e know that monsters exist. But how do systems protect them and allow them to thrive while silencing victims?

In a society built on patriarchal bargains, silence is glorified, obedience is romanticised, and women are nurtured to be dependent—financially, emotionally, and even existentially. Dependency is not accidental. It is designed, taught, reinforced and rewarded. It is inherited like shame, and passed down like duty.

Until we can dismantle the structures that uphold this silent suffering, daughters in such a society will continue to need the strength of their fathers—not to validate their existence but to defend their right to simply exist without violence.

Noor Mukadam’s father did what too many don’t. He stood tall. He stood up. Not because it was easy, but because it was right. And in doing so, he did something profoundly political: he refused to let his daughter’s murder be silenced or reshaped to fit the twisted contours of respectability, shame, or societal discomfort.
In a society where silence is often equated with dignity, his voice became a beacon of resistance.

We owe it to Noor, not just to remember her, but to know her story.

Noor Mukadam was brutally murdered in July 2021 by Zahir Jaffer, a man she once knew. Monsters like Zahir aren’t created in a vacuum. They are products of cultural entitlement, familial shielding, and judicial loopholes. They are not anomalies; they are reflections of a system that enables and emboldens them.

His behaviour had long been erratic, violent, and abusive. Yet he was protected by an affluent family and the arrogance that comes from never being held accountable. This is not just about a man who killed; it’s about a system that lets men like him believe they can kill and still walk free.

What makes Noor’s case stand apart in Pakistan is not just the horror of the crime but what happened after. The silence was broken and the perpetrator tried. The victim’s dignity was upheld. None of this would have happened without the unrelenting presence of Noor’s father, Shaukat Mukadam.

“I’ve been saying that this is not just my daughter’s case but a case for all the daughters of my country,” he said.

In our part of the world, where girls are routinely blamed for the violence inflicted upon them, and where families often silence their own daughters in the name of honour, Noor’s father chose justice over social image. He buried his daughter in death, but not in denial. In a society built to suppress women’s pain, his refusal to stay quiet became a radical act.

Most women in South Asia don’t get a chance to fight for their lives—let alone justice—without a father’s backing. Is this fair? No. Is it necessary in the current system? Unfortunately, yes.

In this region, a woman’s dignity, mobility, education, and survival are often subject to permissions and protections granted by men—fathers, brothers, husbands. In most households, the father still holds dominant power. So when a father believes in his daughter’s autonomy; stands with her and shows up when it matters the most, that act alone becomes revolutionary.

Noor’s father stood not only against her killer but against a culture of deflection and blame. Noor was subjected to relentless character assassination by the accused’s lawyer and family, and even during the judicial proceedings. The attempt not only aimed to deflect accountability from the murderer but also echoed a larger societal tendency to shift the blame onto women, even in the face of brutal violence against them.

According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, there were 5,279 reported cases of rape (including gang rape) and 478 honour killings in 2021. These numbers are not just statistics but evidence of how pervasive and protected this violence truly is, and how rare justice continues to be.

Let us not romanticise a woman’s dependency. It’s not obedience; it’s survival. It’s not virtue; it’s a symptom of a system that’s rotting at its core. This society drills into women: Stay inside; stay soft; stay small. You are our honour. And then it mocks them for being too quiet, passive, dependent and agreeable. It first cages them and then wonders why they never learned to fly. Men are raised to be bold, loud, and easily forgiven. Girls are trained to be cautious, self-doubting, and grateful for the bare minimum. When they dream beyond the script, they are chastised. When they obey, they are pitied. When they resist, they are punished. And when a woman dares to break the cycle without a male guardian shielding her, the road ahead not only becomes difficult but also dangerous. This isn’t just rhetoric; this is a documented reality.

According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, there were 5,279 reported cases of rape (including gang rape) and 478 honour killings in 2021. These numbers are not just statistics but evidence of just how pervasive and protected this violence truly is, and how rare justice continues to be.

In a world where justice is an exception, survival becomes strategy. Success, for many, is not just personal achievement but a testament to battles fought and won against systemic odds. Some women make it against all odds. But their struggle is never ordinary; it is a fight on three fronts: against the system; against the society; and against the silence expected of them. Ask any successful woman in this country, and you’ll often find two stories, one of resistance and the other of rare support. Support is not default; it’s an exception. A father who gives her space to grow is not a privilege—it’s what it takes to survive.

That’s why Noor’s father must be honoured, not just as a grieving parent, but for exemplifying how male allies in patriarchal societies must be. He did not try to protect Noor’s name by staying quiet. He did not bargain for an out-of-court settlement. He did not let power or class obstruct justice.

He used his voice to say that his daughter’s life mattered. Zahir Jaffer remains on death row after the Supreme Court upheld his death sentence for Noor’s murder.

During the court proceedings, significant loopholes in the investigation were revealed. The judge pointed out that no CCTV footage or eyewitness testimony had initially been made part of the investigation. Despite these systemic failures, persistence by Noor’s family, especially her father, pushed the case forward.

That victory is rare. It should not be dismissed as a coincidence but should be studied as a possibility when silence is broken and the system confronted with persistence. Persistence then becomes both protest and protection.

Zahir Jaffer should have never made it this far. His behaviour was alarming long before he committed murder. But when families, communities, and institutions look the other way, monsters are not just born, they are nurtured.

This is where we must pause and reflect: what kind of boys are we raising? What happens to a society that silences its daughters instead of listening to them? And how many of them will need to die before we admit that this is a structural rot? Let this not just be an ode to a daughter and her father but a call to action for every parent, especially fathers. Empower your daughters; believe them. Raise your sons, and hold them to account. Raise daughters to make mistakes, take risks, and live lives knowing that someone has their back.

Justice may have been served in one courtroom but there are millions of women across South Asia who haven’t been so lucky. They are still trapped in homes where independence is shunned, and silence is praised. They are still trying to break out of cages others built for them.

Let us stop framing dignity as a privilege for women; it is a right. Let us build a world where freedom isn’t granted but guaranteed. This Father’s Day, let us remember the courage of a father who refused to be complicit in silence.

The writer is a researcher and social critic. Her work explores the intersection of patriarchy, power, resistance, and inherited silences across global politics, cultures, and systems. She can be reached at anumjmalik@gmail.com