Women’s heart attack signs often missed

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.

“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.