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hen I first saw Aami Shoro in Thatta, she was sitting in a wheelchair under a makeshift shelter, working on an appliqué artwork. The colours of her embroidery stood out against the dullness of her surroundings and shone in the afternoon sun. At first, she looked like any other lady sewing to make money. But Aami’s story is written on her body in scars that go across her neck, back and arms. They are reminders of brutality so bad that she can no longer walk.
Aami was married to a man considerably older than her when she was only 15. By the time she was 27, she had six children. When her life fell apart, her youngest child was nine months old and nursing.
One afternoon, while she was cooking, her husband told her to leave right away to help him with work. She told him to wait till the supper was ready. That simple answer led to horrific suffering.
She recalls, “He suddenly hit me in the neck and back with an axe. I passed out as blood spilt out of me. He raced away, yelling “blood, blood.” My child was left alone in the cradle and cried.
Her brother rushed to her side, but it took about an hour to get her to the nearest hospital. The damage to her spinal chord was irreparable by the time she got medical attention. The delay wasn’t accidental. “They said it was a case of domestic violence and therefore not urgent,” Aami remembers.
For two years, Aami lay flat on a wooden wagon. She couldn’t move and had no dignity and no wheelchair. “I felt like I was dead, but I was still alive,” she adds. In the end, she got a rickety wheelchair. Subsequently, with the support of the Sindh Rural Support Organisation, she got a sturdier one.
The scars are all over her person. Aami says, “After all those years, I still feel the pain all over my body. The agony atn a man’s hand, especially if he is your husband, is more than just a cut. It heals but never leaves the heart.”
Forgiveness under duress
Eventually, Aami’s spouse was detained by the police. During the trial, Aami, who was taken to the court in a wheelchair, did the unthinkable. She forgave him.
“I asked the court to let him go,” says. “I don’t know why, but I had the heart of a wife and a mother of six.”
The judges and the lawyers said she was “kind.” Some women’s rights activists say that forgiving in such circumstances is not always a free choice. “Women have to make up with their abusers because of social pressure,” says Marvi Awan, a gender activist. “They are told to put the children first, not their own safety.” Forgiveness under duress is not justice; it is survival.
Aami’s decision had consequences. After he got out, her husband tried to assault her again, this time hitting her sister and fracturing her arm. He ended up in jail.
A life rebuilt in fragments
Aami never lived with her husband again. She is raising her six children by herself. The SRSO runs a programme to help women become more independent. In 2017, she got a Rs 15,000 grant to start a business. She used the money to start an appliqué work business.
Her appliqué is beautiful, strong, detailed and patient. Each piece is a bit of survival sewn into cloth. She says, “Work became my dignity. I feed my children with this craft. Even if I can’t stand, I can stitch.”
Aami built a katcha house with her own money. She still lives there. It’s a fragile structure, but it’s hers. She says she no longer lives in fear anymore, but the trauma is still there. She admits, “Sometimes, when I look at my children, I feel the same pain.”
A hidden epidemic
Asmi’s story is one of many in rural Sindh, where gender-based violence (GBV) persists, often hidden behind traditional silence. Instances similar to her ordeal frequently go unreported. The practice is attributed to lack of awareness, societal stigma and the perceived futility of pursuing justice.
The Pakistan Demographic and Health Survey 2017-18 found that 28 percent of women aged 15-49 reported suffering a physical assault. Activists say that the actual figures are likely greater, particularly in rural regions. Recent statistics reveal a dire situation: in 2024, Pakistan documented 32,617 incidences of gender-based violence. These included almost 5,300 rapes, 2,200 incidents of domestic abuse and 547 ‘honour’ killings. Conviction rates are abysmal: 0.5 percent for rape and honour killings, and 1.3 percent for domestic violence.
Last year, more than 1,700 incidences of gender-based violence were reported in Sindh; there were no convictions. The data indicates not only under-reporting but also a systemic failure at all levels of the legal system.
Women’s rights organisations emphasise that economic dependence ensnares women in abusive relationships. Research indicates that rural women’s participation in the formal labour force is less than 30 percent. A significant portion of is unpaid for.
The Sindh Commission on the Status of Women recognizes the discrepancy between the law and its application. According to Additional Deputy Commissioner, Thatta, Ghulam Dastgir Shiekh, implementation of the Domestic Violence (Prevention and Protection) Act, 2013, has been inadequate, particularly in rural regions. “Survivors are compelled to return to abusive environments in the absence of legal aid, medical assistance and shelters.”
Research gaps
Recent feminist scholarship underscores the failures of Pakistan’s GBV response. A 2023 study in the Asian Journal of Women Studies found that rural survivors often face “secondary victimisation” — humiliation, delays and disbelief in medical and legal systems. Another 2024 UN Women report highlighted that less than 10 percent of reported GBV cases in Pakistan result in prosecution.
These findings demand a re-examination of official statistics. While 32,617 GBV cases were “recorded” in 2024, activists argue that the figure barely scratches the surface. A majority of rural cases remain invisible, erased by silence, stigma and indifference.
Survival as resistance
Aami sees living as a fight back. Every stitch she does in the cloth is a way for her to say no to the quiet forced on her. “I only think about surviving with dignity,” she murmurs, her hands calm on the fabric.
She still has her scars but Aami says she lives in her appliqué, in the mud house she has built and in the six children she is raises by herself.
Pakistan must heed cases like hers to address the scourge of violence against women. Laws on paper don’t mean anything if they aren’t enforced. People like Aami who have survived should not have to choose between forgiving someone under pressure or staying quiet to stay alive. Without this, the wounds of violence will not go away.
The writer is a researcher and writer working as a Development Practitioner in Hyderabad,Sindh. He has a master’s degree in English literature. He can be reached atqaxigmgmail.com