U Tell It.

For almost ten years, I believed I was living in a fairytale.

I married someone who I thought was my soulmate — respectful, loving, gentle, and attentive. For 9½ years, we never cursed at each other, never argued in unhealthy ways, and always found compromise. I truly believed I had found my twin flame, the person I would grow old with.

But one day… something changed.

Something in him flipped like a switch.

The man who once held me with love began treating me like I was invisible, worthless, and unimportant. The respect disappeared. The gentleness vanished. And suddenly, I was living with someone I no longer recognized.

The abuse began quietly — small insults, coldness, unpredictable anger. And then it escalated into things no one should ever have to live through: being grabbed, dragged, humiliated, choked, drowned, kicked, and psychologically tortured in my own home. I stayed because I had two children with him, because we were married, because I believed the man I loved still existed deep down. I thought a second chance would save us.

It didn’t.

It nearly destroyed me.

When I finally reached out for help, I learned something heartbreaking:

Even when a victim finds the courage to call for help… sometimes the system doesn’t protect them enough.

The police would show up, hand me a pamphlet, arrest him — and then release him shortly after. No empathy. No protection window. No understanding of how dangerous that “release” moment is for a victim. No safe time to gather my children, my documents, my belongings, or my thoughts. Every time he came back, the cycle restarted.

Victims don’t need pamphlets.

We need protection, empathy, and time.

Police need special trauma training so they understand that domestic violence is not just a “situation” — it is survival. It is terror. It is a cycle that traps victims emotionally, financially, and physically. Without proper training, some officers unknowingly put victims back into danger.

We also need stronger laws that prevent abusers from being released immediately. If abusers faced longer mandatory holds, they might think twice before repeating the violence. And victims would have a fighting chance to escape safely.

I tell my story because I survived something many women never walk away from.

I tell my story to reach the woman who feels hopeless, trapped, or ashamed.

I tell my story to say: You are not alone, and you deserve safety and love.

I tell my story because change starts when survivors speak up — not out of bitterness, but out of a desire to protect others.

I’m rebuilding now.

I’m healing.

And I’m raising my voice so another mother, another wife, another woman finds the courage to leave sooner, trust herself deeper, and demand the protections we all deserve.

If you are reading this and you’re struggling, please know:

There is hope. You are still worthy. And your story matters too.

I never thought I’d spend more than two decades in a prison you couldn’t see. No steel bars, no guards—just one man who knew how to lock me in without ever touching a key.

He didn’t need chains. He used time as his weapon—keeping me in a chair for hours while he talked and talked, dissecting every word, twisting every answer. If I agreed, I was accused of lying. If I spoke the truth, I was punished. It was a trap with no safe way out.

When it came to my body, consent didn’t exist. Exhaustion, illness, fear—none of it mattered. There were acts I begged him not to force on me, things that made me feel violated to my core. He called it “a wife’s duty.” I called it another battlefield I never chose to enter.

It didn’t stop at my body. Every business I built, he found a way to dismantle. When I earned, he drained it. When I saved, he spent it. During the pandemic, my online work kept our family alive, yet he acted like our survival was his doing.

People ask why I didn’t just leave. The truth is simple: I had children, and I couldn’t risk leaving them alone with him. My youngest has Asperger syndrome and ADHD. Under his father’s constant pressure, he developed anxiety at just twelve years old. If I left without him, I knew the damage would be worse than anything I could imagine. And in my country, his family’s influence could make complaints disappear. I had to wait until I saw a chance that was real.

That chance came in March 2025. My health had collapsed—depression, PTSD, and physical illness had taken over. I fled across state lines with my youngest child, armed with an Interim Protection Order. I thought safety would follow.

It didn’t. Police tried to persuade me to drop my case. NGOs promised help and then withdrew. I found myself fighting the system while still trying to heal from the man I escaped.

I’m still rebuilding. The fear is still there, but so is my voice.

If you’re reading this and you’ve stayed because you were protecting your children, you are not weak. You were surviving the only way you could until the moment to escape came. When it does, take it.

