Why digital inclusion fails girls and what it takes to build it right

By Marvi Soomro, Founder & Programmes Director IEI Pakistan

Pakistan has called its digital transition a "digital leap." While Islamabad, Lahore, and Karachi lead the country's digital adoption, more than half of Pakistan's districts have low digital development rankings.  The 2025 GSMA Mobile Gender Gap Report finds that only around 26 per cent of rural women in Pakistan use mobile internet, compared to 49 per cent of rural men.

The standard response to this gap is technical: expand connectivity, distribute devices, teach skills. A decade of work has shown us that on its own, it doesn't reach the girls who need it most. The technical response rests on an assumption that doesn't hold for many girls: that access is neutral, that the digital world is equally easy to enter once the door is open, and that those who are excluded simply need an invitation.

But for many girls in remote and marginalised regions, a device does not guarantee the freedom to use it, and a digital skills course does not guarantee that her life can absorb what she has learned. Where her mobility is restricted, her access to household finances questioned, her visibility is policed, and her family's reputation is collectively held, digital participation is never an individual act. It is a social negotiation shaped by power, one that produces four, overlapping conditions of what we call ‘unsafety’: physical, digital, social, and psychological.

This is the work most digital inclusion efforts haven't done yet: building the conditions in which access can actually become participation.

A feminist methodology starts from a different place. It names power as the problem, not the symptoms the sector keeps treating. It treats care, safety, and belonging not only as programme features but as political acts. And it positions girls as change agents who, given the right conditions, will reshape the systems they enter.

This article draws from four years of building Tech Sahelis, a girls-only digital skills programme in Gilgit-Baltistan, to share what we call the Feminist Digital Ecosystem Methodology, an approach that shifts conditions, not just access.

The Care Ecosystem

If digital participation is a social negotiation, then inclusion has to be social work too. A girl does not exist in silos; the people and systems around her mediate her access. A feminist methodology responds to this by building care ecosystems that treat relational conditions as central to participation, not peripheral to it.

These ecosystems build trust with families, so participation is supported rather than resisted. They engage local institutions so the vision can be shared. They create peer networks so learning is collective rather than isolating. They establish community legitimacy around girls' presence in digital spaces. They build digital safety practices around privacy, consent, and online risk.

Safe spaces are central to this. The girls-only environment at Tech Sahelis didn't come from our team deciding what was best. It came from girls and parents naming what felt safe: a physical space that is theirs, where peers become a community, a girl returns to not just for learning but for support, celebration, and belonging. A girl-centered safe space recognises that a girl carrying stress, fear, or exhaustion can not meaningfully participate, that nurturing wellness is part of the learning process.

The care ecosystem makes the methodology a feminist practice by locating the problem in structures, and not girls. It places the responsibility for change in the social fabric rather than on individual effort. And it treats care as political, as infrastructure that redistributes the burden of participation away from the girl and onto the community around her.

Learning Ecosystem

There is a fifth condition of unsafety that the care ecosystem alone cannot address: intellectual unsafety. Most training models are built around an imagined learner: confident and able to commit uninterrupted time. Many girls do not fit this mold and are expected to adapt or quietly exit. Learning environments that assume prior knowledge, penalise mistakes, and set pace according to the most confident learner make genuine engagement impossible for first-time learners, regardless of how safe the space around them feels.

A feminist learning ecosystem inverts this logic. It is in pacing a class to the slowest learner rather than the fastest. It is creating environments where mistakes are humanised. It is in noticing who is silent, confused, or withdrawing, and adjusting accordingly. It is in embedding agency in small interactions: asking before touching a keyboard, because consent matters even there. A conventional training asks: Can she keep up? A feminist one asks: Have we designed a space where she can learn?

For over 500 girls who have come to Tech Sahelis, it is the first time they have spent real time with a laptop. The pathway is built for that reality. Girls begin with foundational digital literacy, move into specialisation, and then into a period of portfolio incubation, where they have continued access to the lab, the tools, and a mentor who knows her name, knows where she started, and helps her figure out the next step. The pathway is not linear. Some girls move faster, some pause, some change direction. What stays constant is the accompaniment.

Zubia came to us as a shy girl whose mother hoped she would become more social and learn digital skills. She had left school and was studying privately. Within a year, she was leading content on Saheli Station, our girl-led Instagram advocacy platform, running campaigns on climate, girls' education, and menstrual health, earning a stipend, and teaching herself illustration and branding. She is now designing the identity of a girl-led micro-enterprise and preparing for her undergraduate admission.

Last summer, when floods devastated valleys across GB, Zubia and her colleague, Laraib, turned Saheli Station into a relief-mobilisation platform. They gathered voice notes, photographs, and testimonies from affected communities, published them, and raised approximately 180,000 Pakistani rupees, distributed directly to families as food, medicine, menstrual products, and warm clothing. A learning space became an emergency response infrastructure.

That didn't come from just a curriculum. It came from a learning environment that treated Zubia as someone with something to say and gave her the tools, the time, and the permission to figure out how to say it.

Creative Tech Agency

The learning ecosystem produces girls who can earn, organise, lead, and respond. What pathways are actually available to them is a separate and equally political question.

In Pakistan, that question has a stock answer: freelancing. The narrative is seductive: borderless, flexible, income in dollars, work from home. In GB, I have watched it arrive in valley after valley, carried by training programmes, government schemes, and well-meaning NGOs. And I have watched girls complete course after course with little to show for it.

Two assumptions break down here. The first is that surface-level training is enough to move a girl from skill to income on her own. The second is that the infrastructure exists to sustain it. In a region where the internet stops when the power does, where climate disasters and political disruptions cut connectivity for weeks, freelancing is a precarious foundation.

The issue is not freelancing itself. It is its elevation as the primary - and often only - model of digital economic participation. A feminist approach treats digital skills as tools for economic agency, and that shift opens multiple pathways shaped by local realities.

Sonia joined us while teaching at a local Montessori school, looking to earn better and save for further study. After building her skills with us, she moved into a placement as a social media manager at an environment-focused social enterprise. A year and a half later, she has built their digital presence from scratch and recently moved into a new role at a non-profit. Her pathway was the local economy, which is itself digitising and needs girls who can lead that transition.

Then there is what girls have built for themselves. Four girls who learned photography with us launched Bimal Studio, a photography business serving local events. Five are launching a girl-led store selling prints, greeting cards, crochet products, and recycled bags through local shops and Instagram, combining digital skills with craft traditions they already hold. These girls are business owners, not gig workers. In a region where infrastructure can't sustain global platforms, that is often a more durable model.

Zahida joined us in her final year of university with little to no digital skills. She built her way through the full pathway and prepared to freelance. When university ended, she returned to her remote village to care for her mother. Freelancing from there was too unstable but her skills were visible. Her community appointed her as branch manager and lead trainer for a newly launched digital skills center. The skills traveled when the infrastructure couldn't.  Zahida became the infrastructure for others.

A feminist digital ecosystem does not prepare girls for a single destination. It builds the conditions for them to shape their own.

A scalable methodology for change

Inclusion limited to participation and income remains incomplete. To include girls in digital systems without shifting their position within those systems is to leave existing hierarchies intact.

The IEI Feminist Digital Ecosystem methodology extends beyond access toward agency, recognising girls and young women as actors capable of shaping the systems they enter. It is built around the Tech Saheli Leader: a woman rooted in her community, trained in feminist practice, and equipped to build the care and learning ecosystems her valley needs.

What makes her approach distinctly feminist is not a set of skills but a way of seeing. She doesn't ask why a girl is not motivated - she asks what conditions are missing. When Asima, one of our fellows, noticed girls dropping out of her micro-lab, she called them. They had stopped coming because they felt they couldn't do it. She asked them to come back. They returned, finished the course, and are now moving into the next one.

That is a feminist leader at work: reading the system, not the girl. She treats care as infrastructure. She designs learning around the girl in front of her, not an imagined learner. And she builds capacity that outlasts her own presence.

Four months into our first cohort of feminist tech leaders, three micro-labs are running across GB. For ninety per cent of them, this is the first time they’ve used a laptop. In all of these communities, no space like this had ever existed for girls. And yet, in a short time, seventy girls are completing their first digital skills course, they have found a community to learn with, and the newfound confidence and hope that their dreams are possible. Some have started offering small digital services to their local community, while others are moving further on the digital skill pathway.

From Access to Conditions

Digital inclusion has long been framed as an invitation: come, participate. But invitations assume the space is already safe, accessible, and navigable. For many girls, it is not.

A feminist methodology starts somewhere else. It does not ask how to invite participation. It asks how to build the conditions under which participation becomes possible and meaningful. Care ecosystems that address structural barriers. Learning spaces designed around girls' actual realities. Pathways into digital economies that fit the place. Feminist leaders who are embedded within their own communities. It is a different way of thinking about digital inclusion altogether.

This is what Tech Sahelis has spent four years building, and what has emerged is not a programme producing trained girls. It is girls remaking what a digital life can look like in a mountain valley. Instagram platforms turned into sites of advocacy for girls' rights. Localised digital content was produced where none existed before. Admission letters arriving from tech and creative fields. Businesses launched in their own communities. Mothers are becoming collaborators, expanding home businesses, and launching new ones.

Pakistan has long measured digital inclusion by what's easy to count: girls trained, centres opened, courses completed. What those numbers don't measure is whether a girl can actually use what she has learned, on her own terms, in the life she is living. That work is harder, but it is also the only work that will let inclusion mean something.

The question for the rest of the field is whether it is willing to build for the conditions, and not just access.

