The high valleys and rugged ridgelines of Papua New Guinea’s Highlands see frequent inter-clan wars. In those isolated areas, conflict has long been part of social life, regulated by rules that once limited who could be targeted and how violence was conducted. Over the past decade, however, humanitarian agencies and local observers have documented a disturbing shift: sexual violence, including rape, is increasingly reported during episodes of “tribal” fighting, used as punishment, intimidation, and revenge between rival clans.
In provinces such as Enga and Hela, clashes are often described locally as payback fights, triggered by disputes over land, elections, compensation, or alleged sorcery. Historically, women and children were considered off-limits, protected by customary norms and the authority of clan elders. Recent assessments suggest those restraints are weakening. Analysts point to the erosion of traditional leadership, the growing role of armed youth, and the influx of illegal firearms, all of which have intensified conflict and blurred earlier boundaries. Within this context, rape has been reported not as an incidental by-product, but as a deliberate act meant to humiliate rivals and assert dominance.
Humanitarian briefings on the 2023–2024 violence in Enga Province describe reports of sexual violence against women from opposing groups, explicitly noting that rape has been used as a “weapon” in intercommunal fighting. The logic is brutally symbolic: harming women is understood as punishing the enemy clan itself, shaming male relatives and undermining their social standing. The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), which has worked in Highlands conflict zones for years, has similarly warned that sexual violence occurs during clan fighting, alongside killings, house burnings, and mass displacement.
Displacement is a critical part of the story. When fighting erupts, entire communities flee, often multiple times, seeking refuge with relatives or in makeshift shelters. These crowded, poorly lit environments offer little privacy or protection, increasing the risk of sexual violence. Women and girls face danger not only from rival fighters but also from opportunistic abuse within overcrowded host communities. Humanitarian agencies consistently link spikes in gender-based violence to periods of displacement caused by clan conflict.
Hela Province offers a stark illustration. Around Tari, repeated cycles of tribal fighting—exacerbated by the 2018 earthquake—have forced families into temporary camps and host villages. The United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) has reported that displaced women in Hela sought assistance at Family Support Centres for sexual and domestic violence, highlighting how conflict and disaster together magnify vulnerability. While many cases involve intimate-partner violence, service providers also note assaults connected to inter-clan tensions and retaliatory attacks.
Accountability remains elusive. In remote Highlands districts, police presence is limited, roads are poor, and courts are distant. Even when cases are reported, victims often withdraw complaints due to fear of retaliation or pressure from their own families to avoid escalating conflict. After fighting in Wabag, Enga’s provincial capital, authorities recorded cases of rape and other forms of gender-based violence, but humanitarian assessments noted that some survivors later dropped charges because they feared reprisals from perpetrators or rival clans.
This pattern of impunity is not new. Papua New Guinea has long struggled with high levels of violence against women, rooted in gender inequality, customary practices, and weak justice systems. What is changing in the Highlands is the way sexual violence is being folded into intercommunal conflict itself. Researchers describe this as a breakdown of older “rules of war,” replaced by a more total form of violence in which civilians—especially women—are no longer shielded.
The proliferation of firearms has accelerated this shift. Traditional weapons limited the scale and speed of fighting, allowing elders to intervene and negotiate compensation. Modern guns make attacks deadlier and faster, leaving little room for mediation. They also enable raids on settlements and gardens far from the original dispute, exposing women engaged in daily survival tasks—collecting food, water, or firewood—to heightened risk.
Despite the gravity of these abuses, documentation remains partial. Sexual violence is under-reported everywhere, and in PNG the stigma is compounded by fears of clan retaliation and social exclusion. Humanitarian organizations caution that reported cases likely represent only a fraction of what occurs during periods of intense fighting. Nonetheless, the convergence of multiple sources—local authorities, UN agencies, and the ICRC—has established a clear pattern: sexual violence is a recurring feature of contemporary Highlands conflict.
Efforts to respond focus on both prevention and care. Family Support Centres provide medical treatment, counseling, and referrals, while community programs attempt to revive protective norms and strengthen women’s leadership. Aid agencies also emphasize the need to address the broader drivers of conflict, from land disputes to political rivalries, and to curb the flow of illegal weapons. Without these structural changes, they warn, sexual violence will remain a tool of intimidation and revenge in clan conflicts.
I have been in many war areas and read too many reports where sexual violence is described as a “by-product” of conflict (as if rape were some unfortunate spillover), like smoke after a fire. What’s happening in Papua New Guinea’s Highlands is not that. It is targeted, symbolic, and brutally intentional. When rape is used as payback between clans, it’s not about sex at all. It’s about power, humiliation, and sending a message that cuts straight through women’s bodies to reach men.
Let’s be clear about the logic at work. In many clan-based societies, women are seen—wrongly but persistently—as carriers of male honour, lineage, and reputation. When rival fighters assault women, they are not just attacking individuals; they are declaring dominance over an entire group. It’s punishment by proxy. The woman survives, but she is left carrying shame that should never have been hers to begin with. The men are told: you failed to protect “what is yours.” That framing alone should make us furious.
What strikes me most is that this violence is often described as a collapse of tradition. We hear that “in the past” women were protected by custom. That may be partly true, but I don’t want us to romanticise those pasts either. Protection that depends on male permission is fragile. Once elders lose authority, once guns replace spears, once young men answer only to rage and rumours, that conditional protection evaporates. What remains is a system where women pay the price for conflicts they did not start and cannot stop.
Displacement makes everything worse. When families flee burning homes and contested land, women lose the thin layers of safety they once had—familiar paths, neighbours, kin networks. Crowded shelters and borrowed spaces are not neutral; they are risky. Violence thrives in chaos, and chaos is exactly what prolonged clan fighting creates.
I’m also haunted by how often survivors withdraw complaints. Not because they don’t want justice, but because justice in these contexts can be dangerous. Reporting rape may trigger retaliation, reopen conflict, or mark a woman as a liability to her own clan. Silence becomes survival. And every time that happens, the message to perpetrators is clear: this works.
If there is one thing we must resist, it is treating this as a “cultural problem” unique to Papua New Guinea. The use of sexual violence as punishment and warfare is global. The setting changes; the logic doesn’t. What PNG’s Highlands show us—painfully—is how quickly violence escalates when inequality, impunity, and weapons combine.
Women’s bodies should never be battlegrounds. Not in war, not in payback, not in the name of tradition. Until that principle is non-negotiable, peace will remain a story told by men, written in women’s scars.