(Edited to remove identifying information)

Once upon a time, summer meant freedom. It meant the scent of sunscreen and fresh-cut grass, late nights under the stars, and mornings waking up to laughter echoing through the house. For one twelve-year-old girl, summer had always been a season of adventure: running barefoot through sprinklers and sharing secrets with her best friends in the big pool in her backyard.

She never thought summer could bring anything but happiness.

But that was before.

Before a stranger’s name lit up on her phone screen. Before the messages started harmless but slowly pulled her into something she didn’t understand. Before the fear, the confusion, the weight of threats she never imagined someone could place on a child.

Her world had been filled with innocence—until his words took that away.

There was some doubt about the stranger’s messages; they made her stomach twist, but she pushed it aside. Maybe I’m just overthinking. He had been kind at first—why would he mean anything bad?

As the messages grew darker, confusion set in. She felt like she had stepped into a maze with no way out, like she was wrapped in chains without a key. His words didn’t feel friendly anymore. But questioning him only made him turn cold.

She wanted to trust him—he had seemed kind before, hadn’t he?

But then came fear. A creeping dread that wrapped around her like a thick fog. His threats held her captive. She became afraid to look at her phone, but even more afraid not to.

Every notification sent a jolt of panic through her. She started shaking. She hid her phone under her pillow, hoping it was all a dream and the messages would stop. But she still found herself slowly taking the phone out, peeking at the screen, terrified of what he would say if she didn’t respond fast enough.

She told herself that as long as she could “handle it,” as long as she kept everything under control, it would be okay.

Then he suddenly changed the rules.

“If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’ll send everything.”

Her hands shook. Everything? To who?

She didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

“I know your parent’s Facebook. Your other parent’s work email. Your sibling’s school account. Don’t try anything.”

Her stomach twisted. The sickening feeling settled heavily. It wasn’t just about her anymore. If she messed up—her family would suffer.

She imagined the looks on their faces if they saw the pictures he had coerced from her. She imagined their disappointment, their anger.

What if they hated her? What if they never forgave her?

The fear was suffocating.

She stopped sleeping. She kept her phone close, always waiting, always watching. Even when she was with her family, their laughter sounded distant, like it belonged to a world she wasn’t part of anymore.

She wanted to tell them. She wanted to scream for help. But his threats echoed in her head:

You tell, and I ruin you.
You tell, and I ruin them.

So she stayed silent. She went to school and smiled when she was supposed to, pretending everything was fine while counting the seconds, waiting for the next message.

She had never felt so alone around so many people.

She kept zoning out between his demands, thinking, How is my life like this? How did this happen to me?

She kept telling herself she needed to say “no,” that she didn’t want to do this anymore.

But nothing seemed to faze him. He showed no remorse, no empathy.

When she told him she was twelve, he didn’t react at all. He didn’t care that she was a child — only that she was vulnerable and easy to manipulate.

And he got what he wanted.

It was tragic. Disturbing. Utterly disgusting.

And she had no way out.

She sat in her room, shaking, terrified, crying.

She grew exhausted from the threats and demands. She tried reaching out to a friend, but before she could finish, he messaged her again.

“You’re taking too long.”
“Are you texting other people?”
“You have 3 seconds to send the picture or I’ll message your family.”

She replied faster than she ever had in her life:

“No, please don’t.”
“I was taking the picture.”
“Please…stop…don’t.”

She tried to find excuses to buy time, but the fear consumed her.

And hanging over her was the thought: Even if I block him, he still has the photos. What would stop him from sending them anyway?

Still, she tried to get rid of him, desperate for the nightmare to end—even if the aftereffects never would.

Her friend finally responded and explained how to report someone like him.

She broke down in tears, finally hearing a lifeline after hours of silent pleading. She blocked him and reported him, feeling a small wave of relief—though the fear and shame lingered.

She kept the secret from her family, terrified of what they would think, afraid they would blame her.