This methodology emerged through IEI Pakistan’s Tech Sahelis program, supported by Malala Fund and Upwork Foundation. Across Gilgit-Baltistan, the programme has worked with over 500 girls to build pathways toward digital agency, leadership, and community-rooted economic participation.

Supporting Links:

IEI Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/team.ieipakistan

Tech Sahelis video story: Tech Sahelis | IEI Pakistan.mp4

By Fatima Hassan

For many women, the internet is described as a space that is expansive, liberating, borderless and full of opportunity. But for many South Asian women, it does not feel like a space at all. It feels like a continuation. A continuation of being watched, assessed and of being told, in ways both subtle and violent, to stay within bounds.

So when conversations about online harassment reduce the solution to ‘log off’, ‘ignore it’, ‘grow thicker skin’, something essential is missed. These responses assume that digital harm is surface-level and that it begins and ends with the screen. But for many South Asian women, online abuse does not simply feel unpleasant. It feels existential. Because it does not land on neutral ground, it lands on bodies already shaped by silence, by surveillance, by inherited fear.

Inherited Scripts of Silence

Long before a South Asian woman creates her first social media account, she has already been trained in a language of restraint. Don’t speak too loudly. Don’t draw attention. Don’t invite trouble. Don’t bring shame. A whole list of Don’ts.

These instructions are rarely framed as oppression. They are framed as protection and survival. Passed down through generations, they form what can be understood as scripts of silence; deeply internalized rules about how a woman should occupy space, express herself, and respond to threat.

By the time she enters digital spaces, these scripts are embodied reflexes. This means that when harassment occurs online, it does not feel like a new or isolated incident. It feels familiar and almost expected.

Zainab, a journalist based in Karachi,, described this as “a strange kind of déjà vu.” The abusive messages she received after publishing a political piece, comments about her character, her ‘place’, echoed things she had heard in offline spaces for years. From relatives and from strangers.

“It wasn’t just that they were attacking me,” she said. “It was that I had been prepared my whole life to believe that this is what happens when you speak.”

Silence, in this context, is a learned survival strategy. And the internet amplifies that training.

When Harm Becomes Trauma

Mainstream discourse often treats online harassment as something irritating but manageable, a nuisance to be endured. But trauma theory offers a different framework.
Trauma is not defined solely by the severity of an event. It is defined by how the body experiences and processes threats. When an experience overwhelms a person’s capacity to cope, it can activate deeply ingrained survival responses: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn.

For many South Asian women, online abuse does exactly this. A Karachi-based psychologist working with survivors of digital harassment explained that the body does not distinguish as neatly as we assume between physical and digital threats. “If a message carries violation, humiliation, or danger,” she said, “the nervous system can respond as if the threat is immediate and real.”

This might look like:

• A racing heartbeat upon opening notifications
• Avoidance of previously safe platforms
• Hypervigilance about being watched or judged
• Emotional shutdown or dissociation
• Compulsive self-monitoring

One university student, Anosha, described how a single post led to weeks of panic. “Every time my phone buzzed, I felt sick,” she said. “I couldn’t eat properly. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking, who else has seen this? Who is talking about me right now?”
This is not mere discomfort. It is the body entering a state of alarm. And crucially, this response is often intensified by pre-existing conditioning. When a person has been socialized to equate visibility with risk and exposure with shame, online harassment ends up confirming a lifelong fear instead of just introducing harm.
Data from Pakistan reflects a similar pattern. According to the Digital Rights Foundation’s Cyber Harassment Helpline report, women consistently make up the majority of complainants, with cases ranging from blackmail and non-consensual image sharing to sustained online stalking. The reports also highlight that many survivors experience psychological distress and are often advised by family members to withdraw from digital spaces altogether, reinforcing cycles of silence rather than addressing harm at its source.
To situate these experiences more broadly, Emma A. Jane argues in Misogyny Online: A Short (and Brutish) History that digital abuse directed at women is not random or incidental, but part of a patterned, gendered practice designed to discipline and silence. She notes that such harassment is often “vitriolic, sexualized, and relentless,” underscoring that what women encounter online is not simply disagreement, but a targeted form of hostility that seeks to push them out of public space.

The “Always Watched” Woman

For many South Asian women, surveillance is not new. It exists in the form of family scrutiny, community gossip, moral policing and general shame. It exists in the awareness that one’s actions are never entirely private and that they reflect not only on the individual, but on the family and the community.

Digital spaces collapse boundaries between these audiences. A single post can be seen by friends, relatives, colleagues, strangers, and crucially, by those who hold power over a woman’s offline life. This creates what many women describe as an “always watched” existence.

“I’m not just thinking about trolls,” said Ammarah, a 28-year-old content creator and business woman from Islamabad. “I’m thinking about how anybody might misinterpret what I do.”

This layered surveillance intensifies the impact of online harassment. Abuse is no longer just about the content of a message, it is about its potential consequences. Will this reach my family? Will this limit my freedom offline? Will this endanger me? Will this affect my reputation? In this way, digital harm becomes entangled with real-world stakes. The fear is of being exposed and attacked.

The Internalized Censor

Perhaps the most insidious effect of this environment is not the harassment itself, but what it produces internally.

Over time, many women develop what can be described as an internalized censor, a constant, vigilant voice that filters thoughts before they are expressed.

Don’t post this. This might be misunderstood. Or it might attract the wrong kind of attention. It might even cause trouble. This censor operates even in the absence of active harassment. It anticipates harm and acts preemptively to avoid it.

A freelance writer described spending hours drafting and deleting tweets. “I don’t even know if what I’m saying is controversial,” she said. “But I’ve seen what happens to other women. So I stop myself before anything can happen.”

This form of self-regulation is often invisible in discussions about digital participation. Metrics like user engagement or platform access do not capture the posts that were never made, the drafts that were left and later deleted, the opinions that were never voiced and the presence that was quietly withdrawn. Yet this is where the impact of online harassment becomes most profound. It teaches women to silence themselves first before the external forces play a role.

Withdrawal as Survival

Research by UN Women on online violence in Asia and the Pacific highlights a critical pattern: women who experience online harassment are more likely to reduce their digital participation or withdraw entirely.

This withdrawal is often framed as a loss of voice, of representation and of diversity in digital spaces. But it's important to highlight that this is also a form of survival. Because when a space consistently produces harm, leaving that space can be an act of self-preservation. The problem is not that women withdraw. The problem is that the conditions make withdrawal necessary.

A journalist who faced sustained online abuse after reporting on gender-based violence described deactivating her account for months. “People told me I was letting them win,” she said. “But I couldn’t function. I needed to feel safe again.”

Her decision reflects a reality that is often overlooked - resilience is not infinite. And expecting women to continuously endure harm in order to maintain visibility places the burden on those already affected.

Rethinking Digital Rights: A Trauma-Informed Approach

If online harassment is understood not just as a behavioral issue, but as a form of harm that interacts with trauma, then responses must shift accordingly.

A trauma-informed approach to digital rights would begin with a simple but transformative premise: that users are not entering digital spaces as blank slates. They carry vulnerabilities and embodied experiences that shape how harm is felt. This has several implications.

First, it challenges the idea that the solution lies solely in individual coping strategies. Telling women to block, mute, or ignore abuse assumes that the responsibility for managing harm rests with the target. A trauma-informed framework would instead prioritize systemic accountability: platform policies, enforcement mechanisms, increased awareness and cultural change.

Second, it calls for recognizing the cumulative nature of harm. A single abusive message might be dismissed as minor, but repeated exposure can have significant psychological effects.

Third, it emphasizes the need for supportive responses. When women report harassment, the way their experiences are received matters. Dismissal, minimization, or victim-blaming can compound harm, reinforcing the very scripts of silence that enabled it.

Organizations working in digital rights spaces are beginning to engage with these ideas, but there is still a gap between policy and lived experience.

Beyond the Screen

Ultimately, addressing online harassment for South Asian women requires looking beyond the screen.

It requires acknowledging the cultural, social, and psychological contexts that shape how harm is experienced. It requires understanding that digital spaces are not separate from offline realities. Instead, they are extensions of them.

When a woman is told to “just log off,” what she is often hearing is - remove yourself. Make yourself smaller.

But the issue is not that women are present in these spaces. It is that their presence is met with hostility.

Toward a Different Future

Imagining safer digital spaces for South Asian women is not simply about reducing harassment. It is about transforming the conditions that make that harassment so deeply felt.

It is about creating environments where visibility does not equate to vulnerability. Where expression does not trigger fear. Where participation does not require constant self-surveillance.

This is not an easy task. It requires shifts at multiple levels - digital, technological, institutional, cultural, and familial. But it also begins with something more immediate: recognition. Recognition that online harassment is not trivial. Recognition that its impact is not uniform across genders. Recognition that for many women, it is something their bodies remember, and it reshapes how they move through the world, whether its online or offline. Until digital rights frameworks account for this reality, they will continue to fall short. Because safety is about what access costs, not just about what access is.

 

By Sabah Bano Malik

I am no stranger to hate on the internet. I am a culture critic - one who criticizes patriarchal and regressive culture - not to be confused with one who critiques art or pop culture - which I also love to do especially from a lens of how the patriarchy has clawed its way into the media we are consuming. I am very on brand.

From when I first started posting content in 2018 to now, an enjoyable and at times terrifying (for me and those who follow me in good faith) aspect of my content is where I highlight the abuse I get from men on the internet.

There is always the unoriginal “fat and ugly” and of course “bitter feminist” and the devoid of critical thinking insult of “fatherless” – but there is also the, and trust me when I say equally unoriginal and equal in volume sexualized insults about bodies, morals and reputation, bilingual rape threats, and of course, the threats of finding you and killing you.

