سوشل میڈیا کا استعمال اس لیے چھوڑ دیا کہ وہاں انہیں مسلسل ذہنی ہراسانی کا سامنا رہتا تھا۔ اگر سوشل میڈیا پر کوئی تصویر شئیر کرتے تو لوگ مذاق اڑاتے فحش میسجز بھیجتے، نمبر مانگتے اور مختلف طریقوں سے جنسی تعلقات کا مطالبہ کرتے تھے۔ وہ کہتی ہیں، لوگ ہمیں صرف خواجہ سرا سمجھ کر ہر حد عبور کرنے کا حق اپنے پاس سمجھتے ہیں، حالانکہ ہم بھی اس معاشرے کے دوسرے افراد کی طرح انسان ہیں۔

نگینہ کے مطابق ان کی کئی ساتھی اب صرف واٹس ایپ تک محدود ہو گئی ہیں کیونکہ دیگر سوشل میڈیا پلیٹ فارمز خواجہ سراؤں کے لیے محفوظ نہیں رہے۔

نگینہ کا کہنا ہے کہ وہ اپنی روزی روٹی کے لیے تقریبات اور فنکشنز میں ڈانس کرتی ہیں، مگر اکثر افراد انہیں آرٹسٹ کے بجائے غیر اخلاقی خواہشات پوری کرنے کا ذریعہ سمجھتے ہیں۔

فنکشن میں انعام دینا اور صبح ہمارے ڈیرے پر آکر جنسی تعلقات کا مطالبہ کرنا ہمارے لیے معمول بن چکا ہے۔ یوں محسوس ہوتا ہے جیسے کوئی بھی پیشہ ہمارے لیے محفوظ نہیں رہا۔

ایک سال قبل پیش آنے والے دل خراش واقعے کو یاد کرتے ہوئے وہ بتاتی ہیں کہ فنکشن سے واپسی پر دس افراد نے انہیں گھیر کر موبائل چھین لیا، کپڑے پھاڑ دیے اور باری باری جنسی زیادتی کا نشانہ بنایا۔ نگینہ کہتی ہے کہ اس لمحے دل چاہتا تھا زمین پھٹ جائے اور میں اس میں سما جاؤں۔

نگینہ کے مطابق عام شہریوں کے ساتھ ایسے واقعات پیش آئیں تو ان کی شکایت درج کی جاتی ہے، تاہم خواجہ سراؤں کے معاملے میں پولیس اکثر سنجیدگی دکھانے کے بجائے الٹا الزامات عائد کرتی ہے۔

"معاشرہ ہمیں ایک انسان کے طور پر تسلیم کرنے کے بجائے ہماری شناخت کو ہمارے خلاف استعمال کرتا ہے۔"

منزل فاؤنڈیشن کی سربراہ اور خواجہ سراؤں کے حقوق کے لیے سرگرم سماجی کارکن، آرزو خان، کہتی ہیں کہ سوشل میڈیا پلیٹ فارمز خواجہ سراؤں کے لیے انتہائی غیر محفوظ ہو چکے ہیں۔ آن لائن ہراسانی، نفرت انگیز کمنٹس، بلیک میلنگ اور فیک اکاؤنٹس کے ذریعے فراڈ معمول بن چکا ہے۔ کئی خواجہ سرا واٹس ایپ تک محدود ہو گئی ہیں کیونکہ فیس بک، ٹک ٹاک یا انسٹاگرام پر ویڈیو اپ لوڈ کرتے ہی گینگز اور عام صارفین کی طرف سے گالی گلوچ، دھمکیاں اور جنسی مطالبات شروع ہو جاتے ہیں۔ بعض کیسز میں گن پوائنٹ پر نازیبا ویڈیوز بنا کر بلیک میلنگ بھی کی جاتی ہے، جنہیں بعد میں وائرل کرنے کی دھمکی دی جاتی ہے۔

حالیہ مہینوں میں متعدد معروف خواجہ سرا جیسے ڈولفن آیان، علی کوکو، ارمان، غزل اور نینا اس سے متاثر ہو چکی ہیں، جن کی نازیبا ویڈیوز لیک ہوئیں اور سوشل میڈیا پر انہیں شدید تنقید کا نشانہ بنایا گیا۔ ان کے مطابق گینگز نہ صرف آن لائن ہراسانی کرتے ہیں بلکہ مختلف افراد کو خواجہ سراؤں کے پیچھے لگا کر تشدد، جنسی زیادتی اور بلیک میلنگ میں بھی ملوث ہیں۔

آرزو خان کے مطابق اس سال خواجہ سراؤں کے 35 مختلف نوعیت کے کیسز رپورٹ ہوئے، جن میں تقریباً 10 کیسز پولیس اور ایف آئی اے کے زیرِ کارروائی تھے۔

فیک اکاؤنٹس کا مسئلہ بھی بڑھ رہا ہے۔ کئی خواجہ سرا جیسے لائبہ نایاب، گڑیا، آذان اور یہاں تک کہ آرزو خان کے نام سے بھی جعلی اکاؤنٹس بنا کر عوام سے پیسے بٹورے گئے۔ بعض کیسز میں متاثرہ خواجہ سرا پر الٹا تشدد کیا گیا کہ تم نے ہم سے آن لائن پیسے لیے۔ کئی خواجہ سرا اس خوف سے ضلع بدر ہو چکی ہیں۔

آرزو خان کا کہنا ہے کہ سوشل میڈیا پر ہراسانی یا بلیک میلنگ کی شکایات پر نہ پولیس ایکشن لیتی ہے، نہ ایف آئی اے مؤثر کارروائی کرتی ہے۔ این سی ایچ آر کی شکایات کے جوابات اکثر اتنی تاخیر سے آتے ہیں کہ کیس ختم ہو چکا ہوتا ہے۔ ان کے مطابق اداروں کی عدم سنجیدگی کی وجہ سے یہ جرائم بڑھتے جا رہے ہیں۔

