Better Facilities in Turbat’s Hospitals

By Dr.Sajjad Ali A suffering pervades the walled villages of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, and the privacy of the homes in the city, in a language of suffering all distinct. The language of infertility is not the one used in medical textbooks but it is the one that speaks to life and death in Pashtun society. Being a childless woman is being defined by a lexicon of failure here, a failure that runs against the very ethos of Pashtunwali, where a person’s nasl (lineage) and naam (name) is everything. The condition is identical, but the language employed to use it as a weapon against women and men are very different, very vicious. It is a public indictment to her; a silent, emasculating damnation to him. The Woman’s Cross: The Public Indictment The worthiness of a Pashtun woman is arbitrarily squeezed into her reproductive capability. When she drops the one perceived duty, she is not infertile, she is cursed, useless and dangerous. The attack starts with an endless list of names and peghoor (tease). She is a banjh (barren), the most common and heart-breaking epithet. She is a shana (dry, unfruitful tree that bears no fruit). She is khaanch (empty), a hollow vessel with no substance. The elders of the family complain, “Mata plar na laree, khaanch de” (She hasn’t borne him a son, she is empty). Her body is compared to the barren land of Sheera zameena (salty, infertile land) which nothing can grow, or shara (fallow land). The childless woman or the one whose children have died is generally known as a kheeri, which translates as woman of ill omen, bearer of misfortune. She is slightly banned from being present at weddings or cradles (gharay). When a child is sick after the visit, people begin muttering, “Da kheeri da las na ye bimar sho” (After the touch of the kheeri the child fell sick). This spiritual banishment is so devastating! If her husband returns to marriage, or if the family goes bankrupt, she is considered a shamat (a bad omen, a curse to the family) and a manhoos (inauspicious, unlucky). The psychological take-home message is no less horrifying: she is not only failing to give birth; she is an active, evil agent of birthlessness and death and decay. She’s a curse for their existence. The peghoor is available in a dramatic fashion. A mother-in-law would see a hen with chicks and will loudly cry out, “Da charkha ham bachy kawal, khu da adamzad mung na shwe.” (Even this hen hatched chicks, but this human gave us nothing). Neighbours grumble, ‘Khudai da qahar da, cha ta kho pukha na we (She is God’s wrath, she hasn’t ripened for anybody—to mean that she has not become a mother). A cruel comic scene that is often acted out: The guest exclaims the house is a paradise, and the mother-in-law replies, “Kor kho jannat de, khu khaanch de, khoonda raghlay na de” [The house is a paradise, but it is empty, no fragrance has come into it]—singing about the fragrance of a child which reminds her of something she failed to do with her daughter-in-law. This puts her in an economic hostage position. She is a servile slave to make up for her “defect” because of the ever-present unspoken danger of a balka (co-wife). All the money is spent on her own “cure,” which includes dangerous dai (traditional birth attendant) concoctions, expensive visits to taweez-keeping (piir sahib) and futile taweez (amulet) usage. She will wear a tawiz laced with prayers for fertility and she will be made to drink water that has been washed with a dranzay (a special supplication)—her husband’s diagnosis will not even be suspected. This quest devours the family’s resources, everything aimed at the woman who is in a desperate struggle to remain not the family’s shamat. The Man’s Secret: The Silent Emasculation The man feels that the lack of producing babies is not something he has failed to do biologically, but something he has failed to do as a man. He can’t be brought into pity, because if he is, he’s acknowledging that he lost nang (honour). The words he has to say, the words he is not allowed to say, the words he can’t say at all: his torment is a poison that is surrounded by a wall of aggressive denial, but is intended to un-man him. If he is unable to generate a zo-ye (a son), then he is no longer a sar-ye (a man, a leader). His name is a na-mard, the worst of all names, that of a non-man. He is a susra—an utterly impotent, weakling man, a term of maximum contempt. A khassya (castrated bull, eunuch), who has no power and virility. He is a namardanz (an impotent creature). A popular bit of vicious poetry is: “Dwa kalah ye we-weted, khu goly ye na kholay shwe” (“He tried twice, but not a bud was able to blossom for him”, a poetic and mean way of saying that he was unable to start life. His true trial is in the hujra (man’s assembly). The taunt is never a literal arrow, but an arrow of some sort. A story will be told: “Da kala de, cha tofang walwela, khu dasy nese wa, che laande khassia we” (“There’s a man who wields a big rifle, and makes a lot of noise, but inside, he’s a eunuch”). They all laugh, the childless man is forced to laugh loudest, and the white-hot shame is his. The tale is best told in a popular social media comic strip that shows a doctor showing a semen analysis report to a furiously upset husband with a nervous wife looking on: Panel 1: A doctor shows a semen analysis report to a furious-looking husband, with his wife sitting nervously. The Doctor says, “The report reads: azoospermia.The Doctor says, “The report reads azoospermia. Panel 2: A huge, broken speech bubble bursts out of the husband’s mouth: “Tor! Tor! Sta da peghalay!” (“Lies! “It’s your slander!”)