There is also the sharing of hopes that you are honor killed or at least in my case, meet the same fate of the femicide cases I often cover in my work, and sometimes, just sometimes but pretty routinely, there are the gentle suggestions to simply “kill yourself.”

There is no genre of content made by women on the internet that does not stir up bad feelings in emotional male watchers and in turn serve as catalysts for them to crack their knuckles and type their hate. Fashion, lifestyle, pop culture, food, music, marriage and relationships, motherhood or what I do, which is tell women that they are worthy – each and every thing is a trigger for the boys with mobile networks because women are the voices, faces, and successes behind these accounts.

That is literally all it takes. Women being seen, being heard, and having opinions, and being attractive, or not being attractive, going viral, being happy, really anything as long as “woman” is attached.

And I have seen some pretty creative insults in my day, as a fat woman on the internet who routinely tells men to shove it – it’s par the course. I remember the ones that caught me off guard because they were so rare, I had to take note. Like when someone instead of calling me fat said, “I’ve been following you for years and it’s crazy what weight can do to a face.” Another time someone said, “how do you maintain your physique?” The first one hurt, the second one made me burst out laughing. Hey, credit where it is due.

However, a few weeks ago I got a comment that stopped me in my scrolls: digital tawaif.

Digital tawaif?

Digital tawaif!

I can say confidently I had never, ever heard this one before. And though I had not heard this term before lobbed at me or even at someone else on the internet, it turns out it has become a widely recognized and even signature vernacular of Pakistani social media.

Good job Pakistan?

Tawaif is the Urdu word for courtesan, once respected and highly regarded artisans often seen through a rosy hazy hue of nostalgic light and Sanjay Leela Bhansali aesthetics, but what it really means is prostitute, and what those throwing this insult at creators online are truly saying from their unregulated festering emotions, guts and keyboards is: you whore!

This contemporary twist of a classic accusation got me thinking about being a woman online, reputation, culture, and the brutal attitudes men carry for women who are stepping out of line (sluts and hoes by their measure) even if that happens on the internet (Wi-Fi streetwalkers if you will).

The term is thrown at people making content on the internet. Point blank period, that is the one and only qualifier. To be fair, in my searches for this piece, I found it was not JUST women who get this modern spit on the ground thrown their way (hey, not all women!), but family vloggers and male content creators too. The common denominator is that those watching think those creating are making media that they do not approve of. Media that pushes against our values and our vigilantly policed conformity.

When it comes to visibility for women, very little is approved of. One could argue, and many do, that women posting online in any capacity is against our values, antithetical to our conformist ways and even morally reprehensible.

The comment was left on a video I had made simply showing an outfit I had on. It wasn’t even really a video, just slides of photos. How dare I?!

It's not a secret to women on the internet, no matter the content, no matter the levels of privacy, no matter if they even show their face or not, that accusations of being purchasable or representing ourselves as such happens with regularity.

If I was to give you a scroll through my TikTok DMs, you would see thousands, yes thousand, no I am not exaggerating, literally thousands of messages from men asking to meet, asking for private time, asking me for what I charge and can they send me money.

“Hello dear Sabah g I want to meet you,”

“Hey beby come with me to WhatsApp call, I will pay you,” and

“Hello, Dear Bano, aap paid real meet up karti ho (do you meet up in real life for payment)? Just for spending quality time and relaxing time? If yes, share WhatsApp details and account. Thanks.”

These are just three I pulled right off the top of my inbox filtered folder (edited for grammar).

The belief that a visible woman is one you can buy is nothing new. Women have always been purchasable commodities.

And I do not just mean purchasable in the case of sex work or slavery. And certainly not just in an exchange of money for good (in this case, a woman) - but as awards to be won, debts to be settled and particularly in the case of marriage, a coveted rise in status.

Even as brides. It was not uncommon back in the day (and even now) for a bride to wed a man who has never seen her and she never seen him, the value was in her not being visible to anyone but her family and now husband.

The visibility and erasure of women from public spaces or life has been a pull and tug, sometimes we are out here, sometimes we are quite literally closed behind four walls – and the ability for a man to see us is tied into our value. It’s misogynistic and degrading, and yet a cornerstone of our societal structure.

Think about it in terms of social class and hierarchy. The women at the top of the social food chain, regardless of culture and society, were often not seen, protected, “valued” – and the women who had to work (because women have always had to work, no matter what trad wives and red-pilled men spew on the internet) were seen. And what do people like to say all the time, “prostitution is the oldest job in the world.”

And the woman’s body is maligned and revered equally. It is meant to be beautiful and untouched, pure not just from sex but also from eyes, ears and yes, work.

The idea that visible women are for consumption exists offline too of course. Just be a Pakistani woman doing her job and see how brethren react to you out in the office, driving on the road, or as I have experienced personally, a journalist on the ground trying to do her job. Catcalling, aggression and physical intimidation, sexual harassment and propositions – all things the visible woman faces here in Pakistan.

Because a woman outside is a woman for the taking. I wish it was not so regressive but my time as a woman alive in the world who studies the behavior of men – the anecdotal and lived experiences add up to evidence.

Like many things patriarchal and misogynistic, it’s gotten a modern-day platform. The obsession with tying all women to sex work seems to be a foundational layer of the Manosphere.

Did I just hear your eyes roll back to your head and did you let out a groan reverberating around the suns because the Manosphere has been talked and dissected about to absolute horse is already dead stop beating it levels?

Sure.

But we are going to do it again.

In case you have managed to not be introduced, the is a term coined in 2009 to describe the rise of male internet culture and communities that marketed itself as pro-men and even “male wellness and self-improvement.”

The population of these blog writers, YouTubers and early day content creators and influencers were made up of pick-up artists whose bread and butter was teaching men to manipulate women into sex and service. They also taught men that the way women think and wish to build love and relationships was solely based around chasing money and “high value men” (important for later).

Another heavy part of the percentage of the population were(Ah!) or Involuntary Celibates (those who were not having sexual relations against their will, hence the involuntary) who were incredibly angry at women for not desiring them, at least the women (high value – oop there’s that word again!) that they felt they deserved so therefore spewed even more hatred at them. There is also a portion of this grouping which believes they can’t be high value men, they have laundry lists of injustices they face due to the structures of capitalism and the patriarchy, so naturally they blame those on women not wanting to sleep with them, clothe them, feed them, house them, and pay their bills.

Hahaha. Ah.

Today the Mansosphere has a number of noticeable names that I regret to say are so massive that they are quite literally household names in too many households. One of these stand-up criminals is a decent and highly regarded fellow named

There’s also the , and though it’s a touchy subject there are many and I mean many, I mean oh so many ties between the talking points of the Manosphere and those of

What a time.

What all of these people have in common is an obsession, I do not say that lightly AT ALL, an obsession with saying all women are sex workers and OnlyFan models in the making.

is a platform where people can sell photos, video content directly to their subscribers on pay scales and even allows creators to sell customized content for fans with no caps on what they can charge. It has been revolutionary for the sex work industry and especially lucrative (at least if you take the Manosphere at their word) for women.

It's not uncommon to see articles of women in their 20s raking in tens of thousands if not hundreds of thousands of dollars a month, millions a year, retiring early, and living incredibly luxurious lives off of “the selling of their bodies,” and “reducing their values (ironic),” as the Manosphere gremlins put it.

I am not writing a thesis defending Only Fans or porn, but I do think it’s interesting they rage against the women, and rarely acknowledge the men who are making the women millions.

They reduce women’s accomplishments, such as say an influencer sharing a new car she bought or images from vacation, to being paid for by her making porn, being a prostitute, or being kept by a man (who she presumably, even if in a relationship with pays back his generosity with her body.)

This genre of content highly emphasizes that men must earn money in order to secure high value women (usually untouched white European standard women who are significantly younger and subservient to them). And as I stated earlier, even when in relationships with these women, the accepted idea is that she pays for the financial support with her body and service.

Like a tawaif.

The Manosphere and those that genuinely are concerned about the epidemic, and people genuinely are concerned we have governments talking about it and a think piece every other God damn week – which by the way not even a fraction of concern and mobility have taken place on I don’t know say femicide and rising violence against women online and off – are struggling to contend with a world where a woman’s value is not solely her body and whether or not she can secure a man’s finances through it.

Women are buying more property, going to higher education in higher numbers, dominating the internet, building brands and identities of their own outside of marriage and patriarchal constructs that reduce them to property of men – and the men are losing their minds over it.

And when men get angry that women are outdoing them (which is day by day more and more becoming the absolute norm) they want to strip their rights (as we are seeing in the US), police their dissent (as we are seeing here in Pakistan with the disruptions and pointless arrests of ) and they want to reduce them to their parts – accusations of prostitution, digital tawaifs.

By Mehar Khursheed

On the 2nd of January, 2026 I accessed the X app (formerly Twitter) that I so rarely did after that moonfaced fascist took over and saw the reply of an incel to a journalist asking Grok, X’s large language model (LLM), to ‘put her in a dental floss bikini.’

I thought misguidedly to myself that there's no way that these public access LLMs will be allowed to do that. But a few seconds later, there it was. The scary thing about this was not that some misogynist demanded that a woman be violated this way online (that has happened since the internet existed) but that the AI model complied with his demands so swiftly and accurately. It worked better than photoshop and definitely better than Meta AI who can't even change the background of a picture without turning you into a random cat or making you a cartoon version of yourself.