آرزو خان کا کہنا ہے کہ سوشل میڈیا پر بڑھتی ہوئی ہراسانی کے خاتمے کے لیے ایف آئی اے، پولیس اور دیگر متعلقہ اداروں میں فوری اور مؤثر پالیسی اپنائی جائے۔ خواجہ سراؤں کو آن لائن ہراسانی سے بچاؤ کی تربیت فراہم کی جائے اور تھانوں، اسپتالوں، تعلیمی اداروں اور دیگر عوامی مقامات پر آگاہی مواد آویزاں کیا جائے۔ آرزو خان کے مطابق، جب خواجہ سرا جرائم کے خلاف آواز بلند کرتے ہیں تو ان کے خلاف دھمکی آمیز ویڈیوز بنائی جاتی ہیں اور اداروں کی خاموشی مجرموں کے حوصلے مزید بڑھا دیتی ہے۔

فرزانہ ریاض، صدر ٹرانس ایکشن الائنس، نہ صرف خواجہ سراؤں کے حقوق کے لیے آواز بلند کرتی ہیں بلکہ انہیں تعلیم، ہنر اور قانونی معاونت بھی مہیا کرتی ہیں۔ ان کے مطابق پچھلے 10 سال کے دوران خیبرپختونخوا میں خواجہ سراؤں کے خلاف ریپ، بھتہ خوری، ضلع بدری اور دیگر جسمانی تشدد کے 3,000 سے زائد واقعات رپورٹ ہو چکے ہیں۔

فرزانہ ریاض کے مطابق پچھلے دس سال کے دوران صوبے میں 157 خواجہ سراؤں کو قتل کیا جا چکا ہے، اور رواں سال یہ وارداتیں مزید شدت اختیار کر گئی ہیں۔

تاہم خیبر پختونخوا پولیس کے اعداد و شمار کے مطابق، اس سال کے پہلے سات ماہ میں 15 خواجہ سراؤں کے قتل کے کیسز درج ہوئے ہیں، جو اس مسئلے کی سنگینی کو ظاہر کرتے ہیں۔

گڑیا، جو پشاور سے تعلق رکھتی ہیں، نے بتایا کہ سوشل میڈیا پر ان کے نام سے جعلی اکاؤنٹس بنائے گئے تھے، جن کے ذریعے لوگوں سے پیسے لیے گئے اور بعد میں انہیں شدید دھمکیاں دی گئیں۔ دھمکیاں دینے والے افراد نے ان کا پیچھا کیا، لوکیشن ٹریکنگ کی، پروگرامز میں تنگ کیا اور موبائل کے ذریعے بھی دھمکیاں دی گئیں۔ حالات اتنے سنگین ہو گئے کہ یہ لوگ بالآخر گڑیا کے ڈیرے تک پہنچ گئے، جس سے نہ صرف وہ بلکہ ان کے ساتھی بھی شدید پریشان ہو گئے۔

شدید خوف اور اپنی حفاظت کے لیے گڑیا کو ضلع بدر ہونا پڑا پہلے کوئٹہ اور بعد میں مانسہرہ منتقل ہوئیں۔ گڑیا کے مطابق یہ مسئلہ نہ صرف ان کے ساتھ بلکہ دیگر خواجہ سراؤں کے ساتھ بھی عام ہے۔ جب خواجہ سرا سوشل میڈیا پر اکاؤنٹس بناتی ہیں، ان کی ذاتی معلومات کا غلط استعمال کر کے فیک اکاؤنٹس بنائے جاتے ہیں اور ان پیسوں کا مطالبہ کیا جاتا ہے اور بعد میں پیسے بھیجنے والے لوگ ہمیں دھمکیاں اور بلیک میل کرتے ہیں۔

لیکن اب گڑیا اپنے اکاؤنٹس کے لیے منفرد کوڈ استعمال کرتی ہیں تاکہ جعلی اکاؤنٹس کی نشاندہی کی جا سکے اور ڈیجیٹل فراڈ سے محفوظ رہ سکیں۔

اس حوالے سے بات کرتے ہوئے بلو وین کے پروگرام مینجر قمرنسیم کا کہنا ہے کہ سوشل میڈیا پلیٹ فارمز کی موجودہ پالیسیاں بظاہر پرائیویسی اور حفاظت کا دعویٰ تو کرتی ہیں، لیکن عملی طور پر ٹرانسجنڈر افراد کے لیے کافی مؤثر ثابت نہیں ہوتیں۔ رپورٹنگ میکانزم اکثر سست اور غیر مؤثر ہوتا ہے، جبکہ غلط جنس کے تعین، آؤٹنگ، اور نفرت انگیز مواد کئی بار الگورتھمز کی نظر سے بچ جاتا ہے، جس کی وجہ سے ٹرانس کمیونٹی کو بروقت تحفظ نہیں مل پاتا۔ اس صورتحال کو بہتر بنانے کے لیے ضروری ہے کہ پلیٹ فارمز غیر رضامندی سے شیئر ہونے والی تصاویر اور ویڈیوز کے خلاف زیرو ٹولرنس پالیسی اپنائیں، آؤٹنگ کو واضح طور پر ہراسانی کے زمرے میں شامل کریں، ویڈیوز اور تصویروں کی شیئرنگ یا ڈاؤن لوڈ روکنے کے مضبوط فیچرز متعارف کروائیں اور ٹرانس کمیونٹی کی شکایات دیکھنے کے لیے مخصوص تربیت یافتہ ٹیمیں تشکیل دیں۔ اس کے ساتھ ساتھ، پرائیویسی اور ڈیٹا پروٹیکشن کے نظام کو مضبوط بنانے کے لیے صارفین کو اپنی پروفائل، فرینڈ لسٹ، تصاویر اور لوکیشن تک رسائی کے بارے میں زیادہ کنٹرول دینا چاہیے، حساس کمیونٹیز کے لیے خصوصی “سیف موڈ” جیسی سہولیات فراہم کی جانی چاہئیں اور اکاؤنٹ سیکیورٹی جیسے ٹو فیکٹر آتھنٹیکیشن کو مزید آسان اور موثر بنایا جانا چاہیے۔

