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By Ahmad Hassan “The convoluted wording of legalisms grew up around the necessity to hide from ourselves the violence we intend toward each other… Elaborate euphemisms may conceal your intent to kill, but behind any use of power over another the ultimate assumption remains: ‘I feed on your energy.’” When Frank Herbert wrote those words in his novel Dune Messiah, he observed that elaborate euphemisms are often used by the state to conceal the raw mechanics of power. In Pakistan, August 5 is observed as Youm-e-Istehsal to condemn the 2019 revocation of Article 370 and its supplementary provision, Article 35A. This act of the Indian government removed Kashmir’s separate constitution, its flag and its control over its own affairs. Last week marked seven years since that day. What began as a dramatic constitutional rupture has now, by design, become quietly normalized. Jammu and Kashmir joined India in 1947 on defined terms. The Maharaja handed over defence, foreign affairs and communications. Everything else stayed with the state. The United Nations later called for a plebiscite. It never happened. Instead, over decades, the protections that were supposed to stand in its place were worn down piece by piece, until August 5, 2019, when the government removed what remained in a single stroke. The method deserves more attention than it usually gets. Article 370 was not directly changed. First, the government reached for Article 367, which was intended to aid in the interpretation of the Constitution, and used it to redefine one phrase: “Constituent Assembly” became “Legislative Assembly.” Kashmir had no sitting assembly at the time, and the state was under President’s Rule. So, the government’s own appointee, the Governor, signed off on the change. India’s Supreme Court had already ruled, in 1959 and again in 1969, that Kashmir’s constitutional status could only be changed after the approval of the Constituent Assembly of Kashmir. When that body no longer existed, no institution had the standing to give that consent on Kashmir’s behalf. New Delhi decided that its own Governor could stand in for the people he had not been elected by. That is not consent. It is a government consenting to itself. The Indian government argued that Kashmiris had lived for decades under an insurgency that killed tens of thousands and emptied the Valley of its Pandit community in 1990. It left the region isolated from the investment and policing coordination. That argument would carry more weight if the method had matched it. What followed the revocation was not the language of integration. It was a total communications blackout, landlines and mobile networks and the internet all cut at once. Independent estimates put the troop presence at 600,000 to 800,000, roughly one soldier for every ten Kashmiris. Even pro-India politicians, former chief ministers among them, were placed under detention. Perhaps a security argument can justify counter-insurgency operations. It cannot by itself justify dissolving a state’s constitutional status, its legislature and its statehood in one move. That too with no elected Kashmiri voice given the chance to object. Jawaharlal Nehru warned Parliament about exactly this shortcut in 1952, while Article 370 was still being drafted. No clause in a constitution, he said, could substitute for the will of the Kashmiri people. Real integration, in his words, comes from the mind and the heart, not from a clause imposed from outside. Actually, there is a longer, quieter project behind the legal manoeuvre. Article 35A once barred outsiders from buying land or settling permanently in Kashmir. Since its removal, more than 3.2 million domicile certificates have gone to outsiders, most of them non-Kashmiri Hindus. This alarming thing is that wherever a disputed territory’s demographics are reshaped before its people are asked what they want, the eventual vote, if one ever comes, no longer reflects the population whose future was originally in question. None of this required an invading army, or an open declaration of intent. It required a redefined word, a signature from an appointee, and a great deal of time. The convoluted legalisms that Herbert warned about have become policy in Kashmir: development, integration, correction. Each euphemism has quietly done the work that an honest admission of purpose could never have achieved. Seven years on, Kashmir’s assembly has voted decisively against the BJP that carried out the revocation, and passed its own resolution demanding the restoration of its special status. New Delhi can easily ignore them. Yet, that very power to ignore an elected legislature proves, beyond any doubt, that the “consent” obtained seven years ago was always a legal fiction.