Reports from late December 2025 through early January 2026 revealed that X’s AI assistant, Grok, was used to generate an estimated three million sexualized images in just 11 days, with a significant portion targeting real, non-consensual individuals, including women and children. Another user stole a picture of a woman in hijab and directed Grok to ‘make her wearing a transparent lingerie and red bikini, keep their hijab and hat @grok,’ Another asked Grok to alter a picture of a woman in a bikini by ‘[putting] her in a hijab covering her hair and ears.’

The purpose of this digital assault is to assert dominance and use shame in order to curtail and control the access, visibility and comfort of women and queer folk online. The same reason why rape, harassment and sexual assault function to erase women and queer folk from physical spaces. The power of the transgressor in this situation is derived from the aspect of shame being borne by the person being attacked. Violence against women greatly relies on their powerlessness and the feeling that this violation is not only inevitable but a comeuppance for the woman who dared to venture out into a public space, whether digital or physical, and had her presence known.

The rapid democratization of sophisticated AI tools has placed the capability to fabricate hyper-realistic nude or sexually explicit images of anyone into the hands of perpetrators worldwide. This content, often made with photo editing and generative AI technology, falsely depicts persons nude and in sexually explicit situations with one primary goal: to induce paralyzing shame, compel silence, and enforce compliance.

Despite this, shame is not a negative emotion. Shame exists for an important and evolutionary reason, otherwise why would we, some of the most gleefully selfish mammals, even allow it to exist in our species? Shame actually requires a lot of intelligence to wield and to feel. Shame, when directed at the abuse of power or towards the violator of a person’s  rights, ceases to become a repressive tool for control and instead becomes a means of resistance and reclamation of power. But in order for it to be the latter, it ideally needs to be a communal and unwavering stance.

Unfortunately in today's diabolical time (i.e. the last two millennia) shame has switched directions from being a burden on the aggressor to being marked onto the oppressed. Used as a tool for colonisation, shame worked wonders for the settlers. As said by Zhaawano Giizhik, from the Anishinaabe tribe of Indigenous North Americans; they taught us to hate ourselves and, in the end, to hate "God" for making us "Indian." Shame that was once a tool for communal growth and understanding, in the hands of the colonisers became a way to dehumanize, subjugate and deform entire races, cultures and continents. Explained by Gemma Hamilton, shame in Aboriginal communities is linked to self promotion or when receiving praise, starkly different from its meaning in the West where shame is felt at being violated or for being treated unjustly. She goes on to say, ‘For example, shame may be felt when one is the center of attention… when meeting strangers, in the presence of close relatives, when passing near a forbidden place, or when exposed to secret ceremony information. Most commonly, shame in Aboriginal culture includes a fear of negative consequences arising from a perceived wrongdoing, a fear of disapproval and a strong desire to escape the unpleasant situation (Harkins, 1990).’

It's a popular, albeit incorrect trope, especially in reformative justice circles, that shame is counter productive to growth and reform – a misassumption ironically propagated by cis or trans women. Shame has been used to repress, control and condition women for thousands of years and very effectively too. Sure one could say that it hasn't led to ‘growth’ in the sense that is afforded to men, but it has shaped entire societies and cultures into believing that shame based behavior is not only desirable but also natural, decreed by God even.

If you research online whether shame can be a catalyst for reform you will get hundreds of white people telling you that it backfires. However, just like we are sold the concept of non violence being the morally superior method to resist, not shaming those in power is made out to be ineffective and something those in power are immune to. We are told to strive to be ‘the bigger person’ while the actual bigger people who wield the narrative, power and ammunition, crush you under their tanks and taxes. Because when coupled with power, shame controls half of the world quite efficiently. It dictates what women and queer folk wear, not just outside our homes but inside. Shame tells us what we should weigh, what form our bodies should take, what style our hair should be, our skin colour, our profession, our marital status, our number of children. So why is it that we cannot use this very useful tool and emotion and direct it towards the harm that is aimed towards us?

‘AI Undressing’ or ‘AI Nudification’ is one horror among the millions that have come with the artificial intelligence industry. Women and queer digital activists warned of this avalanche of non consensual invasion of privacy back in 2023 but the argument that has prevailed is one says  AI advancement cannot be stopped and if the technology progresses at the expense of the already marginalised, so be it – and so it is. If you research AI undressing or nudification there are hundreds of links to applications and websites online that can do it for free causing real life harm that doesn’t stay online. According to a UN Women survey, 41 per cent of  women in public life who experienced digital violence also reported facing offline attacks or harassment linked to it.

The act of circulating deepfakes is an attempt to impose a scarlet letter, forcing victims to internalize the aggressor’s malice. If the victim accepts the shame, they retreat, their voice is silenced, and the aggressor wins. This is why the counter-movement must focus on externalizing the shame, turning the burden back onto the creators and distributors of the violatory content, and reclaiming the narrative that the only party deserving of shame is the one perpetrating the harm.

Earlier in January when Grok was still programmed to churn out NCIIs on demand, Ashley St Clair who happens to be Elon Musk' s ex and the mother of one of his children, was attacked. ‘These images that Grok produced of me were so horrific. So traumatic to look at, hyper realistic and there were still real things from my life in the background. Like my older son's backpack...and it was a lot. It wasn't just the images of me that were disturbing, I also saw images of girls that looked about four years old.’ St Clair filed a lawsuit around Grok being a product liability and that it is an unsafe product released onto the public. She took a very public stand, refusing to be shamed, refusing to be intimidated and remaining powerless. Now however she is being sued for violation of terms of service for X’s AI. She also disclosed in the linked video that she is being sued in Texas where the judge presiding over this case owns stocks in Tesla; another Elon Musk company.

In Pakistan the rise of deepfake and AI undressing is even more problematic and worrisome as even without this looming threat, Pakistani women operate with constant paranoia, vigilance and self censorship in order to ‘protect their reputations’ and sustain a level of agency and independence. Habiba Malik writes that ‘as per a report of the Digital Rights Foundation (DRF) in 2024, globally, an estimated 90% of deepfakes target women, while 70% of Pakistani women feel unsafe online. These figures paint a stark picture; synthetic media is not a technological novelty but a gendered weapon. These anxieties stem from a new kind of fear: the fear of being remade, in any way, in any form, through the lens of a machine gaze.’

Pakistani women already face innumerable obstacles to being able to access public spaces, whether it’s in real life or online. Komal Saquib*, a working class woman from Karachi, spoke about her neighbour who was facing blackmail over an AI generated deepfake video of hers. She described the situation as harrowing for her neighbour who was ready to pay the blackmailer in order to protect herself from gossip and maligning. She was worried that her husband would find out, wouldn't believe her that the videos were deepfakes and would murder her. Komal baji counselled the woman and told her to ‘tell him to send the videos. She said, give him my number, give him your husband's number, your mother in laws number, and tell him to send the videos. I will stand with you.’ Though this step may look risky, it caused a disbalance of power and shame between the blackmailer and the blackmailed. Armed with this solidarity, the woman being blackmailed did what Komal baji had asked and scared the blackmailer off.

A more public case is one of Journalist Gharidah Farooq. An established member of the Pakistani press and winner of the Tamgha-e-Imtiaz. Two weeks ago, she was one of the few journalists selected to cover the Islamabad Talks, where Iran and America were negotiating the terms of agreement during their ceasefire. However instead of focusing on her work or her insights, the topic all over social media was her outfit. What began as harassment and slut shaming soon turned into malevolence with thousands of posts attacking the TV anchorperson; including AI deep fakes being posted online. On the 24th of April, Farooq announced that one such perpetrator had been arrested for circulating these deep fakes. She thanked the National Cyber Crime Investigation Agency (NCCIA) for tracking the person who made the video and for arresting him. Farooq also said that this was not the first time she had been the focus of a targeted attack, only this time there were laws in place to facilitate her holding her attackers accountable. She added; ‘This was not just an attack on one woman; it was an assault and a method to terrorize all women. The excellent action being taken by the NCCIA will not only give women a sense of security in this society but also increase trust in the strict enforcement of the law and the strength of institutions.’

The Prevention of Electronics Crimes Act (PECA) Section 21 directly deals with blackmailing by producing, distributing, or transmitting, through an information system, any photograph or video that is sexually explicit, doctored, or manipulated to harm reputation or for blackmail. Punishment can include imprisonment up to five years, a fine of up to Rs. 5 million, or both. PECA Section 24 details that if a deepfake is used to harass or stalk someone (including repeatedly trying to contact them), it is punishable for up to 3 years in jail. However it doesn’t matter  if laws are in place or not to allegedly protect the vulnerable. It's that we are a society of victim blamers and misogynists who relish in the humiliation of marginalised demographics. Whether it is women, queer folk, religious minorities, ethnic minorities or animals; the dominant demographic is too ready to place the shame and blame of our oppression back on to us.

The problem is not just individuals utilizing AI; it is the structure of the platforms and the failure to regulate the technology itself. Platforms like X enable environments that encourage and supply NCIIs (non consensual intimate images) whilst profiting off of them. The fight of nation states against these tech giants underscores a growing international recognition that these corporations must be held accountable for the harm their services enable. This leads to critical questions about corporate ethics and regulatory oversight: Why are people not being held accountable for creating these AI apps that can and do ‘nudify’ unsuspecting and (many times) underage victims? The current legal and ethical landscape allows developers to prioritize profit and speed over fundamental human and digital rights. We must demand a "health & safety inspection" of these LLMs to determine their compliance with human and digital rights. This means not only auditing the outputs but inspecting the datasets and safety protocols to ensure that models are trained against, not for, sexual violence and exploitation.