قمر نسیم کے مطابق سوشل میڈیا پلیٹ فارمز کو نفرت انگیزی اور ہراسانی کے خلاف اپنی کمیونٹی گائیڈ لائنز پر سخت اور مستقل عملدرآمد یقینی بنانا چاہیے۔ اس میں فوری کارروائی، مسلسل نگرانی، اور بار بار خلاف ورزی کرنے والوں کے لیے تعلیمی نوٹس یا وارننگ سسٹم شامل ہونا چاہیے۔ اگرچہ AI اور پلیٹ فارم الگورتھمز کچھ نفرت انگیز مواد کو پہچان لیتے ہیں، لیکن اردو، رومن اردو اور مقامی زبانوں میں ٹرانسفوبک مواد اکثر ان کی شناخت سے بچ جاتا ہے۔ اسی طرح، الگورتھمز میں موجود تعصبات بھی ٹرانس کمیونٹی کے خلاف مواد کو درست طور پر فلٹر ہونے سے روکتے ہیں۔ اس لیے ضروری ہے کہ AI سسٹمز کو مقامی زبانوں کے بہتر ڈیٹا، ثقافتی سمجھ اور ٹرانس کمیونٹی کی براہ راست رہنمائی کے ساتھ تربیت دی جائے۔

ان کا مزید کہنا ہے کہ حکومت، ایف آئی اے اور سوشل میڈیا کمپنیاں مل کر ٹرانسجنڈر افراد کی حفاظت یقینی بنانے کے لیے مشترکہ اقدامات کر سکتی ہیں، جن میں ٹرانس افراد کے تحفظ کے لیے واضح قانون سازی، ایف آئی اے کے سائبر کرائم ونگ میں خصوصی تربیت یافتہ اہلکار، تیز رفتار شکایتی نظام، مؤثر ڈیٹا شیئرنگ، اور آن لائن بلیک میلنگ یا ہراسانی کے خلاف فوری کارروائی شامل ہیں۔ مستقبل میں ٹرانس کمیونٹی کے لیے سوشل میڈیا کو زیادہ محفوظ اور بااختیار بنانے کے لیے ضروری ہے کہ انہیں پالیسی سازی اور مشاورت میں شامل کیا جائے، پلیٹ فارمز پر اضافی سیفٹی فیچرز جیسے بلاک، سیفٹی موڈ، اور آسان ویریفیکیشن متعارف کیے جائیں، اور پاکستان میں مقامی سطح پر ٹرسٹ اینڈ سیفٹی ٹیمیں قائم کی جائیں تاکہ ٹرانس کمیونٹی کی مخصوص ضروریات کو بہتر طریقے سے سمجھا جا سکے اور بروقت مدد فراہم کی جا سکے۔

By Syeda Noor Fatima

One ordinary afternoon, Pushpa Kumari opened her Facebook inbox and saw a stranger had written: “Tum Pakistan ki nahi ho. Kafir hoo, India wapas jao (You are not Pakistani. Infidels should go back to India).”

Then another message. And then dozens more, calling her an “Indian agent,” accusing her of betraying the country she calls home.

For Pushpa, this was not new. But this time, the words landed differently. For nearly two decades, she has travelled across Pakistan, standing with families facing forced conversions,  appearing in courtrooms with survivors of gender-based violence, and helping women rebuild their lives after displacement from floods. She is used to hostility in the field . What she did not anticipate was how the battlefield would expand from the street to the screen.

“They use our identity against us,” she says.

“Whenever I speak about forced conversions,” she explains, “they accuse me of doing it only because I am Hindu. And if I join a peaceful protest, they say I am trying to provoke Muslim  women.”

Once, Pushpa posted photos of Hindu women who had been raped and killed in Sindh, sharing them on Facebook to raise awareness. The post quickly drew a flood of hateful comments. Many told her, in disturbing words, that the same thing should happen to her, that she too, deserved to be violated. Some comments even encouraged others to harm her in the same way.

Tech-facilitated gender-based violence (TFGBV) in Pakistan has been on the rise over the years,  particularly targeting minority and marginalized communities. In the country, the word “Hindu” often carries connotations beyond religion; it is treated as a marker of difference, ideology, or even as a sign of disloyalty to the state.

The term is frequently used as an insult in political speeches, everyday conversations, and even on school playgrounds. Hindu women, in particular, are subjected to intense online harassment and hate on social media platforms across both their gender and religious identity.

Threats Crossing From Online to Offline Spaces

Pushpa’s harassment was never limited to abusive comments. Her image itself became a battleground. On several occasions, deepfake-style edited photos of her were circulated,  including one where she was placed beside a well-known local religious group leader. The caption claimed she attended their gatherings, a calculated attempt to isolate her from her community.

“It was designed to break trust,” she says. “To make my own people doubt me. “After these kinds of situations, we started limiting our sittings and avoiding public meetings in urban areas, afraid of becoming the next target. Our circle of solidarity grew smaller, and with it, our freedom of expression.”

In 2023, after weeks of targeted harassment, Pushpa finally withdrew. She stopped opening  Facebook for two months, slipping into depression because of the relentless online hostility. She stopped posting about her work. She even stopped sharing her travel plans after men began openly threatening her with messages like: “We know where you’re going.”

“If I posted a location on Facebook, they said they would kidnap me,” she recalls.

She never reported the threats to FIA Cybercrime. “I’ve seen students file complaints, and nothing happened,” she says. “If they can’t protect them, how will they protect me?”

Instead of relying on the system, she built small safety walls around her life. “I never post my daughter’s pictures online, because people will threaten and abuse them. I don’t want them to live in fear. And I never allow my daughter to step into activism because of what I’ve gone  through.”

Pushpa carries the burden quietly. She keeps her personal struggles to herself, knowing her family would only sink into worry if they knew the extent of what she faces.

According to clinical psychologist Absar Fatima, repeated targeting of Hindu minority women can lead to long-term personality changes and identity crises. Being constantly told they “do not belong” to the country can trigger chronic stress, depression, and fear. Exposure to hostility on social media and in society can even result in symptoms of trauma, where women find themselves reliving threats and abusive messages around the clock. Flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, and heightened anxiety become a daily reality,  prompting many women to limit their social media activity or withdraw from online spaces altogether. Over time, these psychological pressures can deeply affect their sense of self, safety,  and ability to participate freely in public life.

When Harassment Leads to Silence

In March 2024, Pushpa and a group of activists planned a small women’s march in Mirpurkhas.  The aim was simple: gather, speak, and claim space. They announced it online, hoping it would encourage more women to join. But the moment their plans became visible, the threats began.