New research suggests that some memories that seem to be forgotten may not completely disappear from the brain.  Instead they may remain stored in a quiet state and can sometimes return when a person receives the right reminder or is placed in a familiar environment. Scientists studied fruit flies and found that memories could become active again when the flies were placed in an environment similar to the one where the memory was first formed. This suggests that some memories may not be erased with time. They may simply become harder for the brain to access. Human memory is a very complex system. Some memories become weaker over time while others may suddenly return after seeing a familiar place, smelling a certain scent or noticing another related signal. However researchers still do not fully understand why the brain sometimes creates false memories along with real ones.  Understanding how the brain brings back true memories and creates inaccurate ones remains an important question for scientists. The findings could  help researchers better understand how memories are stored in the brain and how different surroundings or reminders can help bring forgotten memories back.

By Raheel Waqar I attended a workshop under the project titled “Digital Trust and Free Expression in the AI Era” at the Department of Media and Development Communication, University of the Punjab, supported by the U.S. Mission to Pakistan in partnership with the Pakistan-U.S. Alumni Network (PUAN) last week. During the discussions on digital trust, I remembered that a few months ago, I received a call from a friend who is a small business owner and runs a modest page selling handcrafted candles. She told me that her posts had suddenly stopped getting reaching people. No warning. No explanation. Her engagement dropped overnight, and when she contacted the platform, she received a flat, nonanswer. She wasn’t banned. She wasn’t warned. She was just… quieter. That is essentially the shadow-ban dilemma, and I believe it is one of the least discussed problems of trust in the age of AI. There is a reason for algorithmic moderation exists. The volume of content shared on a platform daily is far too large to be managed by humans alone. AI systems can now detect hate speech, misinformation, spam, and harassment faster than an entire team of human moderators. Theoretically, this creates a safer and more livable Internet. But where I differ from current structure is that moderation operates as black box, and the worst offender is shadow banning, silently restricting a user without informing them. If a platform explicitly rejects you, you can appeal, argue, or move on. Shadow-banning removes even the most basic dignity. You face punishment without knowing the charges; you are not shown the evidence and are rarely given any avenues for reclamation. I genuinely believe that trust is the digital currency. We bring our voices, our business, and our relationships to these platforms, expecting something close to a level playing field, even if imperfect. Shadow-banning violates that implied contract. It assumes the rules are clear while relying opaque algorithms, and doubt becomes corrosive. Users begin to question each drop in engagement. Was it the algorithm? Was it just a bad week? Did I say something wrong? This uncertainty leads to confusion and self-censorship, which is not healthy foundation for a digital public square. Moreover, the phenomenon of shadow-banning disproportionately effects those without influence, legal support, or the media visibility. A major creator, with millions of followers, may get a quick, individualized explanation when something goes wrong. My friend, the candle-seller, heard nothing. This imbalance is significant if free expression online is to be practiced, not not merely discussed — by everyone. I don’t believe that the solution is to eliminate moderation entirely. The combination of harassment, spam, and bad-faith users who overwhelm others makes a total freeforall unusable within minutes. As anyone who has used an unmoderated platform knows how quickly it becomes impossible to navigate when spam and abuse take over. When people are constantly shouted down, free expression is not free. However, there is a difference between moderation and invisible moderation. Platforms can reduce the reach of harmful content without disrespecting or degrading the users by withholding explanations. The technology to notify users already exists. What is missing is the will. In my own re-design of this system, three principles would guide it: A user should be notified, not in a lucky screenshot of a “test” a month later, but in a clear, timely notice to explain the general reason that their content or reach is being limited. It is not theatre; it is meaningful appeal. Many platforms claim to offer appeals, but these are often routed to another algorithm or a human who skims for a few seconds. Real appeal is a true second look with actual power to correct an error. Not all infractions are equal and deserve the same silence and indefinite containment. It is not the same as coordinated harassment campaigns; it is not borderline, or an honest mistake, or satire. There is nothing impossible for this. It is a matter of priorities. Transparency costs platforms something; it exposes them to scrutiny and disagreement. I am not opposed to algorithmic moderation. Used responsibly, it can make the internet more habitable space for all, particularly for those who are disproportionately targeted by harassment and abuse. However, moderation that is not transparent is not safety; it is control disguised as safety. In a world where artificial intelligence systems increasingly decide who is heard and who is quietly muted, we must hold these systems accountable for their explanations. Platforms that merely claim that they know how to handle moderation, do not build trust. Trust is constructed by showing their work. Shadow-banning is not just a technical issue; it is a question of what kind of digital public square we want to inhabit and whether we will insist on honest, accountable moderation. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this blog are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the U.S. Mission to Pakistan or USEFP/PUAN. Raheel Waqar is a student of Media and Development Communication at University of the Punjab, Lahore and can be reached at raheelwaqar540@gmail.com.