Her blood, our shame

Sindh has devolved into a death zone for women who dare to exist as they see fit. The recent surge in karo-kari isn't just a brutal crime wave; it reveals the decay in our laws, justice system and society that has rotted to the point where it mistakes control for respect.

The numbers should awaken any remaining sense of moral awareness. Though most cases vanish in the haze of family honour, personal matters, forced settlements or misfiled under lighter crimes, 105 women (according to police data) became victims of karo-kari this year through killings proudly performed by husbands, fathers and brothers.

Readers shouldn't take karo-kari for a cultural leftover. It's an investment. An investment that yields returns in fear, property and power. Declaring a woman kari arms men with a licence to wrest away her share, disown her or erase her altogether — all under a moral smokescreen. In many tribal belts, once a woman and her partner are killed for honour with dishonour by honourable people, the matter is bartered away through jirgas or panchayats — using cash, cattle, land or another woman as compensation. The killer, on the other hand, walks free, wealthier, exalted and guarded by his tribe. Yes, murder becomes a deal. You kill, you pay, you move on.

These kills expose who owns whom. They show how feudal lords and tribal elders preserve their thrones that are built not on marble but on women's graves and false pride. These thronesitters spill blood to remind everyone who holds power. They silence women to add bricks to the fortresses of their power. And every single brick drives a new nail into the coffin of justice.

But the state — with its limp laws and sham reforms — stands shoulder to shoulder with the killer every time a woman's life is traded in the name of honour. The last time it (the dear state) pretended to care was back in 2016 when parliament tightened laws so that killers couldn't easily walk free. Even if the family forgave the murderer, Section 311 of the Penal Code was supposed to make the state a mandatory intervener in honour killings. But that promise still lies in the very same grave as the women it was meant to protect. The law exists on paper; and the killers exist in power.

Let's ask the obvious: how can this curse ever end when jirgas continue to function despite being banned by the Supreme Court in 2019? When the police — biased as ever — act spectacularly as spectators rather than protectors? When there are no swift courts, no witness protection, no free legal aid, no education, no awareness, no reform, no accountability? When families can stall a killer's punishment? When blood ties become alibis? When lawmakers are too timid to act? When the media bothers to wake up only when the crime is sensational enough? And when family honour continues to trump a woman's right to live? How can it possibly end!?

The answer is simple — it won't end. Not until the government (ever eager to issue condolences) grows a conscience, stops romanticising honourless 'honour' and criminalises it in practice. Not until this country stops seeing karo-kari as a tradition. Not until it sees it as terrorism against women. Not until the law, a framed promise gathering dust in government offices, ceases to be wall décor. Not until society stops blaming dead women for the crimes of living men.

Every time a woman is killed for honour, it's not her shame that stains the ground. It's ours. Because the blood being spilled isn't for honour; it's for control. Again, the shame — the real shame — belongs to us all!