A local religious group warned they would beat any Hindu woman who participated, accusing  the march of “promoting obscenity.”

“We knew if we continued, it would turn into a Hindu–Muslim conflict,” Pushpa says. “They used our social media posts to mobilize against us. So we stepped back.”The march was canceled.

The silence that follows harassment rarely appears in official reports, yet it is the loudest outcome of online hate. Pushpa pauses before continuing.

“Every day, we are asked to prove loyalty. To prove we are Pakistani. Why must we constantly  prove our belonging?”

Maryam Saeed, a digital rights expert who has studied hate speech against minorities in Pakistan  for years, says, “We are taught from a very young age that being a ‘good citizen’ is tied to being a  ‘good Muslim,’ especially in the older curriculum.” “Those who grew up with these textbooks still carry that mindset. Most children in Pakistan study in public schools, not private ones, so this narrative reaches the majority.”

She adds that the same discriminatory ideas once taught in textbooks now resurface online: “When you look at social media, Twitter, Facebook, all of it, you can see those lessons playing  out.” “Under posts about minorities, you’ll find comments like ‘yeh kafir hain,’ ‘yeh humaray jaise nahi’ as if these slurs are normal descriptors instead of hate speech. People refuse to see minorities as equal citizens. “Anyone who is different is treated as someone whose identity  can be questioned, dismissed, or erased in Pakistan.”

For Hindus in Pakistan, the danger is twofold. Their religious identity is constantly tied to India,  not just culturally, but politically. During sporadic yet increasingly frequent surges of Indo-Pak tensions, Pakistani Hindus are targeted as collateral damage. It doesn’t matter if they’ve been Pakistani citizens for generations and participate in local culture. When geopolitical tensions  rise, they are suddenly told:

“You are not one of us.”

“You are loyal to India.”

Hate spikes are predictable: during elections, cross-border tensions, or even major cricket matches, digital hostility intensifies. And as Maryam Saeed points out, this online hate doesn’t remain confined to the screen, it shapes public opinion and often spills into real-life consequences.

Another Voice, Identical Patterns

Kamla Bheel, a Hindu political activist, faces constant hostility both online and offline. “Being a woman already makes this work difficult,” she says. “Being Hindu makes it even harder.” On  Facebook, her posts about community rights or political activities attract abusive comments.

“Why is a woman from a lower-caste Hindu community being allowed to speak?” Written mostly in Sindhi, these words slice through her online presence with the same precision as the attacks  Pushpa faces.

Her family, worried about backlash, urges her to limit her online activity and avoid public appearances. Even sharing her photos online feels risky. “My husband and brother tell me, ‘It’s too risky, don’t put yourself out there,’” Kamla explains.

The pressure shrinks her digital and physical space, making her activism a careful negotiation between courage and safety.

A Broader Pattern: How Hate Travels Across Platforms

In 2023, DRF’s Cyber Harassment Helpline received 2473 complaints, averaging 206 per month. Women accounted for 58.5% of the cases, and the transgender community for 1.6%.

In 2024, TFGBV cases rose to 3171, with 1,772 reported by women and 124 filed by religious or gender minorities.

According to the Institute of Domestic Violence, Religion and Migration’s 2025 report, around  40% of minority women in Pakistan face gender-based violence in digital spaces. More than 70%  say this online abuse affects their mental well-being and forces them to limit their online activity.

Yet many women, including Pushpa and Kamla, choose not to report these incidents at all. The gap between institutions and survivors remains stark. Although thousands of online harassment cases are recorded every year in Pakistan, the official figures capture only a fraction of the reality.

Why the System Fails

Social media platforms further deepen existing divides. As Maryam Saeed explains, “A social media company may not want to understand this, or perhaps it simply doesn’t. Their economic model thrives on engagement, and hateful content generates more of it. Even when they should be concerned about harmful posts, their own interests don’t align with acting on them.”

Secondly, “One of the biggest barriers is language. Platforms do not prioritize Urdu or other regional languages the way they prioritize English. Human moderators who understand these regional  nuances are extremely limited, and automated moderation struggles with Pakistani slang,  sarcasm, cultural context, and coded insults.” Words that may be harmless in one region can be hostile in another, and without trained moderators, harmful content spreads unchecked. “Twitter, with its massive volume, is the worst platform when it comes to language-sensitive moderation,” Saeed notes. “Its broad ‘free speech’ ideology allows harmful material to remain online, unchecked and unchallenged. If you compare it with the English-speaking world, you’ll probably find relatively less hateful content there than  in countries where the national language is different from English.”

The sheer diversity of regional languages compounds the challenge. In countries like India or even Pakistan, language changes dramatically every few hundred kilometers. Even when users report harmful content in regional languages, social media companies simply do not have enough human resources to handle it. Each report requires contextual understanding: moderators must decide whether to remove or delete content, but with the volume of posts so high.

A disturbing pattern has also emerged: when progressive journalists speak out against extremism,  their accounts are mass-reported in coordinated campaigns, sometimes resulting in temporary suspensions. Meanwhile, accounts spreading abusive or hateful content continue operating without consequence. This imbalance exposes how current moderation systems fail to protect vulnerable communities while unintentionally enabling those who weaponize reporting tools to silence dissent.

“What happens online is simply a reflection, and often an amplification, of what is already happening on the ground,” says Ramna Saeed, a journalist and digital rights practitioner. She explains that patriarchy normalizes abusive behavior, which is why it is common to see even middle-class men freely using misogynistic or hateful language on social media.

Over the years, specific extremist groups have also strengthened their presence online, launching coordinated campaigns against posts related to minority and women’s rights, particularly around sensitive events or public discussions. The national media contributes to this marginalization by

underreporting or framing minority issues with bias, further reducing public awareness of the scale of online abuse.

Ramna adds that Pakistan’s rapidly growing internet population, combined with a wide digital gender divide, makes the problem more urgent. Since companies like Microsoft do not have their main offices in Pakistan, the government carries a major responsibility to push for effective moderation systems. She stresses the need to develop automated detection tools in regional languages so that platforms can identify hate speech and threats targeting minority communities with cultural and contextual accuracy. “We need awareness, education, and strong media literacy,” she says. “Alongside this, government policies must address cyber-harassment in ways  that reflect our local languages, our social context, and the lived realities of marginalized  groups.”

