Six months. That’s how long it took for the death of Pakistani actor Humaira Asghar to make it to the headlines. Not because no one knew but because no one cared. Her quiet departure from this world, unnoticed and unacknowledged, reflects not just individual tragedy but the profound fractures in the structure of Pakistan’s entertainment industry.
Let’s be clear: Humaira is not a wake-up call. She’s a brutal reminder of an industry built on illusion, a glitzy machine that feeds off curated beauty, filtered realities, and ruthless hierarchies. In this world, if you’re not talented enough to break through, or well-connected enough to be absorbed by the clout machine, you're not just forgotten, you're discarded. Like human waste. Pretty, desirable, and replaceable. Much like emissions in the atmosphere, visible for a moment, then vanished without consequence.
The entertainment world thrives on optics: who you're seen with, how many followers you have, whether you fit the aesthetic of the season. Substance? Mental health? Safety? These aren’t part of the algorithm. For those who don’t have powerful networks, or a PR team to keep them relevant, there’s no safety net, only silence. This silence grows louder when someone like Humaira disappears, not just from sets and screens, but from life itself, with no one noticing for half a year, to say the least.
Now that the industry is in shock, public statements are pouring in. Celebrities are claiming their “door is always open,” that they’re “just a call away,” offering help to anyone struggling. But access is not declared – it is built. You don’t become accessible by saying you are; you become accessible by breaking down cultural barriers, by reaching out before a crisis, by making yourself approachable without making anyone feel like they’re out of your league. The same industry now pretending to be a safe space has long been a place where your accent, your clothes, even your social media aesthetics can be used to shame you. An actor who doesn’t speak English fluently or dresses in a way that doesn’t align with elite tastes is ridiculed, labelled as unprofessional, unworthy, or worse, irrelevant. That’s not culture. That’s classism dressed up in glamour. It reflects the kitsch the industry is truly made of - an obsession with surface over soul, polish over pain.
And what of the girls who give up everything for this industry? The ones from the margins, who leave behind families, sometimes even against their will, to chase a dream they were told was just one audition away?
They come to Karachi, or Lahore, or cities that sparkle on screen but bruise in silence. They enter the industry full of ambition, unaware that there’s no roadmap, no HR policy, no safety net. Only power brokers, unspoken deals, and rooms full of risk. These are girls who sleep in shared apartments, who eat once a day to afford transport to an audition, who pray that this next project will finally launch them, all this while looking the most perfect and sexy version of themselves because after all, if there’s one thing that TikTok success stories have told us is that you have to fake it till you make it with real chances of social mobility.
But more often than not, they are met with the ugly underside of glamour - producers who demand “favours,” casting agents who offer “opportunities” at private dinners, trips to Thailand and what not. And even then, there are no guarantees.
Then there are some kind and compassionate colleagues who have taken to social media to offer help with Humaira's final rites after her family refused to claim her body. Their intentions may be sincere but one has to ask: why must every act of empathy be announced? Why the need for videos, for heartfelt captions, for carefully framed statements?
This is not a call for silence. It's a call for sincerity. Because many of the same individuals expressing grief online are also those with DHA Karachi’s vigilance unit on speed dial, just in case the system ever turns on them. They understand power. They know how the system works. So to rely now on social media confessionals and curated grief to “make it work” rings hollow.
Yes, being a star in Pakistan doesn’t shield you from pain but it does often make survival easier. It wasn’t easy for Humaira. She was not surrounded by privilege, nor did she have emotional safety nets. She was left dead for months, her body decomposing, abandoned to carrion crows and silence. And yet now, this echo chamber rings with “I” and “Me” - a saviour complex dressed in designer grief.
While the Karachi-based celebrity circle was busy broadcasting their reflections, it was a humanitarian from Lahore, Meharbano Sethi who quietly coordinated the burial with CHHIPA and made the necessary arrangements. She took to X (formerly Twitter) not to grandstand, but to protect Humaira’s final journey from being hijacked by opportunists.
Her posts were raw, cutting, and necessary:
“Disgusted by the ambulance chasers now wanting some photo-op funeral and calling me for time and venue. For God’s sake, let the body be buried tomorrow by CHHIPA. If there is a hold-up in the burial so industry people can take selfies, I’m flying to Karachi. Have mercy. Let her be put to rest. She’s been decomposing for weeks!!”
And in another:
“Can anyone help me ensure she’s not hijacked even in death? People don’t realise that bodies that aren’t claimed at CHHIPA don’t get ‘funerals’. We’ve arranged for last rites and a burial in a separate marked grave with her name on it. For God’s sake, let her die in peace.”
This isn’t just an industry that chews people up and spits them out. It’s an industry that denies they were ever here in the first place. And when they’re gone, it circles back to harvest what little narrative value remains, chasing even the final act of death for visibility.
No frame must be missed. Not a single scene of tragedy left undocumented if it can be packaged into a performance of self-reflection. The rush to grieve in public becomes less about the dead, and more about rescuing the self-projecting compassion while ignoring the systemic failures that led to the tragedy in the first place.
Let’s be honest: many of the people lamenting Humaira's fate have likely passed through similar precarious phases of life, staring into the same void she did. The only difference? They had someone. Emotional support. Financial fallback. A safety net. A family or friend or system invested in their survival.
Humaira didn’t. And now that she’s gone, the spectacle is unfolding well-lit, well-angled, and once again, largely about everyone else.
The least we can do now is allow her the dignity she was denied in life. Let her rest. Let her be buried without fanfare. Without flash. Without another Instagram post. Because she wasn’t a chapter in your personal redemption arc. She was a person.
For every overnight star, there are dozens erased quietly, whose names fade with the closing credits. No follow-ups. No concern. No community. And when the mask slips, as it did with Humaira’s delayed discovery, all the industry can offer are hollow condolences and the illusion of care as they wait for the best moment to make a reel out of a coffin.
So if you're a newcomer and thinking of entering this world – pause. Think. Ask yourself what anchors you. Because you will need that. Before you step into this soulless world of curated aesthetics and quiet cruelty, make sure you have something real. A family. A friend. A support system. Something that sees you, values you, and can remind you of your worth when this machine tries to strip it away from you.
Humaira's story isn’t rare. It’s just one of the few that surfaced. The rest lie buried under the glamour, nameless, faceless, and forgotten. And the industry marches on. Unchanged. Unbothered.
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