THE unsettling opening scene of Aik Aur Pakeezah, the latest socially pertinent television show by Kashf Foundation, unfolds in a shabby, dimly lit hotel room. Two men force their way inside despite the pleas of a terrified couple. The men harass the couple, force them to strip and film them on camera. What follows in the first few episodes is not just the aftermath of a crime, but a harrowing portrait of how the idea of honour operates in our society.

The couple is ostracised but it is the woman who bears the true weight of the incident. She is beaten and threatened by her own family and reminded that her very existence is now a threat. Her brothers repeatedly shame their father for allowing the girl to live. The message is clear; now that her video has circulated, her right to freedom and life itself is inhibited. Inspired by the real-life and harrowing Usman Mirza case, the show highlights just in its first few episodes that the so-called honour in our society is predominantly a burden for women to carry.

The show echoes real life cases in Pakistan where mercy towards victims is deemed dishonourable. When Qandeel Baloch was killed by her brother, he proudly professed righteousness. When 18-year-old Zeenat Rafiq was burnt alive for marrying a man of her choice, her mother emphasised how she had brought ‘shame to the family’. There are countless less-publicised cases in which women have been murdered or imprisoned within their homes because of suspicion or rumour of perceived misconduct.

This is because ‘izzat’occupies a central place in the regulation of female conduct in our society. ‘Izzat’ governs family standing, marriage prospects, social mobility, and the implementation of masculine authority.

Why do we reserve our harshest moral judgement for victims of violence?

My own research in schools in Pakistan showed how early this regulation begins. Girls are taught, explicitly and implicitly, that they need to monitor their behaviour, how they speak, what they wear and even their body language as it reflects on their fathers and brothers. Shame, honour and chastity here are pivotal codes for the regulation of patriarchal authority.

This helps explain why a photograph or video carries such destructive power in this country. It is seen as tangible evidence of shame and dishonour. There are well-documented cases where the circulation of women’s images without any accompanying sexual element has triggered defamation, boycott and deadly violence. Just last year, a 16-year-old girl in Rawalpindi was allegedly shot dead by her father as she refused to delete her TikTok account. Another 14-year-old girl was killed by male relatives after posting supposedly ‘dishonourable’ videos online.

In such instances, an image seemingly invites judgement for not just the woman, but also for the men associated with her. One wonders whether the honour of men is so fragile that it gets tainted by mere photographs of women associated with them.

Anthropological research across South Asia has long shown that women’s sexuality functions as a symbolic marker of boundary for families and communities. In Pakistan, tightly knit family systems where individual actions cannot be seen in isolation further amplify these boundaries. A woman’s perceived transgression whether it is true or forced or even entirely fabricated, is understood as evidence that male authority was weak. This logic is not unique to Pakistan. In India, research on honour-based viol­e­nce documents si­­milar patterns, par­-ticularly with inter­­-faith and inter-ca­ste couples. Just recently, an interfaith couple was be­­­aten to death and stuffed in gu­­n­ny bags. Indian sc-holarship has sho­wn that digital vis­-

ibility has intensified honour, faith and caste-related surveillance, with social media becoming a new trigger for punishment. Across contexts, technology has served to exacerbate honour codes.

This is why Aik Aur Pakeezah is important. It forces us to ask uncomfortable questions such as why is a woman’s safety considered negotiable once her image circulates or there is even a slight stain on her character? And why does society reserve its harshest moral judgement for victims rather than perpetrators of violence?

By placing these questions at the centre of popular culture, the foundation has taken a brave and necessary step. A step to hold a mirror to society and help unsettle it. Perhaps that is where change starts, watching the ripple of destruction caused by ‘honour’ and interrogating what we have allowed it to become.

The writer is an assistant research professor at the University of Cambridge.

Published in Dawn, February 2nd, 2026