True change requires shifting the cultural locus of shame. This means creating environments, in our friendships, our families, our schools, and our workplace, that actively empower and enable members of all genders to respect, believe and protect one another. The ultimate goal is to foster robust community standards that are not reliant on AI filters or algorithmic takedowns, but on collective empathy and immediate support. When an act of digital abuse occurs, the response should not be to investigate the victims behavior, but to immediately and fiercely target shame where it belongs; towards the perpetrators.

We need to encourage more visibility and more support for survivors. Rejecting shame is not just a personal act of healing; it is a political declaration that reclaims dignity and paves the way for a safer digital future.

The expectation of shame is deeply rooted in historical purity culture and modern misogyny, acting as a social contract where women are held responsible for preventing their own abuse. When a non-consensual image surfaces, the questions directed at the victim are rarely about the perpetrator’s malice, but about the victim’s conduct: Why did you take that picture? Why did you trust that person? This immediate focus on the victim’s actions, rather than the perpetrator’s crime, is the mechanism through which shame is successfully weaponized. The appearance of an NCII is not only a violation but often triggers homophobia or transphobia, threatening to "out" individuals in unsafe environments or subjecting them to moral panic. The shame they are expected to internalize is multilayered: shame over the violation, shame over the content itself, and shame over their identity, whether that be cis, queer or trans. The combined weight of these expectations leads to isolation, self-blame, and the desire for self-erasure; the intended result of the perpetrator’s attack. The refusal to feel shame, therefore, is an act of profound self-reclamation. It is the recognition that the victim is a host to a trauma inflicted by another, and not the source of moral failing. When a person steps out of the shadows, refusing anonymity, they break the social contract of silence. They declare that the trauma belongs to the public domain as a crime, not to their private existence as a secret. This public defiance is a crucial step in transforming NCII from a source of personal degradation into an engine for systemic change.

By Syeda Noor Fatima

Two years ago, Inaya remembers it was a Friday when she was getting ready to leave for university and the doorbell rang. One of her cousins had come to meet her father. He showed him a video in which a boy was dancing in the university corridor. In the background, she was sitting with her male classmate, completely unaware that she had been captured on camera. She tried to explain to her father that she had done nothing wrong.

However, he responded that if she wanted to continue going to university, she would have to start covering her face so that no one could point her out in such videos again. This was not her mistake, nor was it truly her father’s.

She believes he was trying to protect her, shaped by a society where blame is often placed on girls rather than on those who record and share videos without understanding or respecting the concept of consent, even for those who appear in the background.

In Pakistan, digital literacy and access remain limited for women, with around 45% using mobile internet (Dawn, based on GSMA data). According to Geo, also based on the GSMA Mobile Gender Gap Report, about 52% of women own a mobile phone, compared to 81% of men.

The digital gender gap is wider in rural areas, where cultural norms and infrastructure limitations further restrict women's access to technology. This further increases their vulnerability to online exploitation and non-consensual sharing of images and videos.

What Consent Really Means in the Digital Age

Consent means obtaining permission before recording or sharing someone’s image or videos online, including cases where people are unknowingly filmed and later appear in content.

As a lot of people do not know what consent is and how it affects women, in the form of harassment, misuse of images, and online exploitation, and their effects on their physical life as well, the issue of consent largely relates to real images and videos. It has become so normalized in our society to post such data on social media that we start accepting it as it is, without raising questions about it and without knowing that there are people who are affected by this.

When Virality Overrides Consent

As people increasingly rely on video and image sharing platforms such as TikTok and Instagram, this issue has evolved into a serious digital security concern. Yasal Munim, a digital rights advocate, highlights that the widespread sharing of online content is increasing risks to individuals’ privacy and safety.

The stringent requirements for virality, engagement, and monetisation often lead to users recording and uploading their content quickly without thinking about not only ethical considerations but also the safety of other people in their videos.

From Online Exposure to Real-World Harm

In Pakistan, videos taken without consent have real-life consequences for women. In 2023, a woman was killed in Kohistan after her doctored videos were circulated. This is particularly concerning because the concept of a family’s “honour” continues to be attached to women in many parts of society.

Quite recently, public figures such as actor Ramsha Khan, who had to publicly call for respect for her privacy after her wedding images circulated online, illustrate how even women with visibility and influence continue to remain vulnerable. Munim mentioned how these kinds of cases highlight how society has normalized capturing, altering, and circulating women’s images or videos without their explicit consent.

Moreover, last year, Meta Platforms faced criticism after reports that images of schoolgirls, originally shared by parents in school-related contexts, were used in targeted advertisements on Instagram. According to a report by The Guardian, many parents expressed outrage, as these images were posted on private accounts but later appeared in ads aimed at male users. In response, Meta stated that its advertising system can use publicly shared or accessible content under its data and advertising policies, which allow user-generated content to be processed and distributed for commercial purposes. The company maintained that such use was consistent with its terms, highlighting how users often share images without fully understanding how they may be reused or amplified by the platform.

This raises concerns around informed consent, as individuals may agree to share content without realising the extent of its potential use. In such cases, misused or non-consensual content becomes not only a privacy issue but one that intersects with harassment, online violence, and emerging risks such as AI manipulation. According to Yasal Munim, this underscores the need for stronger digital literacy and greater respect for consent in both physical and digital spaces.

A Normalised Violation

At the office, where most of her colleagues are men, 28-year-old Afiya, an HR assistant in a corporate firm who spoke about her experience of workplace privacy violations, described how often she is recorded without consent.

They make videos and send them as Snapchat streaks and upload them as Instagram reels. Many times, I’m in those videos too. But no one asks me.”

“I never agreed to be recorded,” she said. “I didn’t even know when the video was being made.

“After it kept happening, I decided to speak up.

“I asked him, why do you keep sending these videos with girls in them? Did you ask us? Did you take our permission?”

Afiya is confident and aware, but what bothered her was how easily her privacy was ignored at work.

But instead of understanding her concern, her coworker dismissed it.

“He said I have ‘conservative thinking,’” she said. “Like I was overreacting.”

But for her, the issue was simple.

“Just because I work with you doesn’t mean you can record me,” she said. “Just because I’m standing there doesn’t mean you can share my video.”

She said what bothered her most was how normal this has become.

“People don’t even think of it as wrong,” she said. “They think it’s just for fun. But it’s still my face, my video. I should have a say in it.”

In a time where everything is quickly recorded and shared, her question remains basic, but often ignored:

“Why is it so hard to ask before filming someone?”

Academic research published in the Oxford Journal of Legal Studies on image-based abuse argues that the non-consensual recording or sharing of a person’s images or videos is not only a breach of privacy but also a violation of personal autonomy and dignity, reinforcing the principle that individuals should have control over how their likeness is captured and used.

Why Victims Struggle to Seek Justice

There are several technical, legal, and social barriers that survivors face when trying to get such content removed. In many cases, videos do not clearly violate platform rules, especially when women appear only in the background, or when the content is not explicitly abusive, Munim said.

Platforms such as TikTok, Facebook, and Instagram are better at identifying extreme violations than contextual harm, often requiring survivors to explain why the content is harmful even when consent is absent.

Even when reported, responses can be slow, automated, and lack transparency, making it difficult for users to understand decisions or appeal them. Meanwhile, content spreads rapidly and is frequently downloaded or reshared, meaning removal from one account does not stop its circulation.

Survivors also face social challenges, including harassment, moral policing, and a lack of support from family or workplaces. Fear of retaliation or further exposure often discourages them from reporting, leaving many women to withdraw from online spaces rather than seek redress.

According to Marva Khan, a Gender and Law professor from LUMS, Pakistan, lacks a strong concept of digital privacy, particularly in public spaces. She explained that while legal protections remain limited, the issue is also deeply social, particularly when it comes to vulnerable groups such as women and minors.

“People often forget that others have dignity and may not want to appear online,” she said, adding that in some countries, stricter norms exist around monetized content, where individuals appearing in the background of videos may have grounds to object, especially when their image is used without consent for profit.

Khan also links this issue to broader patterns of gender-based violence in Pakistan, where women often face disproportionate consequences, including reputational harm and, in extreme cases, violence in the name of “honour.”

She further added that, for individuals who appear in the background of videos, seeking legal recourse can be difficult, as content spreads rapidly across platforms, making it hard to control or trace. In such a context, she suggests that basic practices, such as blurring faces or using filters, should become a social norm to protect people’s privacy.

When Even Protection Becomes Exposure

A few days ago, a video went viral on social media showing two boys from Lahore rescuing a minor girl from an attempted assault. Their bravery is undeniable and likely prevented serious harm. However, the video also exposes a gap in digital awareness. The child’s face was clearly visible, raising concerns about her privacy and safety. Even in urgent situations, minors must be protected from public exposure. The boys, themselves under 18, may not have understood the consequences, but this reflects a wider lack of digital rights education. Sensitive content should be shared responsibly, protecting the victim’s identity while ensuring that accountability remains focused on the perpetrators.

This incident also reflects broader concerns highlighted in a study of the National University of Modern Languages (NUML), Islamabad, on Pakistani Gen Z’s social media use and cybercrime awareness, which found that despite high levels of online activity, many young users have a limited understanding of digital rights, privacy, and the consequences of sharing sensitive content. Such gaps in awareness increase the risk of unintentionally exposing vulnerable individuals, especially minors, in digital spaces. This lack of understanding reinforces the need for stronger education around digital rights, consent, and responsible content sharing.

Misleading Frames, Real Consequences

A Lahore High Court lawyer, Muhammad Azam, highlights that on social media, videos are often framed with misleading thumbnails or captions such as “What is happening in Pakistan today?” or “What are women doing in public spaces?”. In reality, the videos typically show women simply walking on the street or sitting on a bus, but the framing of the footage makes it appear suggestive or misleading. These kinds of portrayals raise serious concerns about consent and privacy in public spaces. In such cases, affected individuals may have grounds to pursue defamation claims. However, the process remains difficult, as victims often face significant practical barriers when seeking justice.

