There are moments when words become painfully inadequate, when the human conscience is confronted with a reality so cruel that even silence begins to feel like an injustice. Violence against girls and women is not merely a criminal issue; it is a profound moral failure that exposes the darkest contradictions within our society. “کبھی کبھی خاموشی بھی چیخ بن جاتی ہے، مگر افسوس کہ سننے والا کوئی نہیں ہوتا۔” We speak endlessly about honour, morality, family, and culture, yet we continue to live in a world where a girl may be taught to fear the very society that claims to protect her. The question is painfully simple: Are girls really safe? Safe when they are children? Safe when they grow into young women? Safe when they become mothers? Safe even when they reach old age? Too often, the answer is frighteningly uncertain.
A girl enters this world with nothing but innocence. She does not understand hatred, violence, manipulation, or cruelty. She knows only the warmth of a mother’s embrace, the security of a father’s hand, the laughter of childhood, and the dreams that slowly begin to take shape in her little heart. “وہ تو ابھی دنیا کو سمجھ بھی نہ پائی تھی، پھر دنیا نے اس کی معصومیت کیوں چھین لی؟”
Yet, somewhere in that very world, there are people capable of destroying that innocence through acts that words can scarcely describe. The recent case involving the innocent child Ayzel in Pakistan, forces us to confront a question that should haunt every conscience: What was her fault? What was the fault of a child who had not yet learned the complexities of the world? What did she do to deserve fear, pain, or suffering? “اُس معصوم کا قصور صرف اتنا تھا کہ وہ ایک بے رحم دنیا میں بے قصور تھی۔”
She was merely a child, innocent, vulnerable, and deserving of nothing but love, protection, and a safe childhood. She had no fault. None. Her only “mistake” was being vulnerable in a world where some people choose to exploit vulnerability. And this is precisely where society must stop asking questions of the victim and begin asking questions of itself. Why do we sometimes teach girls how to protect themselves instead of teaching boys and men to respect boundaries? Why are victims questioned about their clothes, their movements, their friendships, their whereabouts, and their decisions, while the actions of perpetrators become secondary? “ہم بیٹیوں کو احتیاط سکھاتے رہے، مگر بیٹوں کو انسان بنانا بھول گئے۔” These questions are not merely uncomfortable; they are necessary.
A child does not need to understand danger in order to deserve protection. A woman does not lose her right to safety because of what she wears, where she goes, or how she chooses to live. An elderly woman does not become less deserving of dignity because she is old. Safety is not a privilege to be earned; it is a fundamental human right. The tragedy is that society often becomes emotional for a few days. Social media fills with outrage. People demand justice. Hashtags trend. Statements are issued. Then, gradually, the noise disappears, while the wounds remain. “خبر چند دن زندہ رہتی ہے، مگر ایک مظلوم کی اذیت عمر بھر زندہ رہتی ہے۔” For victims and their families, there is no convenient ending. Trauma does not disappear when the headlines do. Behind every statistic is a human being. Behind every number is a daughter.
Behind every case file is a family whose understanding of the world may never be the same again. And behind every innocent child is a future that deserved to unfold differently. We must also understand that silence can become another form of injustice. When people remain silent because the victim is unknown to them, they forget a fundamental truth: human suffering does not require personal acquaintance to deserve compassion. “درد کی کوئی قوم، مذہب یا سرحد نہیں ہوتی؛ درد صرف درد ہوتا ہے۔” Today it is someone else’s daughter. Tomorrow, the consequences of a broken system may reach another family. A society cannot call itself civilised merely because it has skyscrapers, universities, technology, or economic progress. True civilisation is measured by how safely its children can sleep, how confidently its women can walk, and how seriously it protects those who cannot protect themselves.
We need more than temporary outrage. We need accountability, effective laws, responsible institutions, awareness, education, and a culture in which consent and personal boundaries are understood from an early age. Children must be taught that their bodies belong to them and that they have the right to speak when something feels wrong. Families must create environments where children can speak without fear of being blamed or silenced. Most importantly, perpetrators must be held responsible. “مظلوم سے سوال نہیں، ظالم سے حساب ہونا چاہیے۔” The victim should never carry the burden of the perpetrator’s crime. We must stop asking, “Why was she there?” and start asking, “Why did he choose to harm her?” We must stop asking, “Why did she trust someone?” and start asking, “Why was that trust betrayed?” We must stop searching for imperfections in victims and start confronting the cruelty of offenders. Because when society shifts even a fraction of the blame onto the victim, it gives cruelty another victory. Ayzel’s story, and the stories of countless other children whose names may never become known, should not simply provoke sadness. They should awaken responsibility. “کاش ہر معصوم چیخ کے بعد ہمارے ضمیر میں بھی کوئی قیامت برپا ہو۔”
Their suffering should compel us to create a society in which childhood means innocence, not vulnerability; in which growing up means freedom, not fear; and in which being a girl never becomes a reason to live cautiously. A child should be worried about school, dreams, friendships, books, colours, and the future—not about surviving the cruelty of adults. A girl should be allowed to dream without calculating the dangers surrounding her. A woman should be allowed to exist without constantly negotiating her safety. And an elderly woman should be able to live the final chapters of her life with dignity and peace. “بیٹی کی عمر نہیں دیکھی جاتی، اس کی حرمت دیکھی جاتی ہے؛ اور حرمت ہر عمر میں برابر ہوتی ہے۔” Perhaps the greatest question before us is not whether society is cruel, we already know that cruelty exists.
The greater question is: What are we willing to do about it? Will we remain spectators, mourning every tragedy only after it happens? Or will we become a society that actively prevents such tragedies? Let us not allow Ayzel’s suffering to become another forgotten headline. Let her story become a question directed at every conscience: If an innocent child was not safe, then who among us is truly safe? “یہ صرف ایک بچی کی داستانِ درد نہیں، یہ پورے معاشرے کے ضمیر کا امتحان ہے۔” And perhaps, somewhere between our silence and our outrage, we must finally discover the courage to build a society where no child has to ask why the world failed to protect her. Because childhood should be a sanctuary—not a battlefield. Innocence should be protected—not punished. And every girl, regardless of her age, deserves to live without fear. “بیٹیاں خوف کے سائے میں نہیں، خوابوں کے آسمان تلے پروان چڑھنے کے لیے پیدا ہوتی ہیں۔”