She tried acting happy, doing normal things, but something inside her had changed. She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror. She felt disgusted by her own body. She blamed herself, even though she had been a child manipulated by an adult.

Months later, while she tried to carry on with life, agents from law enforcement visited her family’s home, investigating the predator. Her family learned the truth. She felt exposed, terrified of disappointing them, fearful of their judgment, even though she had done nothing wrong.

Eventually, she underwent questioning in a child-friendly environment. She told the investigator everything. It was terrifying, but she was honest.

More time passed. She continued struggling — with triggers, with school, with emotional numbing, with anger, with grief. She withdrew, acted out, felt disconnected.

Eventually she began counseling, then a type of trauma-focused therapy that helped her reprocess the memories in a safer way. It became a turning point.

She began healing. Slowly. Gradually. Not perfectly.

She learned to see the event not as her fault, but as something done to her by someone who preyed on her vulnerability.

With time, she regained pieces of herself — hope, self-worth, strength.

She even began thinking of writing her story one day, not as a record of what happened to her, but as proof that she survived.

That she endured something unimaginably dark… and made it out the other side.

Ten years old. That’s how old I was when it started. I didn’t know what it was then, I just knew it wasn’t right. I thought I had a friend. She said I was special. She said she loved me. And I wanted to believe her. I needed someone. But what she gave me wasn’t love. It was confusion. Fear. Silence.

I used to hide in the bathroom to cry. It was my safe place before she took that from me too. The same walls that once felt private became my worst nightmare. I never knew how long I'd be kept in there, what she would do, or how long I had to pretend to be happy afterwards. I remember washing my hands over and over, wanting to rip my skin off, like I could scrub away what she did to me. I was ten. Just ten.

I had friends, even then. But I was never really with them. I laughed when I was supposed to. I smiled in the pictures. But I kept everything to myself. I was too scared to tell anyone, I was scared of what might happen if I did. If I let them come too close, they’d know. They’d see how broken I was, how I was falling apart. I didn’t want them to see it. I was ashamed and scared of what would happen if they did; what if they got pulled into it too?

She told me things I shouldn’t have ever heard. Showed me things I can never unsee. She said if I ever left, she would hurt herself or kill herself. That kept me stuck. Frozen. I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t want to be alone again. But I didn’t want to be touched either. I didn’t want any of it. Still, I stayed. Because I couldn’t leave. I didn’t know how.

When I was thirteen, I felt like my life was over. I don't talk about that part often. But it's real. When you’re that young and your parents don’t see the signs - the way you stop talking, the way you flinch when someone touches your shoulder, the way you stay up all night crying because you're scared to sleep, the random bruises you told them were from playing or how you stopped laughing at the things you used to love - that pain just piles up. You start to believe that maybe no one will ever notice. Maybe no one will ever see you. Eventually, it feels easier to disappear than to keep living through it.

Even after she left, I was still haunted. I hated my body. I hated how memories came back like flashbacks in the middle of the day, destroying my mood in seconds. And yet, even with all of that, part of me missed her. That’s the scariest part. I missed the person who had hurt me. I had isolated myself so much that she had become my entire world. How do you grieve someone who broke you?

There were five of us. Five girls, all being abused by her. We all knew what was going on. She made us watch what she did to the others, forcing us to watch how they were in pain. It was almost as if she fed off the control and the manipulation like we were just her puppets. Some of the girls don't even remember most of it anymore - Their minds have locked those memories in a box and lit it on fire. Maybe that's the only way they were able to find peace. I remember more than I wish I did. I carry their stories with mine, and sometimes, that weight is too much for me to hold. But I speak because they can’t. Or they won't. Maybe they just still haven’t found the words.

I wish I could go back and tell that little girl to run. To scream. To tell someone. I wish I could take the pain from my friends who I tried to protect. The ones she hurt too. I tried to keep her attention on me, thinking maybe I could save them. Maybe it helped a little. But they still carry scars too.

