With Eid behind us, everyone can picture the perfect family gathering. Men sitting together, comfortably talking about politics, finances, and whatever topics interest them. Women moving between the kitchen and dining area, setting the table, preparing delicious food, and serving everyone with care. Children running around the house, laughing, playing, and adding to the lively atmosphere. From the outside, it all looks warm, joyful, and completely normal, the kind of scene people associate with family, tradition, and celebration. But if we pause for a moment and look a little closer, we might begin to wonder whether this “normal” picture is as balanced and fair as it seems.

We do not see the gendered labour of our festivals and how they are centred around patriarchy. We simply name this pattern the “tradition” and “culture” of our homes. Whenever such a conversation begins, the immediate response is that this is our culture and that we cannot break away from the customs of decades. But that is not really the argument here. Saying that the work women do should not exist, or that it has no value, would itself be an insult.

In fact, one of the biggest problems I have with the perception of feminism in the modern world is that it sometimes portrays the work women do at home—the management of households, catering to guests, looking after children, raising them largely on their own, and continuously being the thread that holds everything together—as somehow less worthy than a paying job. I do not think the stress of a typical job can ever truly match the tension and constant hustle of taking care of a family of five people. The problem is not that women do this work; the problem is that it is rarely appreciated or valued the way it should be.

A paying job at least compensates you at the end of the month for the effort you put in. Family labour, however, does not. For most women in Pakistan, it remains unpaid, unacknowledged, and quietly expected.

Festivals are usually presented as moments of family unity—laughter, food, and cultural pride. Yet they rarely highlight the invisible labour women put into making these celebrations look respectable for the family. The entire weight of maintaining the family’s honour seems to rest on their shoulders. Cooking, cleaning, organising food, serving guests, and cleaning afterwards are not the only responsibilities they carry. Alongside these tasks, they must also endure critiques from the so-called ghar ke mard, who, despite rarely stepping into the kitchen with the intention of work, somehow believe they know better than the women managing everything. You know—divinely bestowed expertise.

In many ways, men appear as guests in their own homes. Yet they do not follow the usual etiquette expected from guests, who typically refrain from criticising the efforts of their hosts.

As if this were not enough, festivals also carry the so-called tradition of “mazak tha.” Casual jokes about someone’s body, height, weight, colour, or appearance are made freely. These remarks are almost always dismissed as harmless humour. Rarely does anyone stop to consider the psychological effects they can have—the embarrassment, the insecurity, and the pressure to conform to narrow expectations. In such situations, humour becomes a social shield for comments that would otherwise be seen as rude and unacceptable, so criticism simply disguises itself as a joke.

Alongside this runs the subtle yet persistent ritual of male privilege. Men are served first. Women continue moving between the kitchen, the guests, and the children. Meanwhile, men often receive praise for minimal participation in the event. These behaviours have become so normalised through constant repetition that many women themselves no longer question them. In fact, they sometimes become the most ardent defenders of these rituals, because patriarchy has been deeply internalised by all of us. Within such a system, festivals naturally become patriarchal, male-centred events rather than gender-neutral family celebrations.

At the same time, the discussions taking place during these gatherings remain remarkably shallow. There is plenty of conversation about marriage, appearance, careers, and endless gossip. But there is almost never space for conversations about the genuine struggles young people might be facing. Issues like mental health, academic pressure, career uncertainty, or identity crises rarely find a place at the table. The need to maintain the image of the “perfect happy family” discourages honest dialogue.

The impression this leaves on children—who are still observing and learning—is concerning. They begin to believe that appearances matter more than emotional honesty. These patterns are absorbed without critical thinking, and by the time they grow older and recognise the biases within them, these ideas have already become deeply ingrained and difficult to unlearn.

Whenever such conversations about change arise, they are quickly silenced by romanticising older generations. Someone inevitably says that our grandmothers managed everything so well. They handled the home, managed cattle, arranged fodder, and even contributed to agricultural labour. What is difficult for many people to grasp is that they did all of that because they did not have the option to say no. They did not have the means, the voice, or the social freedom to refuse these expectations.

We, however, do. We have the ability to question, to decide for ourselves, and to express what we believe should change.

Festivals could become healthier and more meaningful spaces if responsibilities were shared across genders, if people were more mindful about the jokes and comments they make—in other words, if we simply learned to think before speaking, something many people even in their sixties have yet to master. Most importantly, we should acknowledge and appreciate the people who are the backbone of these supposedly joyful moments.

Traditions can evolve without losing their cultural meaning. In fact, that is how traditions survive. A true celebration would be one in which everyone feels valued, respected, and heard.

Iman ShahbazThe writer is a law student at Lahore University of Management Sciences and writes for the LUMS Law Journal.

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