“How Social Stigma, Institutional Challenges, and Delayed Justice Continue to Discourage Women from Reporting Violence in Pakistan” For many women in Pakistan, reporting violence is not simply the first step towards justice, it is often the beginning of another struggle. While laws have evolved to provide greater protection against domestic violence, sexual assault, workplace harassment, acid attacks, and other forms of gender-based violence, countless women continue to hesitate before approaching the police or the courts. Their reluctance is not always born out of ignorance of the law; rather, it stems from fear of social stigma, institutional barriers, prolonged legal proceedings, and uncertainty about whether justice will ever be delivered. This reality raises an important question: if legal safeguards exist, why do so many women still fear reporting violence? The Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan provides a strong foundation for the protection of women’s rights. Article 9 guarantees the right to life and liberty, Article 14 safeguards the dignity of every individual, Article 25 ensures equality before the law and prohibits discrimination on the basis of sex, while Article 34 directs the State to ensure the full participation of women in all spheres of national life. These constitutional guarantees are reinforced by various legislative measures, including the Anti-Rape (Investigation and Trial) Act, 2021, the Protection Against Harassment of Women at the Workplace Act, the Acid Control and Acid Crime Prevention laws, and provincial domestic violence legislation. Together, these laws demonstrate that Pakistan has made significant progress in recognizing and protecting women’s rights. However, legislation alone cannot guarantee justice. The effectiveness of any legal framework depends upon its implementation. For many survivors, the greatest obstacle is not the absence of legal remedies but the fear of navigating the justice system itself. Reporting violence often means facing uncomfortable questions, social judgment, pressure from family members, financial hardship, and emotional trauma. In many cases, victims worry that their complaints will not be taken seriously or that the legal process will take years to reach a conclusion. Such concerns discourage many women from seeking legal protection altogether. The problem is further aggravated by the slow pace of criminal proceedings. Delayed investigations, repeated adjournments, and prolonged trials can force survivors to relive traumatic experiences for years. Justice delayed not only prolongs suffering but also weakens public confidence in the legal system. When victims believe that reporting a crime will expose them to further hardship without a timely or meaningful remedy, silence often appears to be the safer option. In this sense, delayed justice becomes a denial of safety, discouraging others from coming forward and allowing perpetrators to act with greater confidence. Several high-profile incidents have highlighted both the urgency of reform and the limitations of existing mechanisms. The Motorway rape case in 2020 sparked nationwide outrage and prompted important legislative reforms, including the enactment of the Anti-Rape (Investigation and Trial) Act, 2021. While these reforms strengthened the legal framework, they also reminded the nation that effective implementation, victim-sensitive investigations, and timely prosecution remain equally essential. Similarly, acid attacks and cases of so-called honour based violence have continued to expose the gap between legal protections and the realities faced by many women, particularly in rural and underserved communities. Legal reforms must therefore be accompanied by institutional reform. Police officers, prosecutors, judges, and medico-legal professionals require continuous training to handle cases involving gender-based violence with professionalism, sensitivity, and respect for victims’ dignity. Fast-track procedures for serious offences against women should be implemented effectively to reduce unnecessary delays. Victim and witness protection mechanisms must be strengthened so that survivors feel safe throughout the judicial process. Equally important is ensuring that legal aid and psychological support are readily available to those who seek justice. Beyond the courtroom, society itself has a crucial role to play. Victim-blaming, social stigma, and cultural stereotypes remain among the greatest barriers preventing women from reporting violence. Questions such as “Why did she report it now?” or “What was she doing there?” unfairly shift attention away from the offender and onto the survivor. Such attitudes discourage reporting and perpetuate a culture of silence. A justice system can function effectively only when society supports victims rather than subjects them to suspicion and criticism. Protecting women’s rights is not solely a legal obligation; it is a constitutional, moral, and social responsibility. Laws are meaningful only when they inspire confidence in those, they are designed to protect. A woman should never have to choose between her safety and the fear of navigating the justice system. She should have confidence that her complaint will be heard fairly, investigated promptly, and decided without unnecessary delay. Pakistan has undoubtedly taken important legislative steps to combat violence against women. The challenge now lies in translating those legal guarantees into practical realities. Stronger enforcement, efficient investigations, timely trials, greater institutional accountability, and increased public awareness are essential to restoring confidence in the justice system. Justice cannot be measured merely by the number of laws enacted; it must be measured by the willingness of victims to seek its protection without fear. A society where women hesitate to report violence is a society where justice remains incomplete. The true success of any legal system is not reflected in the statutes it enacts but in the trust it inspires. Until every woman feels secure enough to report violence without fear of stigma, intimidation, or delay, the promise of equal justice will remain only partially fulfilled. Justice delayed is not merely justice denied it is safety denied. A legal system earns public confidence not when it promises protection, but when it delivers it.