On June 2, 2025, Pakistan was shaken by the news of a teenage girl murdered in Islamabad’s G-13 sector. The victim, 17-year-old Sana Yousaf, was a TikToker and aspiring social media influencer who hailed from Chitral, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. She had relocated to the capital to pursue her education and dreams. Her birthday celebration—streamed live on social media—was tragically followed by her murder, allegedly at the hands of a man whose advances she had repeatedly rejected.
Initial reports suggested a robbery gone wrong. However, the police investigation revealed a more chilling reality. The suspect, 22-year-old Umar, had developed an obsessive interest in Sana. Despite being rebuffed multiple times, he continued to loiter around her residence for hours, hoping to force an interaction. His delusion, rejection, and wounded ego culminated in a fatal act of violence. The next day, he reportedly climbed over her boundary wall and shot her inside her own home.
Within 24 hours, Umar was arrested. Yet the damage was irreversible—not only to Sana’s family but to the collective conscience of a society repeatedly failing its daughters.
Sana’s death is not an isolated incident. Only months earlier, a 23-year-old student at International Islamic University Islamabad was murdered in her hostel room in Sector G-10. Her attacker, too, was a male acquaintance who forced entry and ended her life with a knife. These cases point to a pattern, not just of violence, but of entitlement and ego-fueled misogyny masquerading as love, respect, or tradition.
Women in Pakistan continue to face lethal consequences for asserting autonomy and rejecting male control.
Pakistan has a long and bloody history of so-called “honor killings,” where women are murdered by male relatives or acquaintances for choosing their partners, asserting independence, or simply being visible in public life. The infamous case of Qandeel Baloch—a social media star murdered by her own brother for “bringing shame” to the family—is a chilling reminder that when women step out of societal bounds, the consequences are often fatal.
What is perhaps equally disturbing is the public reaction to Sana Yousaf’s death. Online forums and comment sections were flooded with grotesque justifications for her murder. Many blamed the victim for being on TikTok, for showing her face, or for daring to exist outside the confines of patriarchal norms. This reflects a disturbingly radical mindset that vilifies women for seeking autonomy while quietly consuming and benefiting from their visibility.
Such hypocrisy is emblematic of a society where misogyny hides behind morality. The same men who decry women’s presence on social media are often active followers, sending inappropriate messages, leaving vulgar comments, and enjoying the very content they claim to oppose. This duplicity—liberal in private, radical in public—is the breeding ground for gender-based violence.
At its core, Pakistan’s gender conflict is not about morality—it is about control. Men like Umar are products of a patriarchal system that equates male ego with honor and sees female autonomy as rebellion. When a woman rejects a man, she is not simply saying “no”; she is challenging a social order that conditions men to believe they are entitled to her time, body, and attention.
The tragic killing of a teen influencer exposes society’s failure to protect women from radicalized misogyny.
The legal age of marriage may have recently been raised to 18, but cultural and psychological shifts remain elusive. Women are still expected to live within boundaries defined by others—be it their families, communities, or even strangers. The moment they step outside those lines, they risk everything.
If Pakistan truly wishes to emerge from the shadows of misogyny, symbolic laws are not enough. There must be a cultural reckoning. Gender equity must be embedded in education, law enforcement, media representation, and public discourse.
Importantly, women must be allowed to define their lives without fear of violence or social backlash. Their presence in digital spaces, workplaces, and public institutions should not be treated as threats but as contributions to national progress.
Ending this cycle of violence demands more than condemnation after the fact. It requires dismantling the social fabric that nurtures male entitlement and normalizes violence against women.
Sana Yousaf’s death is not just a crime—it is a consequence. A consequence of unchecked male ego, of societal silence, of systemic failure. Until we acknowledge that women are not the property of men, and until we ensure accountability for those who treat them as such, Pakistan will continue to mourn the daughters it refuses to protect.
May Sana’s memory not fade as another victim in a long list but as a rallying cry for a safer, more equitable Pakistan.