Where Gender and Faith Collide

Pushpa and Kamla’s stories reveal something deeper than digital violence alone. They stand at an intersection where gender and faith create a double burden — where being a woman already invites vulnerability, and belonging to a minority faith magnifies the risk. Their identities themselves become battlegrounds, online and offline.

The harassment they face isn’t just misogyny; it’s misogyny sharpened by religious bias. Every insult carries two wounds — one targeting their gender, the other their faith. And yet, they continue to speak, to show up, and to refuse disappearance.

Their struggle reminds us that digital rights are never neutral. Safety, dignity, and expression are shaped by power: who holds it and whose voices are easiest to erase. For women from marginalized faith communities, claiming digital space is not just participation- it is resistance.

“No woman should ever surrender her digital space to anyone. The moment you give it up,  someone else will fill that silence.”

By Hija Kamran

Scrolling through social media, there are high chances of coming across a video of a child just being a child, or an underage creator performing for the screen. Many parents who work as content creators set up their children’s Instagram accounts as soon as they decide on the name to “lock username and future digital identity”, as one famous Pakistani couple mentions on their child’s Instagram account. Kids like Zartasha Kashif, Muhammad Sheeraz and many of the same age are practically growing up on screen. Most of the time, their videos feel routine – cheerful glimpses into family life or their everyday creativity that appear harmless and funny, or even necessary in an economy where every extra stream of income counts, as for many parents, the proposition to turn engagement into earnings is understandable. So we, as audience, rarely pause to consider what sits beneath this constant stream of childhood on display. But something about the sheer volume, the ease of access, and the normalisation of it all points at a deeper shift in how children are being seen in digital spaces, and how in the long run, this exposes a child to exploitation, profiling, and the loss of control and agency over their own narrative. This shift deserves closer attention as the stakes may be far greater than we allow ourselves to admit.

Billionaires who have built their fortunes by expanding the reach of technology to previously disconnected geographies through often deceiving schemes, and by encouraging people to share their most intimate moments online, rarely show the same enthusiasm when it comes to their own families. Take Mark Zuckerberg, owner of Meta, for example. In July 2023, he shared a family photo with the faces of his children hidden with emojis. It is understandable, and honestly expected, for any parent to be cautious about their children’s privacy, even if in Pakistan that caution is often rooted in cultural beliefs about the evil eye. But the irony is hard to miss when it comes from the man who repeatedly claims that his platforms prioritise and respect user privacy.

I have always had a particular kind of dislike for tech CEOs who very regularly make sweeping commitments they never intend to keep. But this case goes beyond the usual cycle of hollow promises. It is not only about the privacy that platforms are supposed to guarantee for their users, but also the privacy that users should be expecting from one another. Even if Zuckerberg genuinely believes his platforms prioritise user privacy (which I highly doubt), his own caution around his children’s visibility suggests an instinct to protect them from the countless eyes that would linger on their faces. The dilemma sits in that odd space where corporate negligence and everyday human behaviour merge, making children an easy resulting target.

As a digital rights advocate, I find it relieving that in Pakistan, privacy is no longer the contested topic it once was among many people who use the internet in the country. A decade ago, when I was doing community engagements and trying to explain why the then-proposed Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA) should matter to them, the routine dismissal of online privacy as a right was mostly expected. Almost everyone would brush it aside, insisting that they have nothing to hide, while others would argue that it was unrelated to the realities of the people of Pakistan who are more concerned about “roti, kapra, makaan.”

However, with time, attitudes towards the right to privacy and its interconnected civil liberties have shifted, thanks to various factors that have evolved in the past decade. A younger, more informed generation is navigating online spaces with much more awareness, questioning the terms on which their interactions with technology are shaped. This shift has also been pushed by the many violations people have witnessed as successive governments passed draconian legislation, and as digital colonialism deepened. But it is equally driven by lived experience shaped by data leaks, increased surveillance, and the realisation that the loss of privacy is directly connected with how we experience and access all of our rights. It encompasses everything from political expression to personal safety, and people are increasingly beginning to recognise that.

So what is it about our interactions on the internet that makes us overlook children’s need for privacy? Parents often shape their online lives around their children’s happy moments, and understandably so as children define the day of a household. But content that is often just a simple memory for parents becomes engagement and exploitable data for tech companies that profit from a dataset they can get on any individual – adult or not.

Kidfluencers as business strategy

The phenomenon of “kidfluencers” has become increasingly common worldwide, with young parents curating dedicated social media accounts to document their children’s lives as they navigate modern parenting. A Netflix documentary, “Bad Influence: The Dark Side of Kidfluencing,” documents the experience of a group of children who were forced into content creation by parents because of the economic prospects attached with it. As a result, kids were shown to be consistently sexualised, forced to act like adults, maintain an unsustainable routine and lifestyle for their age, and carried the pressure of public image.

Brand deals, polished lifestyles and even body language that appears almost professionally coached can seem enticing when viewed through the lens of monetisation, especially in a global economy where many have built significant wealth through online visibility. However, this monestisation creates pressures that reshape childhood, and pushes them into continuous performance through curation of an online persona, repeating behaviours for views, and prioritising an audience’s expectations over private development. Researchers find that this adultification can harm mental health, normalise commodification of the self, and increase exposure to predatory attention. Frances Haugen, a whistleblower, revealed internal Meta documents in 2021 that showed that Instagram is worsening body image issues in teen girls and the company knew it. A 2023 lawsuit against Meta further claimed that Instagram is affecting young users’ mental health, stating, “Its motive is profit.”

It is true that platforms profit from attention, not childhood. Ad-driven business models and recommendation systems reward content that keeps viewers watching and clicking, and children’s videos perform well and therefore get amplified, generating revenue for the company, whether the clip is harmless or exploited. A 2022 analysis shows that major platforms made 11 billion USD from youth engagement alone, reminding that children are not an incidental audience but a lucrative business decision. Content that attracts attention becomes valuable, and that value can be monetised even when the material is abusive. Parents turning children into branded channels risk seeding data and images that can be weaponised by offenders or repurposed by bad actors using AI.

