On a dusty, barren stretch of land in Balochistan, a woman named Bano Bibi stood tall in front of armed men—her tribe—defiant and unbowed. Moments before her execution, captured in a viral video now seared into the nation’s conscience, she declared she was legally married to the man beside her. It was a last act of courage. Her words, spoken in resolve, were met with bullets.
This wasn’t a movie scene. It was real. Brutal. And tragically common in a country where the term “honour” has long been weaponised against women.
Bano and her husband, Ahsan Ullah, were accused of marrying without their tribe’s approval. In the now-viral footage, she is seen standing alone in traditional red attire while a group of men surround her husband. With chilling coldness, the couple is gunned down and executed not for a crime, but for love.
The tribal elders had allegedly convened a jirga, a traditional council, which issued a death decree against the couple for defying their family’s will. This was not justice. It was ritualistic murder masquerading as custom. Following widespread outrage, the Balochistan government took swift action—at least on paper. Authorities have arrested 11 suspects, including some who directly participated in the killing, while nine others remain at large. A First Information Report (FIR) has been lodged, and promises of prosecution were made. But Pakistanis have seen this movie before. We’ve witnessed the arrests, the headlines, and the eventual fade into silence.
Bano’s story is not an isolated case. It is a tragic entry in Pakistan’s long and shameful history of honour-based violence. According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP), around 1,000 women are murdered every year in so-called honour killings. That’s roughly three women every day. And experts believe the real number is even higher, hidden behind walls of silence, rural complicity, and legal loopholes.
Just last month, Sana Yousaf, a 17-year-old TikTok influencer from Islamabad, was fatally shot on her birthday, allegedly by her cousin. Investigations suggest the motive may be linked to notions of honour and female visibility in public spheres. Days later, in Rawalpindi, a 16-year-old girl was murdered by her father for refusing to delete her TikTok account. Both cases ignited social media outrage, but justice remains elusive. Pakistan did make legal strides in 2016 with the passage of the “Criminal Law (Amendment) (Offences in the Name or Pretext of Honour) Act.” This law aimed to prevent families from “forgiving” perpetrators, a common practice that let killers, often brothers or fathers, walk free. The amendment now allows only state prosecution in honour killing cases. Yet implementation is weak. Tribal pressures, police negligence, or societal complicity often taint investigations. In many cases, local authorities still treat honour killings as “family matters.” When victims are women, justice is not blind; it’s absent.
In Balochistan, tribal jirgas continue to operate parallel to the formal justice system. These councils regularly issue extrajudicial orders, especially in remote regions, and are seldom challenged by law enforcement. While jirgas are technically illegal, their influence remains pervasive.
What’s especially devastating about Bano’s case is the collective complicity. The men in the video do not flinch. There are no attempts to reason, intervene, or resist. Instead, there’s a chilling sense of shared purpose, a brotherhood that enforces death under the guise of tradition.
As feminist voices on social media have rightly pointed out, where should Pakistani women turn for solidarity when their brothers are the executioners? If tradition demands a woman die for loving freely, then tradition must be dismantled, not celebrated. Yet mainstream narratives, particularly in media and television, often romanticise tribal codes, painting them as sacred or noble. But what nobility exists in honour rooted in control, violence, and fear?
The Pakistani state must do more than react after a video goes viral. It must proactively dismantle the cultural and legal structures that allow these killings to persist. Firstly, this includes criminalising jirgas more aggressively and prosecuting those who participate in or follow their decrees. Moreover, training law enforcement to treat honour killings as serious criminal offences, not family matters.
Furthermore, protecting women’s right to marry of their own choice, as upheld by Article 35 of the Constitution and reinforced by multiple rulings from the Supreme Court.
And most importantly, launching public awareness campaigns to challenge toxic notions of masculinity, honour, and tribal justice. Civil society must also play its part by refusing to glorify tribalism, questioning harmful traditions, and amplifying the voices of survivors and activists. Bano’s story should not be a momentary wave of outrage; it must be a catalyst for sustained, structural change.
In the wake of Bano’s murder, many online users asked: “Where will our women find their tribe?” If their brothers, fathers, and uncles turn into executioners, who stands between them and the bullet? The answer is this: we build that tribe from scratch. A new tribe not bound by blood or tradition but by values: autonomy, justice, equality, and humanity. A tribe that celebrates love, not punishes it. A brotherhood that protects women, not condemns them. Until Bano and thousands like her receive justice not only in courtrooms but in cultural memory, we remain a nation shackled by the very honour we claim to protect.
Ryma Uzair
The writer is a student of laws at LUMS.