I was born in a remote village deep in South Punjab—a place where tradition often runs deeper than love, and honor is traded at the cost of a woman’s life. In my hometown, education isn’t considered a right; it’s a privilege reserved for the few, and certainly not for girls. Honor there isn’t measured by honesty or integrity—it’s gauged by how well women remain controlled, silent, and invisible. Growing up, I lived amidst the stillness of suppressed voices, the quiet sorrow of girls taught never to speak, dream, or demand anything for themselves.

But in the middle of this silence stood my father, a man who, by village standards, was strange. He chose books over rigid boundaries and dignity over domination. While other men warned that education would corrupt their daughters, my father insisted it would save us. He didn’t just send us to school, but also protected our right to learn like it was sacred. Despite taunts, threats, and isolation from fellow villagers, he never gave up. When he passed away in 2022, he left behind a legacy of courage and love that still echoes in every word I speak today.

I carry with me memories that still haunt me. I was in class 3 when a woman in our neighborhood was killed by her own brother, murdered in the name of honor. No one knew her exact “crime.” Maybe she had spoken to someone, maybe she had stepped out alone, or maybe she had dared to ask for her share in the family property. Whatever it was, it didn’t warrant a death sentence. That incident scarred me. I began sleeping with the light on. For years, I lived in fear, thinking: What if my brother feels dishonored one day and decides to kill me too? That fear seeped into my everyday life. I became quieter, moved cautiously, and avoided conflict—all in a desperate attempt to stay alive.

In my village, honor killing isn’t a rare occurrence; it’s woven into the culture. If a girl speaks up for her legal rights, especially property........

© Paradigm Shift