Digital violence against women in Pakistan is surging at a pace that outstrips both policy and policing, turning social media platforms into battlegrounds where fake profiles, deepfake porn, blackmail, and cyberstalking are used to control, shame, and silence women. As TikTok, Facebook, and WhatsApp weave deeper into everyday life, so do new threats. Survivors say the online war they face—rooted in ghairat (honor) culture and amplified by political polarization—is one they can no longer win alone.
What begins as a stolen photo or unsolicited message often escalates rapidly, especially for women who dare to express opinions publicly. According to the Digital Rights Foundation’s newly released Digital Security Helpline Annual Report 2024, harassment and impersonation remain the leading complaints, with women making up a growing share of victims who seek confidential legal and psychological support. The report highlights a sharp increase in manipulated sexual imagery—particularly AI-generated nudes and deepfake porn—created to extort women or force their silence. The technology is evolving faster than the state’s ability to regulate it, and perpetrators thrive in this gap.
The recent case studies compiled by DRF mirror the patterns described in an Asia News Network’s investigation: women receiving threats from strangers wielding doctored images; students blackmailed through hacked accounts; young professionals forced to shut down their online presence entirely. In many instances, the abuse is not random but purposeful—designed to punish women for perceived transgressions, whether wearing jeans in a profile picture, posting political commentary, or simply existing online without male supervision. Families, fearing badnami (public shame), often pressure victims to stay silent rather than challenge the perpetrators.
In one Lahore case, a university student discovered that a classmate had created multiple fake profiles using her photos and then used deepfake tools to generate sexually explicit content that quickly circulated among peers. Despite clear evidence, she was discouraged from filing a police report because relatives feared a scandal bigger than the crime. Her experience echoes that of countless women who hesitate to involve authorities due to mistrust, lack of gender-sensitive procedures, or fear of retraumatization.
Pakistan’s cybercrime law, the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA), theoretically provides avenues for complaint, but enforcement remains inconsistent. The Federal Investigation Agency’s Cyber Crime Wing is overstretched and under-resourced, leading to long delays, minimal follow-up, and, in many cases, no accountability. Digital rights advocates say PECA’s vague provisions are more frequently used to suppress political speech than to protect women. Meanwhile, the social and cultural stigma attached to digital sexual violence makes it even harder for women to come forward. For many, the threat of a ruined reputation outweighs the hope of justice.
The DRF report notes that most women contacting the helpline experience a mix of emotional trauma, fear of escalation, and isolation. Many describe the psychological burden of constant monitoring—checking every platform, every tag, every upload to ensure no new fake content has appeared. The term izzat (honor) is repeatedly weaponized against them: families fear dishonor, men threaten dishonor, and women must carry its weight.
Yet there are signs of resilience. Women’s collectives online are growing stronger, sharing safety tips, documenting abusers, and pushing for reforms. Grassroots digital literacy trainings in cities like Karachi, Multan, and Peshawar are teaching young women how to secure their accounts, recognize phishing scams, and report harassment more effectively. Advocacy groups are calling for amendments to PECA to explicitly criminalize deepfake porn and compel tech companies to respond faster to takedown requests.
Still, the gap between threat and protection remains dangerously wide. Deepfake technology grows more accessible each month, while legal reform moves slowly and cultural attitudes shift even slower. In a society where the fear of dishonor can destroy a woman’s life long before a criminal case even reaches court, digital violence becomes both a technological and cultural weapon.
For Pakistani women, the message is painfully clear: the digital sphere is not a neutral space but an extension of offline patriarchy—one where izzat, shame, and control shape every interaction. Until laws, platforms, and communities mobilize together, the online war against women will continue, fought in silence by those whom society expects to endure rather than resist.
Let me say this slowly, for those still pretending not to understand: deepfake porn is not “online drama,” cyberstalking is not “boys being boys,” and blackmail is not a “private matter.” What Pakistani women are facing online is violence. Full stop. Digital violence is just patriarchy with better Wi-Fi.
Every time I read another case—another woman forced offline, another family whispering chup raho (stay quiet), another police officer shrugging—it’s the same ugly pattern. A woman exists online. A man feels entitled. Technology obliges. Society blames her. Repeat. Welcome to the algorithm of izzat (honor), now powered by AI.
What makes deepfake abuse especially vile is its efficiency. No physical contact required. No proximity needed. One photo, one bored misogynist with software, and suddenly a woman’s life is on fire. Jobs vanish. Engagements break. Families panic. And somehow, in this entire chain of harm, the woman is still expected to prove she is the victim. As if humiliation needs a receipt.
And don’t get me started on the advice women receive. “Deactivate your account.” “Don’t post photos.” “Why are you on TikTok anyway?” Ah yes, the ancient solution: disappear. Shrink yourself. Make your world smaller so men can stay comfortable. Funny how no one ever suggests men log off, restrain themselves, or face consequences. Accountability, apparently, is too radical.
The law exists, they tell us. PECA exists. Reports can be filed. In theory. In practice? Endless delays, victim-blaming questions, officers who don’t understand deepfakes and don’t care to learn. Meanwhile, the abuse spreads faster than the investigation. Screenshots circulate. WhatsApp groups multiply. Damage done. Case closed—on the woman’s life.
What really enrages me is how ghairat (honor) is dragged into this mess like a sacred shield. Honor for whom? Certainly not for the woman whose dignity is shredded for clicks. Honor becomes a leash, tightening around her neck, while perpetrators roam free. Patriarchy loves nothing more than a culture that does its dirty work for it.
And yet—here’s the part they didn’t plan for—women are not alone anymore. They are documenting. Supporting each other. Calling helplines. Learning digital self-defense. Naming abuse for what it is. Silence is cracking. Fear is being shared, which makes it lighter, not heavier.
Still, let’s be clear: resilience is not justice. Coping is not protection. Pakistani women should not have to become cybersecurity experts just to exist online. Until laws bite, platforms act fast, and society stops treating women’s reputations as collateral damage, this digital war will continue.
So no, Auntie is not asking politely anymore. Protect women. Punish abusers. Fix the systems. And stop telling women to disappear so men can misbehave in peace.