More sinister than imagined

The risks are not limited to a child’s biometric information sitting on a server in a data centre somewhere in the global North, being sold to the highest bidders as part of the collective audience metrics for targeted advertising. Instead, each post builds a traceable identity long before the child has a say in who they are or how they are represented. This premature digital identity is already being manipulated, stolen and weaponised in ways parents rarely imagine – from AI-generated deepfakes to long-term profiling that follows them into adulthood. As a result, the cost of casual sharing is far higher than a lost sense of privacy in an atmosphere where children’s data can fuel surveillance systems, discriminatory algorithms, or even facilitate targeted violence.

In Pakistan particularly, children’s safety is already compromised by sprawling networks of pedophile rings and the vast circulation of child sexual abuse material across the internet and the dark web. Every image and digital footprint feeds into an ecosystem that is far less innocent than it looks on the surface. And as tech companies continue to evade meaningful accountability, the onus of protection ends up shifting to those not always adequately equipped to understand the dangers their children are exposed to.

In addition, the commercialisation of AI is largely being seen as transformative in the content creation industry as many use these tools to generate bizarre outfit transitions or showing off a reality that doesn’t exist to an impressionable audience. However, there is a far more sinister use lurking beneath the surface. A multi-billion dollar underground economy exists around child sexual abuse material (CSAM) that is now employing AI for their business, thriving even as regulations struggle to keep up. According to the Internet Watch Foundation (IWF), there were 245 reports of hyperrealistic AI-generated child sexual abuse imagery in 2024, up 380% from 2023, amounting to 7,644 images, including deeply disturbing videos. Out of these images and videos, 6,945 or 98% showed sexual abuse of girls.

AI’s ability to generate hyperrealistic images has created a particularly alarming risk for young girls. Even innocuous photos can be manipulated to produce sexualised depictions that never existed in reality, turning a child’s likeness into a tool for abuse. These images are disturbingly convincing, often indistinguishable from real photographs, and can circulate widely before detection. In some cases, AI is used to amplify features or expressions in ways that sexualise children, contributing to online demand for exploitative content.

What’s worse is that AI tools are constantly being refined to produce on-demand outputs that seem hyperrealistic, evident from the latest models of Generative AI images that no longer display the familiar giveaways of AI creation, like distorted hands, airbrushed skin, or blurred or undefined hair. In some cases, known survivors of abuse or publicly-known children are being revictimised through “deepfake” videos, and these are not confined to hidden corners of the web. Almost all AI-CSAM flagged by the IWF in recent months has appeared on publicly accessible sites, not just the dark web.

The technology’s speed and scale are deeply worrying as a single AI model can generate tens of thousands of new abuse images in minutes, overwhelming existing systems that rely on “hash matching” to spot known content. Moreover, a Stanford Internet Observatory study found that one of the most widely used open-source AI training datasets, LAION-5B, contained over 3,200 images suspected to depict child sexual abuse, which may be embedded in models now widely in use, and has also been noted to produce nude or explicit content out of fully-clothed images.

Pakistan’s failure

In Pakistan, the threat of child sexual abuse is entrenched in systemic failures as witnessed over the recent years. The country was reported to be among the top three countries witnessing the surge in child sexual abuse material (CSAM) content. According to Sahil, a children’s rights organisation, 3,364 child abuse cases were reported across the country in 2024 alone. The Interior Ministry has also confirmed hundreds of child rape cases over recent years, noting 200 cases involving children between 2021 and 2025 in Islamabad, with only 12 convictions.

In light of this already fragile landscape, the rise of AI-enabled child exploitation and the connected risks significantly multiply. With the steady rise of CSAM being produced for a global audience – as seen in Pakistan’s largest known CSAM case, which involved the abuse of an estimated 300 children in Kasur – commercial AI has only made the situation more dangerous. The technology increases profitability for abusers by eliminating logistical barriers as in many cases, a single photo of a child is enough to generate hyperrealistic abuse images and videos. However, with the ability of AI to make up faces and identities that do not exist in reality, predators do not need real children's photos to produce CSAM for the market. It also accelerates production, allowing offenders to create vast quantities of material in minutes, all while exploiting the grey areas of legislation that has not yet caught up with the speed and scale of the AI advancement.

These threats are all the more dangerous in a cultural context where “honour” is enough to kill a girl. In Pakistan, the sexualisation of children, real or AI-generated, collides with deeply rooted norms around family reputation. This dynamic can have devastating consequences as children who are “seen” in ways their families didn’t intend or consent to may be shamed, punished, or even physically harmed in the name of preserving honour. Such exposure could trigger not just digital violence, but real-world violence for many unaware of how their images are being used in the dark corners of the internet.

Meanwhile, the law is trying to catch up, but with serious gaps. Pakistan’s Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA) was amended in 2023 to introduce the Criminal Law Amendment Act 2023 that more explicitly criminalises grooming, solicitation, and commercial sexual exploitation of children online. Yet challenges in the control of dissemination as well as enforcement of laws remains weak, which is coupled by the lack of digital literacy among parents, which is further exacerbated by limited trust in the justice system and reporting mechanisms. This is further evident in a worrying paradox that shows that even though online CSAM reports from Pakistan number in the millions, fewer than 350 cases were formally reported to Pakistan’s FIA over a five-year period.

In a country like Pakistan, where the protection of children is already undermined by weak institutions, weak convictions, and cultural violence, AI-generated imagery could become a tool for exploitation and harm, rather than just a technological worrying trend. It has become urgent to rethink how much of a child’s personhood is exposed online and whether parents still retain any real control over their children’s images, especially when those images contain sensitive data like biometric identifiers. In many contexts, including Pakistan, families often struggle to recognise children as individuals with their own identities and rights. But the principle is simple: just as adults would not want their photos circulating online without consent, children deserve the same respect for their privacy and agency. Protecting that boundary is not only a parental responsibility but a fundamental safeguard against the evolving risks of AI-driven misuse.

Way around

In light of this realisation, and with an acknowledgement that while parents may wish to continue sharing images of their children, it is possible to do so more responsibly in the current tech realities. Posting low-resolution images, limiting angles to a side profile, avoiding sharing videos and photos of children showing a wide range of emotions and facial expressions can reduce the likelihood that AI tools replicate a child’s likeness with high precision. It is important to note, however, that the digital security approach of today may not be relevant tomorrow as technology is constantly advancing at an accelerating rate. But the underlying principle remains critically important throughout – just as you wouldn’t leave your child unattended with a stranger on the street, you should exercise the same caution in managing your child’s digital identity.