It's almost been five years since I last saw her. I’m seventeen now. I’m not free, not yet, but I'm still fighting. I’m speaking. I didn’t go to court. I couldn't do it. It was too much. But this story is my way of reclaiming what she stole.

I'm not the same girl she knew. I will not let her define me anymore. I still remember. I still hurt. But I also have hope now, hope that maybe someone will read this and realize they are not alone. Maybe they’ll speak up. Or maybe they’ll listen when someone else finally finds the courage to whisper, “It happened to me too.”

My cousin's boyfriend tried to abuse me. I was 17 and he was 34, he took advantage about me being at a bad moment of my life and pretended to care, he listened and hugged me. When my cousin was still sleeping, he turned on his phone lantern to wake me up, then he walked away to the living room in silence and without explanation.

I wasn't ready to sleep yet, so I went to the living room confused. Then he asked if I was stressed, I said no because I wasn't, he insisted again and again until I said "a little" he commanded me to lay down while he gave me a massage, after a minute of doubt I said "I know what you're doing", he played innocent by saying he was just giving me a massage because I was stressed.

"Do you want to know a place near to your butt where you grab and squirm?" I said instantly "no", and he used the same tactic of insisting until I said "maybe" because he was being pushy.

I didn't squirm like he planned, it hurt me and I told him, he finally gave up and kept touching my back and ribs through my clothes, I was so confused, I knew there was something wrong.

When he rised my shirt I turned on the flight response and woke up being saying "I'm excited, I'm sorry" and left, locked myself in my room and tried to sleep but I couldn't, I was shocked.

The next morning I waited until my cousin woke up, I told him I didn't trust him anymore, that I didn't feel safe, she was worried and about to ask for more, but suddenly he appeared interrupting the conversation.

After breakfast and a wishpered argument between them, she got inside my room, locked the door and asked softly. I told her everything, I knew she would understand, she's a good person after all.

They broke up, this situation wasn't the reason, just the last straw. She wanted to clarify it so bad because didn't want me to feel guilty, also paid me therapy and wanted me to live with her and take care of me for months.

This was 3 years ago, nowadays he has no legal consequences and still has his sponsored photography YouTube channel. I wanted to take this to the courtroom for a while, but for what? Cases like this are ignored on my country all the time. Just wanted to say it out loud because he doesn't deserve my silence.

My name is Aisha (pseudonym), and I am speaking to you from [redacted], Pakistan, where my life, and the life of my 8-year-old son, is in imminent danger. I am a survivor of horrific domestic violence, and for the past two years, I've been trapped in a relentless, brutal fight for justice and for my child's safety. This isn't just my personal tragedy; it's a stark warning about how women in Pakistan can be utterly destroyed by powerful men, corrupt systems, and even complicit corporations.

For a decade, I was the main breadwinner in my marriage, pouring my heart and soul into building our life. Our marriage, a love match from 2015, gave me my beloved son. We even had plans to sell our flat and move abroad, hoping for a better and safer future. But in 2022, everything shattered. I discovered my ex-husband was having an affair with a coworker at [redacted], one of Pakistan's biggest corporate entities. From that moment, my life became a living hell. I endured escalating emotional, financial, and physical abuse from him and his family.

I was being abused, systematically broken down, and I felt I had nowhere to turn. In a desperate attempt to stop the torment, I reached out to my ex-husband's company, believing they would hold him accountable for his conduct. Instead, they shockingly ganged up against me. They served me a legal notice for divorce. Then, my ex-husband filed two absolutely fake cybercrime cases against me, baseless accusations designed to silence and discredit me.

But the calculated attacks didn't stop there. Even our dreams of escape were stolen from me. My ex-husband stole our property papers and transferred the property into his father's name, systematically depriving me and my son of our rightful inheritance, our only means of starting a new life. It's clear now: this divorce, this abuse, this theft, it was all planned.

