Where Are the Women of Gilgit-Baltistan When Hate Speaks Loudest?
While strolling through social media the other day, I came across a video of a man in Gilgit saying, “Agar tum ek maarogay, hum sau maarenge” (“If you kill one, we will kill a hundred of you”).
Thousands in attendance seemed to be ready to act on his call.
To make sense of his words, I pictured a hundred lives taken; a city in mourning, villages in ruin. I imagined the pain: generations erased, children orphaned, women widowed, and entire communities broken beyond repair.
That statement did not sound brave to me. It sounded crude and cruel. It was a violent threat against another community; a call for more suffering, an invitation to be part of a vicious cycle that has left so many shattered on all sides for so long.
But that wasn’t the only video I saw. I watched the video of a young child giving a speech, saying he was ready to give his life for his sect; he was barely twelve or thirteen. I saw many other young men spreading hate on every page with hateful comments. Many seemed to be at the edge, ready for war, posting from their phones without fear of any consequences.
Amid all this cacophony, I couldn’t help but wonder: where does this hate come from? Who taught them to despise their neighbors, the same people they once studied and played with? The people who speak their language, look just like them, dress just like them, and come from the same roots?
Who planted the idea that following a different sect makes someone your enemy, or that a whole community can so easily be blamed and violently threatened for the acts of a few?
We in Gilgit-Baltistan are aware of our own history of bloodshed.
For decades, every family, regardless of sect, has suffered one way or another because a few men have chosen violence over compassion. These men were apparently taught that killing is easier than understanding, that hate is a sign of strength, and that taking lives brings honor.
And I also kept asking myself: where are the women’s voices in all of this? Do they have a voice? Do they have a say? Does their voice matter? Does our voice matter?
What are their thoughts? What are our roles in these uneasy times? Are we just there to tremble in fear and shed tears when our brothers, sons, and near and dear ones are sacrificed at the altar of hate and violence?
We as women, as mothers, sisters, and teachers, what can we do to save our children from inheriting this cycle of hate? What can a mother do when she overhears her son speaking the language of hate or revenge?
Can she not stop him from adding oil to the fire? Where are the mothers when their sons pick up weapons against others, not against strangers, but their own neighbors who follow a different sect of Islam?
We in Gilgit-Baltistan have seen enough of men’s anger and revenge. It is time for women to rise as voices of peace, just as Hazrat Zainab bint-e Ali (RA) did after the tragedy of Karbala.
When her family was slaughtered and her homeland filled with grief, Hazrat Zainab (RA) did not call for revenge. She did not respond with hate. She stood before the tyrant and spoke with dignity, truth, and courage, reminding the world that power without justice is weakness, and that patience in the face of cruelty is the highest form of strength.
Her words transformed grief into resistance, and her resilience became a symbol of hope for generations of Muslims. Hazrat Zainab (RA) proved that a woman’s voice, when rooted in faith and moral clarity, can shake empires and restore humanity’s conscience.
We need that same spirit in our valleys today. We need women who can speak truth to power, who can calm the flames of hate, and who can remind our brothers and sons that revenge is not bravery; compassion is.
It is time for women to take a seat at the table; in the small villages’ religious councils, in assemblies, in the courts, and in policymaking. Mere presence is not enough. We need to make our voices heard. We need women’s voices, not just when they lament the loss of their near and dear ones, but as architects of a society grounded in compassion, forbearance, and understanding.
We need women who start teaching the message of Islam; a message not rooted in hate or revenge, but in mercy, justice, and care for the vulnerable: the poor, the orphans, the widows, the sick, and the elderly.
Islam was never about dividing humanity; it was about uniting people through compassion.
I am not asking for something extraordinary; what I am asking for is for us to follow the Muslim women before us. We can examine the historical role of Muslim women in peace and decision-making within Islam.
History itself bears witness that Muslim women have always played a vital role in guiding society toward peace and justice.
Throughout Islamic history, from Hazrat Khadijah (RA), Hazrat Fatima (RA), and Hazrat Ayesha (RA) to Fatimah al-Fihri, Muslim women have embodied wisdom, leadership, and courage. That same legacy lives on today in women like Dr. Hayat Sindi, Shirin Ebadi, Ibtihaj Muhammad, Ilhan Omar, Rashida Talib, and Tawakkol Karman, who continue to uplift their communities and inspire the world with their vision, strength, and faith.
These women remind us that peace is not passive; it is built through wisdom, moral courage, and education.
As I call for the women of Gilgit-Baltistan to make their voices count, let us start by having more women from our villages, valleys, and towns step forward to lead, speak, and guide.
Let our voices teach our sons that bravery is not in violence but in restraint, not in revenge but in forgiveness, not in taking life but in saving it.
It’s time to reclaim the spirit of Islam that uplifts the human soul and silence the voices that call for blood.
Because true power lies not in hate, but in compassion, and no one knows that better than a mother.
Peace in Gilgit-Baltistan will not come from the barrel of a gun, but from the voice of a mother.
When men speak the language of revenge, it is time for women to speak the language of compassion and reclaim Islam’s true message of mercy, justice, and understanding.
