Feminism: “Mera Jism, Meri Marzi” — a slogan that has echoed through the institutions, drawing rooms and streets of Pakistan for years — has now become an inseparable part of the annual Aurat March — a so-called feminist protest that claims to fight for women’s rights and demand equality, but in reality, often does so only for the daughters of the elite.
To twist George Orwell’s famous line: all women are equal, but some women are more equal than others. That seems to be the unspoken motto of this march. The approach is simple — bring out massive posters declaring, ‘All women deserve equal rights.’ Strike a pose, make a few Instagram reels, and once the drama dies down, leave all the mess behind to be cleared up by low-paid women on the streets. The same women were never included or invited to the march because they did not fit the aesthetic, photogenic, or whitewashed standards deemed acceptable.
Why the one-eighty flip? Keep it real.
In elite hands, feminism has been flipped — no longer about dignity or rights, but a licence for optics: dressing up, posing, shouting for likes. The movement for justice has been reduced to mere performance.
But real feminism was never about visibility — it was about value. It was about being respected as a human being — about having the freedom to speak in matters of state and society and about not being objectified or locked away because of your gender. True feminists are the women who fight quietly but firmly for their rights every day — who claim the same freedom any man would. There are no cameras or hashtags, only the harsh, unfiltered reality.
The Legacy of Zia: Patriarchy in a Prayer Cap.
Let’s travel back in time — to 1980s Pakistan. You’re a woman, maybe a student, a nurse, or a young office worker. Each evening, as you sit with your family watching TV, there’s news of yet another law by General Zia-ul-Haq — your president and dictator. One more policy wrapped in the shawl of religion, designed to control your gender. Women are already frustrated by the lack of justice, and now they face additional challenges. You wonder what’s behind their anger — so you reach for the newspaper.
Hudood Ordinances — introduced as ‘moral reforms’ — meant a rape victim could be jailed if she failed to produce four male witnesses, her trauma labelled as adultery. By 1988, 60–80% of jailed women were there under these laws, according to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan. The message was clear: a woman’s body, behaviour, and movement were now under patriarchal control — legally backed.
You soon realise that these laws are not just theoretical; they are present in every aspect of life. Gender segregation becomes routine. TV anchors disappear if they fail to meet the state’s modesty standards. Nurses, clerks, and technicians must navigate both their jobs and a state-imposed moral code. Female labour force participation drops 10–12% during the regime. While men prevail, the women are to be wrapped in veils.
Back to your living room.
The little trip back in time is over; you’re home again and now digging into feminist resistance from that era. Fearless women pushed back. In 1986, Iqbal Bano sang Hum Dekhenge in a black saree, defying censorship and dress codes. Najma Sadeque of WAF challenged state hypocrisy and united women across class. Their defiance sparked a fire. Offstage, quiet resistance lived on: a midwife crossing curfew, a teacher shifting schedules, a cleaner demanding wages. No slogans, no saviours — just survival. These acts weren’t called feminism, but they built its post-Zia backbone.
Reading Marx in the kitchen: Feminism at home.
Where better to trace that quiet resistance than in the most undervalued battlefield of all: the home? Zia’s laws attempted to ensnare women in the chaar diwari, but it was within these confines that women started to rebel, armed not with mantras but with saucepans, salary slips, and resolute determination.
Some women stopped cooking altogether. Why is cooking associated with womanhood when it’s a fundamental survival skill? A factory worker in Korangi recalled how her mother would “let the daal rot” during arguments, refusing to serve food until her husband acknowledged her contribution. Another, a school clerk in Rawalpindi, said she started keeping her money hidden in tea tins after years of being forced to hand over her pay. These weren’t just family issues — they were acts of emotional and economic rebellion.
As Silvia Federici famously argued, housework isn’t ‘natural’— it is unpaid labour that props up capitalism. Selma James, standing alongside her, advocated for the recognition, wage, and respect of women’s invisible work. Although their ideas originated in the West, they resonate strongly within Pakistani homes. A woman is “refusing to be an invisible worker,” according to Federici, when she teaches her daughter to be independent before anyone else is, when she negotiates household finances, or when she demands space in a non-privacy family.
Stories on Ground: Oral Histories of Everyday Rebellion
Feminism in these homes doesn’t come dressed in theory — it walks barefoot, with calloused hands and a sharp tongue.
In an oral history recorded by the Aurat Foundation, Shabana, a garment worker in Karachi, recounted how she once stormed out of her house after being slapped: “I told him, ‘You don’t pay for the roti, the gas or the school fees — you don’t get to raise your hand.’” She returned three days later, never to be slapped again.
A domestic helper in Lahore, Naseem, described teaching her employers’ children all day, then going home and studying herself: “If their daughters can be doctors, why not mine?” she said. Working in a hospital in Multan is now one of her daughters.
In these stories, feminism isn’t an imported idea — it is a homegrown survival skill. While these women may not have participated in protests or marches, they have made significant contributions from their positions in schools, kitchens, and clinics.
Love isn’t free — and neither is women’s labour.
A woman who cooks, washes, teaches, nurses and budgets is still ‘dependent’, but a man is the ‘provider’ because he brings home a salary. Why? What makes a woman’s labour less valuable — the fact that she does it with care or out of love?
Post-Zia Pakistan thrives on unpaid labour by women—at home and in the economy. According to the Pakistan Bureau of Statistics, women contribute 65% of all unpaid household labour. In 2021, female labour force participation stood at just 21%, despite women making up nearly half the population — just because housework was left unnoticed.
This phenomenon is precisely what both Selma James and Federici warned against — the erasure of caregiving, of sentiment, and of feminine skill as “non-work.” But working-class Pakistani women challenge this every day by making their invisible labour visible.
Lose the Labels.
The majority of these women would not call themselves feminists, perhaps because they’re unaware, or the meaning has been twisted. The woman washing dishes at midnight finds herself unable to belong to such conversations, because she couldn’t be part of fiery slogans or beach protest photoshoots.
Let’s zoom in.
She is the one instructing her son to fill his own cup, saying, “tumhare haath nai tootay howay.” She is the one refusing to marry her daughter off at sixteen. She’s the nurse who refuses to be harassed at her workplace, the doctor who speaks out against wage gaps, and the clerk who files for maternity leave without feeling sorry.
To define is to limit, and her resilience, resistance and negotiation are needless of labels.
Silence Kills Stories.
This is why oral history matters — it honours the real struggle over armchair theory. It refuses to let these women’s lives be erased or buried beneath baseless taglines. As Fouzia Saeed said, “We don’t need others to write our stories. We just need to speak to them.”
The voices of working-class women are radical because of their presence alone. In the silence where history forgets them, they carve space — for memory, movement, and the meaning of resistance itself.
Conclusion: Feminism Over Chai.
Not all revolutions hold placards — some stir dal and keep the house from burning. Sometimes, these women boil rice while bridging peace between in-laws, count coins after clinic shifts, or reject dowry — without ever saying “feminism”. These women may not often lean in or quote Fehmida Riaz over chai, but they are reshaping resistance everywhere. They prove dignity isn’t loud, and liberation doesn’t need a mic. They are deemed ‘badtameez’ or ‘vocal’, but losing their identity for the label of a ‘perfect woman’ is worthless. As Selma James said, “We demand wages for all work…” That demand lives here too — delivered in Urdu and knotted in worn dupattas.
great article!!!
Thank you!