The recent femicide of Sana Yousaf—for exercising her right to reject a marriage proposal she deemed unfit—was a crime executed by 22-year-old Omar Hyatt, who recklessly shot her to death. He didn’t just kill her; he silenced her dreams, her smile, and her aspirations—possibilities that could have brought light to our often gloomy part of the world.
In Pakistan, we often raise slogans of liberty and freedom. Yet, amid ongoing tensions and distractions—like the recent Indian attacks—we forget that true liberation begins within. A society that is truly free is one where humanity thrives; where “live and let live” is not a slogan but a reality; where diversity is embraced, laws are upheld, happiness is allowed to flourish—and 17-year-old girls are not executed for simply saying “no” to powerful men.
The list of female TikTokers being ruthlessly murdered grows by the day. Moral vigilantes, jilted lovers, macho men, and self-righteous zealots have taken it upon themselves to eliminate these women. Why? This question is rarely asked, let alone answered—and it defies all logic.
This brings me back to Faiqa Mansab’s novel This House of Clay and Water, published in 2017 by Penguin Random House India. Her Heraclitean declaration—“Anatomy is destiny”—keeps echoing in my head. I think of all the femicides, rapes, and abuses in recent years, all of which lead us to confront the entrenched patriarchal nepotism in our society. Yes, not all men are like this—but the evidence tells a far more troubling story.
One striking reflection: there is no equivalent term in Urdu or English for the homicide of men by women, as there is for “femicide.” Perhaps because women are generally not physically aggressive—or because they lack the moral and social license to execute men. I wonder: was five-year-old Fatima aware of her anatomy when rape became her destiny and she died because she couldn’t fight back?
In Faiqa’s novel, 12-year-old Zoya is forced into sex by a man, with the complicity of his lover. Women are abusers too, however, there is underreporting of such crimes. Her youthful brilliance is erased, her body turned concave, and her soul stilled. Often, the union of marriage is a pretense—one that silences and erases.
Nida, the novel’s protagonist, often soliloquizes: “Years of my life had turned out to be lies—nothing more than smoke and devious mirrors,” underscoring her disillusionment with life and marriage. Her relationship with Bhanggi is another act of resistance: “It was a merging of our divided solitude. A coming together, a communion, of two tortured, lonely souls,” revealing a deep bond between two individuals cast aside by society.
When Nida’s husband, a politician, sneers, “I don’t know why Musharraf had to increase the women’s seats to thirty-three percent. The poor women have no idea what’s going on,” or remarks, “The new parliament is the harem of the politicians. Why do women subject themselves to this? It’s disgraceful,” his words take on chilling meaning in Pakistan’s patriarchal society, where women are often viewed as inferior or ornamental.
Faiqa Mansab’s debut novel is a powerful exploration of love, loss, identity, and the burden of societal expectations in contemporary Pakistan. Set in Lahore, the story centers on three complex characters:
-
Nida, a lonely, intelligent woman trapped in a politically arranged marriage;
-
Sasha, a middle-class woman chasing wealth and validation from rich men; and
-
Bhanggi, a gentle, flute-playing hijra (transgender person) seeking dignity and belonging.
The novel confronts themes of love, identity, morality, faith, and social marginalization—particularly through Bhanggi’s Sufi spirituality and the characters’ personal journeys.
One of the most poignant moments occurs when Nida reflects:
“I sank to the ground. A Greek clay urn, a replica I’d bought from the British Museum ages ago—in another life, it seemed—sat there, a reminder of another age, other mistakes, other lives. It depicted the story of Achilles and Penthesilea in a single image: the moment, captured in clay, when Achilles stabs Penthesilea through the heart and, in that moment of her death, falls in love with her.”
This blog is a call to action—a plea for introspection. It urges readers to reconsider the societal norms that normalize violence and silence against women. It asks us to envision a world where justice, compassion, and freedom are not just ideals, but lived experiences—where no girl dies for simply existing.
Also Read: Justice Delayed, Yet Delivered – The Noor Mukadam Case
