Misogyny is the muscle of patriarchy

Seventeen-year-old Sana Yousaf was shot dead in her Islamabad home. Murdered, allegedly, by a male person who felt entitled to her attention, her affection, and ultimately, her life. Sana was not just another teenager. She was a vibrant voice from Chitral, using TikTok to celebrate culture and empower young women.

Sana’s crime was not theft, treason or blasphemy. It was just reels on Instagram, snaps on Snapchat and TikToks – joyful, confident, unapologetic expressions of herself in a world that still sees a woman’s visibility as a threat.

In Pakistan, where honour is still measured by how much control men have over women, a public video or photo can be treated as provocation. In a culture obsessed with policing female autonomy, Sana’s refusal to submit to unwanted advances disrupted the fragile pride of patriarchy. She didn’t harm anyone. But by being visible, by being herself, she crossed an invisible line. And that was enough to seal her fate.

Sana didn’t die because she made TikToks. She didn’t die because of a single act of rejection or defiance. She died because the system we live in still cannot tolerate a woman who is visible, confident,and free. The gun ended her life, but it was misogyny that made her a target.

Kate Manne, a philosopher, describes misogyny as the law-enforcement branch of patriarchy. It is not just about hatred but control. Misogyny is not the root of gender inequality. It is the force that ensures patriarchy stays in place. It disciplines women who step outside the boundaries of what is deemed acceptable. It punishes independence and rewards submission.

Sexism tells us women are naturally gentle, nurturing and agreeable, packaging these roles as virtues. Misogyny then acts as the enforcer. It punishes those women who refuse to fit into this narrow mould, whether they speak loudly, act boldly or simply assert their rights. At the same time, it rewards women who conform to these expectations by maintaining their social standing and acceptance.

In other words, misogyny functions like the muscle that keeps patriarchy in place. A woman who asserts herself too boldly gets labelled aggressive. One who demands her rights is called difficult. The punishment doesn’t always come in the form of a gun. But in Sana’s case, it did.

Pakistan boasts over 196 million mobile subscriptions, with mobile density close to 80 per cent, yet women lag behind men by 38 per cent in phone ownership. This digital divide means many women remain invisible online, cut off from the economic and social opportunities the internet can provide.

The dangers are real and immediate for women who do step into this space. Cyberbullying, blackmail and threats of violence are common. Unfortunately, social media platforms profit from women’s visibility even as they become targets.

Social media is often called the new public square, but for women, it is anything but safe or equal. Algorithms reward outrage, platforms amplify threats, and women who dare to be visible face rage, shame, and often violence.

Sana was part of a generation that refused to be invisible. She shared her life with the world – and for that, she paid the ultimate price.

If we want to stop this cycle of violence, we need to look closely at the boys who will become men. Many are raised in a culture that teaches them dominance and objectification as normal, often starting with pornography as their first education in sex and intimacy.

Patriarchy doesn’t empower boys. It shrinks them. It teaches that women exist for male pleasure and that domination is natural. This rewires young brains to crave control and desensitises empathy. Boys growing up in this environment are unlikely to become men who respect women as equals.

The problem is not that women need to be stronger – they have always been strong. The problem is that too many boys are never taught how to respect that strength.

Sana’s death was a public failure – of law, society and everyone who stays silent in the name of ‘tradition.’ Pakistan ranks 145th out of 146 countries on the World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap Index, just above Sudan. This is not a random statistic but a reflection of deep-rooted resistance to change.

Passing laws is not enough. Until the cultural obsession with ‘honour’ as a form of policing women is dismantled, women will continue to live under the shadow of violence and control.

Sana’s murder was preventable. It demands that we confront the systems that allow such crimes to be normalised and even justified.

Women do not need endless reminders to be brave enough to survive a broken system. What we need is a society where men grow into a form of masculinity that is not threatened by equality but enriched by it.

We need boys to stop absorbing toxic messages and start learning what it means to respect. We need them to challenge sexist jokes, to call out their peers, and to stop being silent bystanders. We need men who can meet women’s gaze and see equals, not targets.

We need fewer excuses, fewer apologies made on behalf of harmful behaviour, and far more accountability. Because if honour means anything, it should mean responsibility. And if freedom means anything, it must be shared by all – especially by the women courageous enough to live visibly and unapologetically in this world.

The writer is a development sector practitioner interested in the intersection of gender and human rights. She can be reached at: iftikharwardah@gmail.com