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WHEN we speak of justice in Pakistan, the discussion usually unfolds in courtrooms, legal reforms, constitutional clauses, and televised outrage. Rarely does it begin in villages — and yet it is there, far from cameras and commentary, that the justice system reveals its truest form.
What follows is not an exceptional story. That, precisely, is the problem.
In a rural area of Sindh, a group of politically influential men decided that community development work had crossed an unacceptable line. Their objection was not to corruption or inefficiency, but to ideas: girls attending school, women working outside their homes, women managing projects and exercising leadership. These, they declared, were signs of ‘social vice’.
The first tactics were subtle. Men positioned themselves on roads used by school buses and women staff, standing in scant, obscene attire, leering and taunting. The intent was humiliation — a reminder that public space was not meant for women.
Is justice a promise the state intends to honour?
When this failed, the strategy escalated. Messengers arrived demanding that property be handed over. The implication was clear: surrender what you have built and leave, or stay at your own risk. These demands were accompanied by routine nightly gunfire. When questioned, the explanation was almost mocking — they were merely ‘killing doves’.
Eventually, ambiguity disappeared. Shots were fired openly at security personnel and staff on more than one occasion. The police were approached for protection. If an officer occasionally decided to show up after a report was filed, he joked openly that they had ‘received nothing’, and without such incentives how were they expected to act? Corruption did not even bother to cloak itself in euphemism.
As pressure mounted and rumours circulated that the police might intervene, the accused were quietly relocated. Influential landlords provided them safe houses — places of comfort and protection — while those who had been attacked continued to live in fear. In much of rural Pakistan, justice is not decided by evidence but by proximity to influence.
Then another attack took place. A guard was fired upon. Again, formal complaints were filed. For months, letters were written — repeatedly and respectfully — to every rung of the police hierarchy: SP, SSP, DIG, IG. Not a single response was received. Silence, it seems, is also an institutional tool.
When the matter finally reached court, the last illusion dissolved. Those seeking protection were made to stand shoulder to shoulder with the very men who had fired at them. There was no acknowledgment of risk or vulnerability. Instead, the judge directed his irritation at the victims, scolding them for ‘causing trouble’ by forcing the accused to appear in court so often — as though persistence itself were an offence. The message was unmistakable: endurance would be punished.
Believing that a higher court might restore balance, legal recourse was pursued upward. What emerged revealed another layer of decay. The lawyers — officers of the court in theory — exploited desperation with ease. Court fees were fabricated. Costs inflated. Urgency monetised. Before the victims could even appear before a judge, they had been financially bled by those meant to represent them. There was no realistic forum in which to challenge this exploitation without inviting further retaliation. At every stage, the system closed ranks — not around the vulnerable, but around itself.
This is the anatomy of injustice in Pakistan: police compromised by corruption and power, courts dulled by hierarchy and delay, and legal practitioners operating in an ecosystem where ethics are optional and consequences rare. None of this requires conspiracy. It survives on apathy, fear and the understanding that some lives and some causes are expendable.
We often ask why citizens lose faith in institutions. Why crimes go unreported. Why silence becomes safer than law. The answer lies in lived experience. When intimidation is met with indifference, when procedure becomes punishment, and when even the pursuit of justice inflicts harm, withdrawal becomes rational.
So where does one go next? When the police will not protect you, the courts will not hear you, and the custodians of the law profit from your vulnerability — what remains of justice then? Is it merely an idea invoked in speeches and textbooks, or a promise the state intends to honour?
For many Pakistanis working quietly at the margins, justice is no longer a destination. It is a question — asked carefully, repeatedly, and too often without an answer.
The writer is a rural development specialist and social entrepreneur.
Published in Dawn, January 27th, 2026