Armed with these false reports, and now having stolen our future, my ex-husband and his powerful corporate allies reportedly shared them with my own employer. They succeeded. I was fired from my job. For the past nine months, I've been jobless, stripped of my financial independence, which was my family's lifeline. Imagine: a working mother, trying to protect her child, suddenly without any income, facing a barrage of lies and a carefully orchestrated plan to leave us with nothing.

An Endless Battle for Justice and Safety

Since then, my life has been an endless cycle of court dates in Karachi. I am not fighting one or two cases, but eight court cases simultaneously across various levels: session courts, district courts, and even the high courts. It's been over a year of this, and there have been zero results. No justice, no resolution, just constant pressure, endless delays, and draining expenses.

This isn't just slow justice; it's a profound abandonment. I've tried to reach out to every single human rights, women's rights, and child rights organization in Pakistan, begging for help. The disheartening truth is, no one bothered to respond. In my experience, they are just NGOs with zero results to serve the survivors, and frankly, they should be closed. The only departments who have shown any support or willingness to act are the local police and other law enforcement agencies. This leaves me utterly alone, without any financial or moral support from civil society organizations.

Now, my life is at an even higher risk. I am receiving direct life threats, not just for myself, but for my child too. I believe they are now planning to kill me and my child. The premeditation, the theft, the false cases, the threats – it all points to a calculated plan to erase us. The fear is constant, a shadow that follows our every step. How long can I survive like this? How much longer can I fight without any end in sight, with my life and my son's future hanging by a thread?

A Cry for International Attention

My story exposes a brutal truth: how powerful individuals and corporations like Green Power Energy in Pakistan can weaponize the legal system, fabricate charges, collude to steal and impoverish, and ultimately, threaten to eliminate a woman simply for standing up for herself. It highlights the desperate and dangerous plight of countless women like me, who are abused, abandoned by a flawed system, and left to face threats alone – even when the very organizations meant to support them fail to respond.

I am telling my story because I believe that publicizing these grave injustices might be my only hope for protection and to expose how devoted, working mothers like me are being destroyed by the very systems that should protect us. I am fighting for my survival, and for my son's future. I need the world to hear what is happening to me.

Please help me raise my voice

My story like many begin early in life and continues through your life if changes aren't made by you or someone you trust.

Mine lasted for about 50 yrs and I tried to get help but wasn't believed, they didn't want to get involved, it's all in your head. That's what I was told so I did the best I could to get by. I'm sad to say I punished myself, not everybody could be wrong, right. I let others walk all over me. I was abused in about every way there was. Once in awhile I tried to talk to someone but I was pushed aside nobody wanted to here that kind of thing. I was homeless from around 15 yrs old till I was 20 yrs old when I got pregnant and the state got me an apartment. Sad. The abuse and control never stopped. The emotional abuse was the worst for me.

I went on to have 3 children. It took me 7 yrs to get rid of the father and when I finally did my family took him in. He was an alcoholic, drug abuser story telling liar. Spent 10 yrs in prison got out and my family was there for him. I couldn't understand why. After my kids were grown with their own children they each spent time with him. One by one people were leaving my life. My depression took me down even further. I didn't know what to do, I reached out to God many times but when I had lost everyone 5 brothers and sisters, niece's, nephews, my mom and all three children walked away from me, I couldn't think of a reason to live anymore. My kids just took and took. I just gave up. About a year ago I was so deep in depression I was ready to go but something on FB caught my eye, it was like God was talking to me. I was asked, "did you help your little girl I thought,"What?" Your inner child did you leave her behind. Something clicked in my head and I had tears running down my cheeks," I never even thought about her, age 4 yrs old and 14 yrs old was just left alone I felt terrible. We got together, talked I assured her she was safe and I would never let anyone hurt her again and she'd never be alone. I felt like a big rock was lifted off my chest I could breathe, smile, laugh again. I set bounders in my life and promised myself I would never go back only forward. My feelings are that God helped me out of the pity I had dug for myself and I thank him every day.

I have always been a giver. I want to help others get out of their pits and live again in what ever way I can. I thought maybe I could start here. I have many things I want to do and it's all helping others.