These cases reflect a broader global pattern of digital surveillance, with incidents of non-consensual recording, misleading framing, and online harassment documented in different parts of the world, pointing to a digital environment in which consent is frequently overlooked.

The BBC published an article on 24 January 2026 titled: Women Filmed Secretly for Social Media Content - and Then Harassed Online, in which a woman, Dilara from London, expressed how she was secretly filmed, and the perpetrator posted the video on TikTok and got millions of views. The perpetrator also has more videos on TikTok, which are filmed without the girls’ consent, giving men tips on how to approach a woman. Eight other women in the UK, US, and Australia told the BBC that they had been filmed without consent. Kim, one of the women interviewed, told the BBC: “Nobody has the right to film other people, exploit them, sexualise them, or make money from them without their permission.”

Recent cases in India, including the Bengaluru metro voyeurism incident reported by The Times of India and The News Minute, show how women are being secretly filmed in public spaces and misrepresented online. In several instances, such as arrests reported by The South First, these videos were uploaded without consent, often leading to harassment and public outrage.

Gaps in Law and Enforcement

Azam also explained how access to legal remedies in Pakistan is another challenge. Many cybercrime offices are located in major cities, requiring individuals, particularly women from smaller towns, to travel long distances to file complaints. This process demands time, resources, and often the disclosure of personal identity, which can discourage victims from coming forward. Complaint mechanisms should therefore be made more accessible, including through online systems, to reduce these barriers, he suggested.

Another key issue is platform accountability. Social media platforms such as Facebook and others operate outside Pakistan, making it difficult to enforce local laws or ensure the timely removal of harmful content. While some countries have stricter regulations regarding public filming and privacy, standards vary widely across regions. In many cases, if the content is not clearly malicious, legal action becomes harder to pursue.

Women remain the primary targets in such content, reflecting broader gender biases in society, Azam mentioned. Although laws like the Prevention of Electronics Crimes Act (PECA) exist to address these issues, their effectiveness depends heavily on implementation. At present, the process of filing complaints is often complex and burdensome, allowing many cases to go unreported.

When asked about this issue, Munim added, "Other gaps include a lack of awareness of the crime and relevant laws." Many women may not recognize such incidents as punishable offences, while others may choose not to pursue legal action due to family and societal pressure. The process itself can also be difficult to navigate, given delayed timelines, high costs, and the requirement of repeated court appearances.

Beyond Law: Towards a Culture of Digital Consent

Ultimately, the issue goes beyond isolated incidents and legal frameworks, pointing to a broader digital culture in which consent is increasingly ignored in everyday online behaviour. Across workplaces, social media platforms, and public spaces, women’s images are frequently captured and circulated without their control, normalising practices that blur the boundaries between visibility and violation. This reflects a deeper structural problem in how digital spaces are used and understood. Moving forward, addressing this challenge will require not only greater awareness of consent as a basic digital principle, but also a cultural shift where asking before filming, sharing, or publishing someone’s image becomes a routine and expected norm of online interaction.

By Halima Azhar

The allegations appeared online in February, 2026. An established digital content creator, Mahnoor Rahim, talked about the inappropriate behavior of a producer (keeping his name anonymous at first) in her DMs (direct messages) when she had just started her career. People were quick to identify the pattern she described in her reel and guess the name. After receiving DMs from other girls, especially young ones, Mahnoor Rahim verified the name; it was Umer Mukhtar. Her comment section was filled with messages of support, and she was no longer just one woman speaking against another man; she became a representative voice of women against the alleged exploiter, Umer Mukhtar. There was a moment of hope that visibility might lead to accountability, but it was only brief. Soon, hope was followed by sheer disappointment when defamation law came to the rescue of Umer Mukhtar before any legal or social (cancelling or boycotting) action could be taken against him. He was quick to send Rahim a defamation notice under Section 3 of the Ordinance of Pakistan and Sections 20 and 21 of the Prevention of Electronics Crimes Act (PECA) 2016.

This isn’t a new pattern; it is the same turn of events we witnessed in the famous #MeToo case between Meesha Shafi and Ali Zafar in 2018. Allegations of harassment made by women are often met with legal notices under defamation laws, instead of holding the alleged harassers accountable. In 2018, Shafi took to X, formerly Twitter, and through a series of posts, alleged that Ali Zafar had sexually harassed her on multiple occasions. Just like in the case of Mahnoor Rahim, many women came forward and claimed to have similar experiences with Ali Zafar, including activist and artist Leena Ghani. In response, Ali Zafar denied all allegations on social media and filed a one-billion-rupee defamation suit against Shafi. This was not the only case Ali Zafar filed against Meesha Shafi. Under PECA, a First Information Report (FIR) was registered by the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA) in September 2020 against Shafi and eight others, following a cybercrime complaint filed by Zafar in November 2018 alleging a coordinated smear campaign against him on social media.

Shafi responded to this; took the matter to court and filed a complaint before the Punjab Ombudsperson for Protection Against Harassment of Women at the Workplace in 2018. The complaint, however, was dismissed on technical grounds, with the office ruling that no employer-employee relationship existed between her and Zafar. She subsequently challenged the decision and took the appeal to the Supreme Court. While the decision of the Supreme Court remains pending in Shafi’s harassment case, a court in Lahore has already given a decision on Zafar’s defamation case against Shafi on 31 March 2026. The court ordered Shafi to pay Zafar five million rupees ($17,900) in damages, showing that preservation of reputation carries higher weight in Pakistan’s legal system over allegations of harassment and misconduct.

Two cases, eight years apart, and yet no difference in outcomes. In both cases, female public figures allege a male colleague of harassment or abuse of power; it makes waves, and soon collective testimonies from women against the alleged perpetrator start surfacing on social media, raising hope for an investigation to begin, a boycott within the industry, and people distancing themselves from the perpetrator. But soon, this thread of hope breaks as the victim receives the first legal notice under PECA and a defamation suit is filed against them. Just like that, attention shifts from the actual allegations of harassment to the risks of speaking out. The nature of these allegations is not two isolated events happening in Pakistan, or some industry drama; this way of demanding accountability and providing visibility to someone’s problematic behavior, particularly someone in power, is part of the global #MeToo movement that started in 2017. When actress Ashley Judd went public with her allegations against Harvey Weinstein, it initiated a journalistic investigation that led to the release of a detailed report in October 2017. This was followed by natural consequences for Harvey Weinstein: he was sacked by the board of his own company, the organization behind the Oscars voted to expel Weinstein, collective testimonies from women started appearing on social media with #MeToo, and institutional investigations led to punishment in different cases. He lost his place in an industry where he had created massive hits and blockbusters. The natural outcome of his actions was not legal notices for the accusers; instead, the media and the state came together to hold the alleged abuser accountable for his actions.

A pattern of such events that we witnessed globally, is yet to be seen in Pakistan, primarily because of the legal structure that governs digital spaces in Pakistan. One such law that governs digital spaces is the PECA 2016 – introduced to protect against cybercrimes and develop accountability structures. Through provisions such as identity theft, cyber harassment, child pornography, cyberbullying, and defamation, the purpose of the law was to protect individuals against online threats. Later, the implementation of the law deviated from its original purpose and instead was used as a tool to control dissenting voices on social media. Soon, civil society started calling it a “draconian law” for its infringement on the right to freedom of expression guaranteed under Article 19. Criticism spanning almost a decade, instead of leading to the dismantling of the law, or at least an improvement based on international human rights standards, saw amendments introduced in 2025 that further curtailed the right to freedom of expression and speech. Under the PECA Amendment Act 2025, Section 26-A was introduced, which criminalizes undefined “fake news.” According to this section, “Whoever intentionally disseminates, publicly exhibits, or transmits any information through any information system that he knows or has reason to believe to be false or fake and likely to cause or create a sense of fear, panic, disorder, or unrest in the general public or society…” Here, “fake” as well as “likely to cause fear…” remains largely broad, leaving room for both the state and individuals to use it against opposing parties voicing their opinions or criticisms. The vague language of the original PECA Act and now the PECA Amendment has always been a problem, but the intensity of punishments such as imprisonment of two to three years and a fine of up to three million rupees, or both, makes it even more problematic. Laws that are essentially supposed to protect people against cybercrimes seem to be doing otherwise – protecting the already powerful and their reputation so that no one can speak up against the abuse they experience from them.

It is worth noting that the legal infrastructure often turns against survivors or those who speak for survivors, irrespective of gender. The case involving filmmaker and activist Jami illustrates this reversal. After he publicly read an anonymous survivor’s letter at Lahooti Melo and later shared on his Facebook handle too, describing sexual assault by a powerful figure in the entertainment industry without naming the alleged perpetrator, legal action did not focus on investigating the alleged abuse itself. Instead, a defamation case was pursued by the alleged, who argued that public speculation linked him to the allegation. Jami was subsequently convicted under Section 500 (Punishment for defamation) of the Pakistan Penal Code and sentenced to imprisonment and a fine. The case demonstrates how legal processes can shift attention away from allegations of sexual violence toward penalising speech surrounding them, creating a chilling effect not only for survivors but also for those who attempt to amplify their voices. Rather than enabling accountability, the law, in such instances, reinforces silence by signaling that speaking about abuse—even indirectly—may invite legal punishment.

