The sun beats down on the barren hills outside the village of Fattu Shah in northern Sindh, Pakistan, where in a hidden cemetery known locally as Kariyon ka Qabristan — literally “the graveyard of shamed women” — lie hundreds of unmarked graves of women slain in the name of “honour”. In this silent, neglected place one hears the echoes of a dark tradition: women accused of tarnishing their family’s reputation by defying strict norms of behaviour, love or inheritance cast out even after death.
A recent feature by Deutsche Welle paints a haunting portrait of how honour killings, locally called “karo-kari” in Sindh, continue to mark the lives and deaths of women across Pakistan. This particular graveyard stands as both a symbol and a consequence of the brutal reality: the victims are first deemed dishonoured, then executed, then buried without proper name or memorial marking their loss. The practise may appear ancient, but the statistics are far from historical footnotes. The Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) confirmed at least 405 honour-killings in 2024 alone — with the caveat that many more go unreported.
What drives a family — or a clan – to murder one of its own? In Pakistan, honour killings are overwhelmingly directed at women who are perceived to have breached the rules of “modesty”, obedience or agreements regarding marriage. A woman choosing her own partner, seeking divorce, rejecting familial expectations around the arranged match or simply appearing “immodest” in attire or online may be judged unworthy, and in some communities the decision to kill her is framed as “restoring honour”. These killings happen not only in remote villages but are tied into larger dynamics: feudal systems, tribal councils (jirgas), weak law-enforcement and a legal system where forgiveness from the victim’s family has until relatively recently allowed perpetrators to evade justice.
The legal picture is complex: on paper, Pakistan outlawed certain loopholes in 2016 — closing the route that allowed killers to be pardoned by family and thus escape punishment. Yet activists say enforcement remains patchy, particularly in rural regions where local power structures override state institutions. One academic project described honour killing as a “public health crisis” that demands not only legal but also social and cultural reform: addressing male dominance, policing of women’s bodies, and an honour-based logic that makes them liable for others’ reputations.
Here’s the catch: in the late evening, the graveyard at Fattu Shah looks nearly empty, yet its thousands of graves speak volumes. Many women are buried without proper rites, no bath for the body, no family handwritten marker. Local activists say that the very existence of the separate cemetery is intended to spread terror: if you live outside the prescribed boundaries of “honour”, your grave will be invisible, forgotten. The ‘dishonoured’ woman is stripped of dignity first in life, then in death.
While national statistics show hundreds of cases per year, the true scale likely runs into the thousands. The HRCP and other rights groups estimate roughly 1 000 women per year may be killed in so-called honour crimes — many of which are never reported or are disguised as accidents or suicides. The victims tend to be adult married women, though young girls are also hit. In provinces like Sindh and Punjab the practice is more visible, not least because the feudal system, tribal elders and local patronage networks remain strong.
One chilling truth: even when the state intervenes, the cycle is hard to break. Tribal councils may hand down death sentences for individuals who reject family arranged marriages; the local police may delay or neglect cases; and families may bury the victims anonymously to avoid scrutiny. Legal reform is necessary but insufficient; as one policy paper put it, “unless the general public chooses to condemn the practice, change will not truly happen.”
But there are signs of resistance. Women’s rights organisations, local NGOs, journalists and activists continue to expose these killings, challenge the narrative of “honour” and push for stronger accountability. The graveyard in Fattu Shah, once hidden, now draws attention and shame. It stands in stark contrast to the values it purports to defend. Every unmarked grave tells a story: of a woman who dared to live differently, of a family that valued its reputation over a life, and of a society still caught between law and custom.
For as long as these cemeteries remain on the margins of memory, so too will the victims remain invisible. The work of remembrance, justice and systemic change must bring them into the light — and accord them the dignity even in death that was denied in life.
Some stories don’t just make my blood boil — they set the entire kitchen on fire. And this one? I am chopping chilies with no gloves on. Because how dare anyone, anywhere, call murder a matter of “honor”? Let’s stop right here. Let’s call it what it is: control, cruelty, patriarchy dressed in cultural costume, wrapped in religious misinterpretation, tied together with tribal ego. “Honor killing” is a marketing term for femicide. It is a crime, a sin, a disgrace — not of the woman, but of the society that allows it.
I have walked in Sindh and Punjab. I have sat with women in village courtyards. I have seen the whispers, the silences. And I have seen the gravestones that aren’t — bare earth mounds where daughters are dumped like shameful secrets. Do you hear me? They kill her, and then they bury her without a name. They take her life and then her memory. They swallow her whole.
And the same uncles who tell you that “a family’s reputation is more precious than gold” will be the first to cheat on their wives, take mistress number two, three, or four, beat their children, steal land, disappear their cousins, maybe shoot a neighbor over cattle — but none of that reduces their honor. Oh no. Honor only becomes fragile when a woman decides something for herself. When she chooses love. When she says no. When she wants to study, work, divorce, breathe.
Honor is not fragile. Male ego is.
And don’t you dare say “oh but this happens only in backward villages.” It happens in Karachi. It happens in Lahore. It happens in well-lit apartments and well-educated families. You know how many killers walk free because the family “forgives” them? How many police officers decide it’s a “family matter”? How many religious leaders pretend they didn’t hear the scream?
And yes, yes, there are laws now. Wonderful. But laws mean nothing when the society enforcing them believes the victim deserved it.
So what do we do? We remember the women in those unmarked graves. We say their names when we can find them. We write their stories when families try to erase them. We teach our sons — loudly — that love is not shame, autonomy is not sin, and women are not property.
Honor is when you protect the vulnerable. Honor is when you choose compassion. Honor is when you refuse to be silent. Anything less is cowardice. And Auntie has no patience for cowards.