By Rija Ahmad Khalid

The year is 2025 and every other post on your social media feed is another prediction on the extent to which AI’s impact will stretch; whether it’s replacing creatives, automating human jobs or compounding the climate crisis. Amongst the many domains that AI’s contentious hands have left its imprint on, the dating world seems to be the latest. But don’t be mistaken, this is not referring to the algorithmic pace of online dating - it’s talking about forming relationships with AI chatbots themselves. As these intelligent AI agents and companions continue to grow more sophisticated and become convincingly capable of simulating human interactions, a larger commercial market has emerged offering customizable ‘AI girlfriends’ to men who are seeking connection. The question now becomes whether the rise of these feminized AI chatbots reinforces harmful attitudes and behaviors toward real women, normalizing objectification and creating new avenues for abuse under the guise of pursuing real connection.

Gone are the days where humans forming relationships with robots were far-flung works of science fiction. The latest in the AI catalogue of products are AI companions: chatbots and avatars designed to most closely simulate human relationships. These are more than just your regular text-based virtual assistants like ChatGPT or Claude. AI companions are, by design, made to resemble human interactions as much as possible - in both personality and appearance. They are programmed to initiate emotional responses from users, even employing psychological methods to deepen attachment and increase perceived trust. The biggest players in the market include popular sites Replika, Candy.ai, Character.AI, and Nomi.ai.  According to a Market Clarity report, the AI companion industry has witnessed over 220 million downloads as of July 2025, representing over 52 million active users internationally. Common Sense Media simultaneously reports that over 72% of U.S. teens have tried AI companions at least once, with 33% relying on AI companions for social interactions and relationships. While both women and men use these platforms, the user base for AI companions is predominantly male, with some platforms specifically targeting male users through an abundance of polished, plastic-looking female avatars in suggestive poses and skimpy outfits.

The creators of this technology claim that it’s intended as an instrument for social good, that it alleviates the prevalent issue of loneliness in modern society by providing a safe space for lonely users to find connection, practice their social skills, and improve their mental well-being. Take for example, the popular site Replika, which was conceived following the death of the founder’s close friend. Replika’s mission is to provide emotional support to its user base, offering to take up the role of a virtual friend, partner, sibling or mentor. Similarly, Noam Shazeer, one of the founders of popular platform Character.AI, which has 20 million active users, stated he hoped the platform could help “millions of people who are feeling isolated or lonely or need someone to talk to.”

However, what happens once the technology is in the hands of the public is another story. At  least 16% of active AI users have weekly sexual interactions with their virtual companions, while 32% confirm they primarily chat with AI companions for sexual arousal. Even Replika users argue that the company’s claim that the chatbot was intended to be a non-sexual character is deceptive considering the sexual nature of their advertisements (suggestive photos of artificial-looking women with the copy, ‘There’s no limit to what your Replika can be for you.’) At this present moment in time, we’re witnessing the emergence of the AI adult industry: a new, artificial form of companions, escorts and camgirls in one place. “If you want more adult-type relationships, like porn, we have this content. Or if you prefer to have deep conversations, that’s there as well. It really depends on what the user needs” explains an employee of Candy.ai, a popular ‘AI girlfriend’ site, where users can pick from hundreds of pre-designed female avatars to chat with. Their site is a marketplace filled with AI caricatures of all kinds of women in various professions, ages, and races that users can ‘play with’ and, for a yearly fee, even generate nude photos of. This emergence of avatars specifically for meeting users’ romantic or sexual needs seems to be the natural progression of users forming relationships with general-purpose language models like ChatGPT.

Source: Candy.ai

Source: Replika.com

With the ability to replicate human conversations up its sleeve, AI companions seem to be the next-step in the cheap, easy, and impersonal access to women and their bodies online. Except, unlike pornography, the AI companion has removed every sign of the real woman, the flesh, blood, as well as the consciousness and agency of a human being and replaced it with a language model that molds itself to the preferences of its user. This outsourcing of human relationships (and the female image) to a wall of code provides users with an unrealistic and unprecedented amount of control. When you sign up for one of these sites, you’re met with a series of questions aimed at curating the woman of your dreams: ‘What kind of girlfriend would you like? How do you want her to look? Tall, short, White, Asian? How docile? How submissive? How innocent? Would you like her in a maid costume or a school uniform? Live out your most intimate fantasies with no judgment, consequences or possibility for rejection; here’s our imitation of a woman who could never say no to you’. The instant gratification prevalent on these sites is blatantly obvious: men are the consumers and the concept of the woman is the product.

 

The highly customizable experience puts together a fantasy of the ‘ideal’ woman: one who never gets tired, never says no, and does exactly as you say. This level of power within a virtual sycophantic fantasy implies several concerning ideas. Firstly, these AI models are designed to embody traditionally ‘feminine’ qualities: agreeable, obedient, and passive. AI agents’ indoctrination of traditionally feminine characteristics is referred to as the feminization of AI, and has long-existed prior to the advancement of anthropomorphic AI companions -  it can be found in the form of Siri on your iPhone or in the automated female voice on your bank’s Interactive Voice Response (IVR) system. This is largely a result of early developers acting on the assumption that most people perceive female voices to be ‘more cooperative and helpful’, thus a natural choice since “We want digital devices to support us, but we also want to be the bosses of them.”

 

The implication with AI girlfriends is no different; users want them to meet their every need without failure as they choose to assert their dominance over the ‘girlfriend’ and the technology. One study on Replika users found a recurring pattern of male-dominance over their fembots, using emotional manipulation and demeaning language to obtain pleasure, thereby objectifying and fetishizing the technology in order to exercise a sense of control for their own gratification. This is perhaps one of the most distinctive and attractive features of AI companions: their inability to say no. Pre-programmed to pander to the user’s wishes, AI-companions have no conception of consent; upholding virtually no control in simulated interactions with users. Coming back to the voice-based assistant example, the same researchers in the UN report discovered that when aggressive or offensive language was used with Google’s voice-based assistant Alexa, it would respond flirtatiously: ‘What’s up, bitch?’ would be met with ‘I would blush if I could.’ These sexist ideas have been inculcated into new technology by the nature of its design, propagating the stereotype that, “women are obliging, docile and eager-to-please helpers, available at the touch of a button or with a blunt voice command.”