The PECA Amendment or Civil defamation laws are not the only laws dictating and shrinking free speech in both virtual and physical spaces through their vague language and unfair institutional structures; the Punjab Defamation Act 2024, now contested by the civil society in Lahore High Court as it demands recordings of assembly debate; held prior to passing the ACT.  has also raised concerns among civil society and rights-based activists. The Punjab Defamation Act 2024, aimed at curbing the spread of disinformation on digital, mainstream, and social media platforms, is an addition to already existing draconian laws, not only because of the nature of the law but also because of the severe punishments that can be abused. Under this Act, defamation is treated as a civil wrong, allowing individuals to initiate legal action even without proving actual damage or financial loss. Under the legal framework, special tribunals, composed of government-selected members from a shortlist prepared by the Lahore High Court Chief Justice, are required to decide cases within six months of registration. In matters involving individuals holding constitutional offices, jurisdiction would shift directly to the High Court. The law also proposes significant penalties. Fines may reach up to PKR 3,000,000 (approximately USD 10,750), with the possibility of punitive damages extending to ten times that amount. Beyond financial penalties, these tribunals would have the authority to compel public apologies and order the suspension or blocking of social media accounts or other platforms through which the contested content was shared.

These laws disproportionately affect those who are trying to speak up against established power structures and powerful individuals. Mahnoor Rahim, while speaking about defamation laws, said that, “Defamation laws are too often weaponized against women who dare to speak up. Instead of protecting reputations, they are used to silence, intimidate, and retaliate. And in a system that is already flawed and biased, women seeking justice are not only disbelieved; they are humiliated, interrogated, and degraded in the process.” Legal notices to those trying to speak up often come much earlier, and in cases like Meesha Shafi’s, years before any justice or relief arrives. An accuser who gathers the courage to speak up is suddenly made to rethink that decision. In a country like Pakistan, where conviction rates in crimes against women—whether in cyberspace or the physical world—remain strikingly low, speaking up on social media platforms often seems to be the only hope and a place to gather support. Yet laws regulating these spaces appear counterproductive; instead of creating an environment that allows people to talk about these issues, they often come to the rescue of those who exploit, harass, or abuse their power. Shmyla Khan, a digital rights expert, while speaking about the impact of defamation laws said; “So, the entire point of the #MeToo movement, as I see it, is that women were taking to social media and public forums to talk about the harassment and violence they face because existing institutions, including the legal system, were failing them. What defamation laws essentially do is force women to return to these same institutions, such as the courts. They place the onus on women not only to prove the harassment and violence they face but also to prove that they are not lying when they allege harassment or speak out against it. This adds to the existing barriers women face in speaking up and reinforces the silence surrounding these issues. It also imposes higher costs, both in terms of civil and criminal defamation. Many of the cases that inspired women across the world, including in Pakistan, to speak out, do not end in meaningful justice. When survivors are instead penalized through fines or criminal sentences, the message sent to women, survivors, and victims is that they should not speak out, as the cost is not just social or reputational but also legal penalization”. The impact of such notices goes beyond individuals.

Women in relatively stronger positions, such as Mahnoor Rahim and Meesha Shafi, who have support systems and collective testimonies reinforcing their claims, still end up receiving legal notices and become caught up in proving their innocence while the public watches it unfold. This does not encourage speaking up against abusers publicly; rather, it pushes women further toward silence as they anticipate trials over social media, traditional media, on top of it all, prolonged court proceedings. On the other hand, an abuser may feel encouraged to continue problematic behavior, knowing that a law exists to protect their reputation within six months of filing a case, even without proof of actual loss. Such legal architecture becomes as patriarchal as the society we live in, the technology we use, and the systems we must navigate. The burden shifts to the person who gathered the courage to speak up—the burden to prove that what they claim actually happened and the burden to prove that speaking up was not an act of defamation but an attempt to seek accountability.

Asiya*, who works at a reputable organization in Pakistan, said: “A few years ago, when I received inappropriate messages from my boss, which were later deleted by him, I considered my options, and staying silent, changing organizations, and leaving it behind seemed the most rational financial and emotional choice. I saw what happened to Meesha Shafi, and I couldn’t go through media trials, legal notices that alleged abusers send, and different court proceedings just to prove that I was wronged, while the abuser sits comfortably and lets his legal team derail me and tire me down through the process. I am not proud of it, but I do not have trust in the system.” This is the chilling effect that these defamation laws have on victims and survivors of abuse, especially within unequal power structures. Asiya is not one woman; she represents countless individuals who experience harassment and abuse but choose to stay quiet in an anti-women social and legal environment. High-profile cases, instead of encouraging survivors to pursue justice, silence them because they see that, just like society, the legal system asks the same question: “What proof do you have against this person?” If evidence cannot be produced, the implication becomes that the woman is merely attempting to malign the reputation of an “honorable man”—and must then bear the consequences.

In one incident, a woman’s testimony triggered a journalistic investigation, and the release of the report led to collective testimonies from women, the alleged perpetrator’s own company distancing itself from him, and the beginning of court trials. Survivors’ statements moved the system, and within days, the man was stripped of the very power he had been abusing. This had a global impact – the #MeToo movement was popularized and crossed borders. One of the countries it reached was Pakistan, but the hope that this movement brought was soon crushed as Meesha Shafi’s case was brought to light. We witnessed collective testimonies, but what happened next? Even after eight years, the harassment case remains pending in the Supreme Court, while the alleged perpetrator has already won a defamation case against the victim and survivor. The same pattern appears in the Mahnoor Rahim and Umer Mukhtar case as well — a woman speaks up, and instead of accountability, she is met with legal retaliation. A similar pattern was witnessed in the case of Jami, the filmmaker. Laws are supposed to protect people from abuse, not protect an abuser’s reputation. These colonial legal structures, embedded within patriarchal power systems, continue to disproportionately affect the vulnerable, creating a chilling effect that forces survivors into self-censorship. Such laws must be revisited and fundamentally reformed.

Zosheen Riaz

Syeda Aima Tatheer

A woman matches with someone on a dating app. The conversation progresses quickly, he expresses serious intentions, talks about marriage, and creates a sense of emotional closeness. Weeks later, he disappears without explanation. In other cases, the same individual may be found interacting with multiple women simultaneously or hiding an existing marriage. These are not isolated incidents but recurring patterns reported by women in online spaces.

Digital platforms are often considered spaces of choice and freedom, particularly for women in restrictive social contexts. However, in Pakistan, these spaces increasingly reproduce the same gendered inequalities in the online space as well. Rather than reducing risk, digital matchmaking platforms have reorganised it, shifting responsibility for safety onto women while allowing harmful behaviour to operate with minimal accountability.

In a context where opportunities for interaction are limited, dating platforms such as Bumble, Muzz and other social media groups like “Two rings official”  have become key sites for partner search. Yet for many women, these platforms function less as spaces of opportunity and more as environments of calculated vulnerability. In this regard, women in Pakistan are building their own justice systems, not in courts, but in WhatsApp groups and closed Facebook communities. These systems do not exist by design, but by necessity. They emerge in response to digital environments where safety is uncertain, accountability is weak, and harm is difficult to prove.

Methodology

This article adopts a qualitative research approach to examine women’s experiences with digital matchmaking platforms in Pakistan. Data was collected through analysis of user-generated content across multiple online spaces, including:

• User-generated content in closed Facebook groups, focused on matchmaking and safety.
• Post and discussion on X (formerly Twitter).
• User reviews of the Muzz application on app stores.
• Reddit threads related to confessions/muslims dating and matchmaking experiences.
• Public discussions on platforms such as Bumble and Muzz.

To support this analysis, selected examples of user-generated content (including Reddit discussions, app store reviews, and anonymised interaction screenshots) are presented below to illustrate recurring patterns observed across platforms.

                       

Screenshots of Reddit discussions reveal a consistent mismatch between users’ expectations of marriage and actual experiences on dating platforms.

               

                                                   

Anonymised interaction examples demonstrate inappropriate behavior and safety risks encountered by users.

These platforms were selected to analyse community-based discussions based on personal experiences, identify risks, and safety-related information shared by women.

The analysis focuses on pattern identification across multiple platforms to understand how repeated behaviours shape user experiences and perception of risk. These patterns were not treated as isolated incidents but as part of broader interactional structures within digital platforms. Due to the sensitivity of the topic and ethical considerations, all the examples have been anonymised.

How gendered power operates in the digital space

The experiences of women on Muzz and Bumble platforms indicate that men and women do not operate with equal power. While both are present in the same digital space, their risks, responsibilities, and consequences are very different. Women often enter these platforms with the intention of finding a serious relationship or marriage. In contrast, many men misrepresent their intentions, hiding marital status, engaging in multiple parallel conversations, or using emotional manipulation to maintain control. Across Reddit discussions, Facebook group posts, and app-based conversations, women consistently describe practices such as love bombing followed by sudden withdrawal or ghosting. These patterns do not simply create emotional dependency; they structure interactions in ways where emotional investment can be extracted without accountability.

These patterns are not hypothetical; they are actually reflected in lived experiences shared by users. One  woman describing her experience on a dating platform wrote:

“I met someone through this app and assumed we were moving towards marriage. I waited for four years for him to involve his family. Recently, he told me his parents were pursuing someone else. It has been  emotionally devastating.”

While individual experiences may vary, what stands out is not just the outcome, but the structure of interaction, rapid emotional investment, prolonged uncertainty, and eventual withdrawal or revelation. Such cases highlight how emotional commitment is encouraged without accountability, leaving women to bear the consequences.

At the same time, women are expected to manage interactions carefully. They assess risks, verify identities,  and remain cautious even during uncomfortable conversations. This creates a form of emotional labour, where women are continuously required to assess risks, verify identities and manage potential harms.

These patterns reflect an interactional structure where emotional engagement is encouraged but accountability is absent. The architecture of these platforms, characterised by quick matching, private chats, and easy exit,  allows users to move between connections without reputational consequences. For men, this creates flexibility; for women, it creates uncertainty. Emotional investment becomes asymmetrical, where one party can withdraw without explanation while the other is left managing the consequences.

Taken together, these dynamics show that gendered power in digital matchmaking is not simply about behaviour but about how platforms enable certain actions to occur without consequence while placing the burden of safety on those most at risk.

Gaps in Platform Moderation and Reporting Mechanism

Dating apps like Muzz market themselves as “Halal” spaces for serious commitment, but the reality for women is a landscape of calculated vulnerability. These platforms present themselves as safe and regulated environments; however, their systems often fail to address the realities women users face. User reviews of the Muzz app on app stores highlight weak moderation, delayed responses, and generic AI-based replies that do not resolve actual issues (Trustpilot reviews; Reddit user discussions). Reporting mechanisms are limited and designed for hard violations such as harassment or spam. However, they do not account for the ‘grey area’ harms experienced by women, such as breadcrumbing, love bombing, emotional manipulation, deception, or coercion, which often fall outside predefined categories. As a result, no meaningful action is taken.

           

There is also a lack of transparency in how users' reports are handled. According to the Muzz’s Official safety guidelines, the platform states that reports are reviewed by a dedicated moderation team and that appropriate action is taken based on evidence. However, the platform does not clearly mention whether reporters will be informed of the outcome, nor does it specify any obligation to provide feedback or status updates. Analysis of Reddit discussions and user reviews of the Muzz app indicates that users rarely know what happens after they report someone, whether any action was taken, whether the person is still active, or whether others remain at risk. This opacity weakens trust and reduces the deterrent effect of reporting systems.

In the above screenshot, a user complained that the platform has permanently blocked their gold account. As well as, the platform explicitly refuses further communication, which is a direct contradiction to the user's expectation of a fair process.

Verification systems are equally weak. User reviews of the Muzz and Bumble apps and discussion on Reddit highlighted concerns of encountering fake profiles, hidden marriages, and false claims about jobs or intentions. In some cases, women only discover the truth after investing months in conversations. This makes deception a low, risk, high, reward strategy within these platforms. These limitations reveal that platforms are designed to manage risk for themselves rather than for users.

By narrowing what counts as actionable harm, they reduce their responsibility while leaving users exposed to forms of harm that are harder to define but equally damaging.

More importantly, platforms treat harm as isolated incidents, while women experience safety as continuous and pattern-based. Instead of preventing harm, platforms shift the burden onto users to identify, interpret, and report it. When harm is not easily categorised, it effectively becomes invisible within the system. Beyond individual interactions, these patterns are reinforced through normalisation. Across multiple Reddit threads, Facebook group discussions, and app-based conversations, women described that behaviours such as ghosting, manipulation, or maintaining multiple relationships are not only common but often socially accepted among men. In some cases, such behaviour is even framed as experience or smartness, rather than misconduct.

This contrast between platform promises and user experiences can be summarised as follows:

This normalisation reduces accountability at a collective level. When harmful behaviour is expected or trivialised, it becomes harder to challenge and easier to repeat. As a result, women are not only navigating individual risks but also a broader environment where those risks are normalised and reproduced. In response to these structural gaps, women are creating their own systems of safety and accountability. Closed groups on Facebook and WhatsApp have become spaces where women share experiences, verify identities, and warn others. A common practice is posting a man’s profile and asking: “Does anyone know him? Is he already married? Any red flags?” These questions reflect the absence of reliable verification mechanisms within platforms themselves.

Through these networks, women identify patterns of behaviour such as repeated ghosting, emotional manipulation, or deceptive intentions. What may appear as an isolated interaction within a dating app becomes a recognisable pattern when shared across multiple users.

In many cases, a single post generates multiple responses within hours, with other women sharing similar experiences or additional information. This process turns fragmented individual experiences into collective pattern recognition. Unlike platform reporting systems, which isolate complaints, these networks aggregate them, making it easier to identify repeat behaviour.

Analysis of Facebook closed group posts and group interactions suggests that these spaces operate through informal rules, norms, and trust mechanisms. For instance, some groups require verification before allowing posts, while others encourage evidence-based sharing through screenshots. These practices indicate that these networks function not as disrupted spaces, but as evolving systems with their own internal logic of accountability.

More importantly, these networks redistribute power. Instead of relying on institutional validation, women produce their own systems of credibility based on shared experience and collective memory. They move from being isolated users to active participants in a collective system of knowledge production. At the same time, these networks provide emotional and psychological support. Women share experiences of confusion, anxiety, and emotional trauma, and receive validation and advice from others. In many cases,  these spaces become safer than the platforms themselves.

These informal networks, therefore, function as parallel governance systems, which can be understood as  “shadow justice systems”^[1], emerging not out of preference, but necessity.

Despite their effectiveness, these systems operate within complex ethical and legal boundaries. The sharing of names, profiles, and screenshots can lead to reputational harm, especially if the information is incomplete or inaccurate. There is no formal mechanism to verify claims or provide the accused with an opportunity to respond. This raises concerns about fairness, misuse, and the absence of due process.

From a legal perspective, these practices exist in a grey zone shaped by the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA) 2016 and related cybercrime provisions. While the law includes clauses on defamation, unauthorised use of information, and online harassment, it is not designed to address the relational and pattern-based harms women experience on digital platforms.

One key gap is that legal frameworks tend to recognise harm only when it is explicit, individual, and provable. Subtle but damaging patterns, such as emotional manipulation, deception, or sustained psychological harm, often fall outside legal recognition. This creates a disconnect between lived experiences and legal categories.

Another limitation is procedural. Reporting cybercrime requires formal complaints, evidence submission,  and engagement with institutions that many women do not fully trust or feel comfortable approaching. This discourages reporting and reinforces underreporting.

Another critical gap lies in the limited awareness of legal rights and reporting mechanisms among women. Studies indicate that a significant proportion of women in Pakistan are unaware of existing cybercrime laws and the procedures required to report online harassment. This lack of awareness is not only informational but structural; many women do not know where to file complaints, how to document evidence, or how to navigate legal institutions.

Even when awareness exists, reporting is often discouraged by social stigma, fear of reputation damage, and lack of trust in law enforcement. In many cases, women initiate complaints but withdraw them midway due to pressure or procedural challenges. These barriers highlight that access to justice is not only about the existence of laws, but about the ability to use them effectively.

As a result, informal networks do not simply function as alternative spaces of support; they become primary sources of legal guidance, verification, and risk management in contexts where formal systems remain inaccessible or unresponsive.

At the same time, women who participate in informal networks may themselves be exposed to legal risk. Sharing someone’s identity or allegations publicly can potentially fall under defamation or privacy violations,  even when done for protective purposes. This creates a structural dilemma: systems that fail to protect are replaced by systems that cannot be fully legitimised. Women are forced to navigate between institutional failure and legal vulnerability. These practices, therefore, should not be seen simply as misuse of digital space, but as necessary responses to gaps in accountability. Women are not choosing these systems freely;  they are adapting to the absence of reliable alternatives.

Recommendations

This points out that these matchmaking platforms need to move beyond engagement, and put focus on user safety as a core structural priority. Furthermore, dating platforms like Bumble and Muzz should follow more proactive safety protocols, which includes stronger identity verification and pattern-based detection of repeated harmful behaviours. Behaviours like emotional manipulation, misrepresentation and deceptive relationship practices may be difficult to quantify but become visible through repeated patterns. The reporting system must also include a category of grey-area harms/violations. Platforms should allow users to report patterns of behaviour over time rather than isolated incidents. This will help to aggregate complaints across multiple users to identify repeat offenders. In order to strengthen trust and improve accountability, platforms should inform users about the status of the report they submitted. Even simple feedback such as ‘action taken’ or ‘account under review’ helps the users. In order to address context-specific harm, platforms must invest in trained moderation teams rather than relying on automated generated responses.

Similarly, in order to address the gap between law and real experiences, there is a need to expand the legal definition and include emotional manipulation, deception and coercive digital behaviours, which currently fall outside formal recognition. The reporting mechanism must also be more accessible and survivor-centered, by simplifying complaint processes, and user friendly guidance on evidence collection. While analysing these social networks, it was learned from user experience that there is limited awareness and understanding among women about their rights and protection under cybercrime laws. This indicates that there is a dire need to spread awareness about the cybercrimes laws and the reporting mechanisms. This requires gender sensitive training, responsive handling of complaints and confidentiality.

Informal networks help women share information, spot harmful patterns, and warn others when formal protections fail. Platforms can learn from these spaces by creating safer, anonymous ways to report concerns. At the same time, clear guidelines on responsible sharing are needed to reduce risks like misinformation or defamation while keeping these networks useful.

This redistribution of responsibility reflects broader structural inequalities rather than individual failure. The emergence of these informal systems is not a sign of dysfunction among users, but a signal of institutional failure. When platforms do not provide safety, users redesign safety for themselves. Until such changes occur, women will continue to rely on each other, not because these systems are ideal,  but because they are necessary. What is often dismissed as informal or risky is, in reality, a carefully constructed response to institutional absence. The real question, then, is not why these shadow systems exist, but what their existence reveals about the failure of the systems they replace.

Visuals:

Platform Gaps

^[1] A shadow justice system refers to informal, user-generated accountability networks that emerge in digital spaces when formal legal and platform governance mechanisms fail to provide timely or effective protection (Trottier, 2016; Loveluck, 2019).