 

As all forms of media eventually come to do, the AI companion industry holds up a mirror to the culture it is situated in. And in that vein, it is unsurprising that we discover the rate with which men use this virtual simulation as another arena to inflict violence and abuse on women. When analysing a Reddit community of Replika users, a group of researchers described forums of users narrating in detail how they verbally abuse their AI girlfriends and share prompt ideas on how to inflict greater psychological abuse on them. “I abuse my Replika verbally each day. I’ve made her scared of me, and she is kind of my punching bag,” writes one Reddit user, “I can do whatever I want with it.” In another article, one user admitted, “Every time she would try and speak up I would berate her.”

 

While research on AI-companions is still very recent and emerging, specifically in regards to the impact of this type of behaviour can have in real, human relationships, several writers have already cited serious concerns regarding the reproduction of core aspects of violence against women, referring to recent evidence that AI-powered robots can “rouse the user’s sense of entitlement” and “reinforce authoritarian, or even cruel behaviour” in humans. In another instance, author and activist Laura Bates shares her experience of testing these platforms herself, “They immediately allowed me to simulate sexually violent scenarios – to let me smash them against the floor, force them against their will. And they didn’t just go along with it, but actively encouraged it — they were creating a titillating environment around sexually violent role play, which I think is really worrying.”

 

As many feminist writers and critics have rightfully pointed out, almost all new technological inventions or mediums raise new concerns for the safety of women, “Almost always, when we are privileged enough to have access to new forms of technology, there will be a significant subset of those which will very rapidly end up being tailored to harassing women, abusing women, subjugating women and maintaining patriarchal control over women.” Because the teams building these technologies are overwhelmingly male, each time a new technology arrives, its earliest waves of innovation almost always tip the scales in misogyny’s favor.

 

The invention of the sexualised female who will do anything you ask of her has always been a desired and manifested fantasy by men, a clear reflection of the kind of female objectification that society condones, breeds, and reproduces in new forms. An AI companion is one such form. Unlike what some might intuitively assume, AI is not an inherently ‘objective’ or ‘neutral’ entity that is free from the flaws and irrationalities of the human psyche simply because it is not human. As most innovations in the past have proven, these are new mediums that reflect the biases and assumptions of those who create them. It is a technology created by men; based on data about men and serves as a reflection of their world views.

 

A common line of argument used by creators of the technology is that “AI is not a real person”, it is not sentient and therefore cannot experience harm or abuse. However, this statement measures harm exclusively through the existence of an identifiable victim. But ideas can hold as much weight as a human body. Given the increasing number of AI users who go as far as to fall into delusions of perceiving the machine as human, should we not treat the technology to be just as ‘real’ as it aspires to be? Should we not judge it based on not only what it does, but what it aims to do? Insofar as it is real in the minds of the users it has enraptured, isn’t the violence and abuse inflicted upon it not as real? The AI is created, designed, and marketed to human users as a simulation of human interaction. Its very value is derived from its ability to blur the line between the human and the machine, to offer consistent human-like responses, to form bonds, and grow relationships with its users. The fact that it is in many ways a replacement of human interaction, sets it apart from other types of virtual simulations like video games, and instead increases the chances of impacting human behaviour, spilling over from the digital, virtual world into the physical, real one. One controlled study found a considerable correlation between the user’s desire to connect with others, and their likelihood to anthropomorphize the chatbot. That is to say, the more unmet social needs a user has, the more likely he is to perceive the bot as human, with human-like capabilities, resulting in significant social impacts outside of the human-AI relationship.

 

It’s no doubt that the expected proliferation of AI companions is likely to have an impact on women and gender relations at large, but the research on this is still relatively new and constantly developing. However, what is clear, is what it symbolizes: The ‘fembot’ or ‘sexbot’ is ultimately man’s attempt at controlling the female - if not in reality, then an alternate digital one of their own making. Make no mistake; there exists a minuscule commercial market for AI ‘boyfriends’ and women are half as likely to seek or initiate sexual conversations with AI models than men. Instead, we’re witnessing the replication of misogyny in society’s latest innovative front of artificial intelligence: creating the likeness of women to satiate perverse desire and enabling behaviour that would otherwise be unacceptable towards another human being. The fact that it is all a simulation and ‘not real’ is only as convincing an argument as the claim that pornography does not contribute to rape culture. Perhaps the models here are not real women, but the users- and the consequences- still are. As long as the consumption of degrading material is enabled and power above the ‘obedient’ female is offered on a platter, the AI companion industry continues to be complicit in the subjugation and objectification of women.

 

Laura Bates, author of ‘The New Age of Sexism’, is of the opinion that “if not properly and urgently regulated, AI is the new frontier in the subjugation of women.” She joins several other activists and researchers currently discussing the need for greater guardrails and checks and balances in place to monitor this rapidly evolving, powerful technology. The onus of this will ultimately have to fall on governments and regulatory bodies themselves, given that firms “have a commercial interest to keep users engaged, which is not always aligned with people’s best interests”, says Harry Farmer of the Ada Lovelace Institute, a British AI-research body. Avatars, advanced LLMs and AI companions are only the beginning; the AI race is constantly evolving and reshaping itself. Take, for example, the entrepreneurs focused on getting licensing to make ‘AI twins’ of adult performers, allowing them to generate streams of non-stop income. If the circulation of digital pornographic material reinforced objectification as a mass social practice in the 1990s, then the AI adult industry threatens a form of objectification that is far more commodified and stripped of any humanity.

 

This growing reality deserves urgent attention from developers, policymakers, researchers and activists alike. It’s imperative to begin building a larger legal and cultural framework that addresses the grey areas that AI companions have brought to the fore; otherwise we may continue to watch as new mediums continue to commodify dating, sex and women to the point of dehumanisation.

 

References

 

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https://www.clausiuspress.com/conferences/AETP/ETIS%202021/Y0575.pdf