Sometimes, I open TikTok and find another Baloch woman’s face placed in a collage beside an unfamiliar man. Other times, a photograph has been taken from her account, manipulated into something sexually explicit, or circulated with a caption intended to shame her. On Instagram, too, I encounter women’s pictures and videos reposted without permission, their lives turned into content for strangers to judge.
Having spent seven years online as a creator, I have seen this so often that even calling it abuse can feel strangely difficult. There is an expectation that we should be used to it by now. When women speak about harassment or the misuse of their images, the response is familiar, “But you chose this life.” As though sharing our work, our faces, or an ordinary moment means consenting to whatever someone else decides to do with it. Among women who create online, conversations about stolen content, fake accounts and manipulated photographs have become routine. We exchange screenshots, report pages, warn one another and carry on. The repetition makes the harm appear ordinary. It conceals how much time and freedom it takes from us.
These experiences fall within digital gender-based violence: harm enabled or amplified through technology that targets people because of their gender or affects them disproportionately. Threats, stalking, impersonation and the non-consensual creation or circulation of sexualised images can undermine a woman’s safety without anyone having to approach her physically. The consequences enter her work and the decisions about what she feels able to share. This is not confined to the women I know. Plan International’s 2020 report, Free to Be Online? included a survey of 14,071 girls and young women aged 15–25 across 22 countries. Fifty-eight per cent of those surveyed had experienced online harassment. The study documented how abuse could push girls to reduce their social media use or change how they expressed themselves. The loss of freedom described in the report is familiar in the accounts I hear. [1]
In Balochistan, unequal access to education and digital literacy can make it harder to question how an image was produced or manipulated. Formal education alone does not guarantee that someone will recognise an altered photograph or an AI-generated image. A fabrication can be treated as evidence against a woman while the violation committed against her goes unexamined. Its power also lies in what people are willing to believe about women. Where appearance and public presence become measures of character, an image may need little verification to become an accusation. Those who circulate it to mock her, or accept it without question, can extend the humiliation into her family and community. The fabrication becomes a rumour; the rumour becomes a reason to scrutinise, restrict or silence her. For Baloch women whose choices are already judged through ideas of honour and respectability, this scrutiny follows us onto the screen. It shapes what we post, how much of ourselves we reveal and whether we feel able to remain online. I began speaking to other Baloch women about these experiences for the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence. I wanted to understand what staying visible asks of us, and what happens when we seek help.
For Sanj Baloch, a Karachi-based vlogger, creating videos is a way to feel free. Listening to Balochi music by Arif Baloch and Noor Khan Bizanjo, she imagines herself dancing and creating in a world of her own. Sharing that joy has exposed her to relentless scrutiny.
She describes men commenting on her body, mocking her weight and questioning her appearance. Before social media, being thin had not been a source of anxiety. Repeated comments changed that. She jokes about asking ChatGPT every morning for advice on gaining weight. Behind the humour is a painful change: harassment has begun shaping how she eats and how she sees herself. The comments did not end when she closed the app. They followed her into her relationship with her body and her willingness to create again. At the time of our interview, Sanj had been largely inactive online for several months. “It’s a break born of fear,” she says. She worries about photographs, videos and even her voice being misused. She describes images in which she believes AI was used to depict her without the mask she wears in her vlogs. A generated face does not reveal her actual appearance. The fabrication can still become material for harassment. A small circle of young Baloch women who understand these risks has helped sustain her confidence. She continues to encourage other girls to create and participate, even as she struggles with her own exposure. “We need protection,” she insists. “As Baloch women, we are very prone to risk.”
Katrina Ali, a Baloch influencer and activist based in Italy, speaks about deliberately choosing visibility. She uses social media to discuss violence against women and celebrate Baloch clothing and cultural heritage. Seeing other Baloch women sharing their lives publicly encouraged her to show her face. That choice is often used to dismiss what happens afterwards: if she chose to be seen, she should have expected harassment. Almost every Baloch woman creator she knows, Katrina tells me, has had a photograph stolen or misused. Creating content requires time and imagination. Having it taken adds hours of searching for copies, reporting accounts and waiting for responses. When women object, they are asked why they posted the photograph in the first place. The person who took it, altered it or circulated it to humiliate her slips out of the conversation. Katrina speaks about the resilience needed to remain online. Her account makes me question how readily we demand that resilience.
Another Baloch woman, who asked to remain anonymous, describes sharing an achievement and feeling that her work had been eclipsed by attention to her appearance. She wanted recognition for her abilities. Instead, she felt viewers were concentrating on her face, embroidered clothes and scarf. Requests from strangers began reaching her personal account, leaving her feeling exposed. She eventually removed the post. As someone involved in mental health advocacy, she recognises why a woman might step back to protect her wellbeing. She does not regard leaving the internet as a lasting answer to harassment. Her concern is the decision women are forced to make in the meantime: whether the satisfaction of sharing their work is worth the fear that may follow. Deleting a post can bring relief and mean giving up recognition or an opportunity. The achievement remains; the woman becomes less able to share it.
The accusation that women invite abuse carries particular weight when their visibility is tied to family honour. Dhreen, a Baloch content creator, activist and co-founder of The Baloch Action Network, uses social media to document human rights violations, climate injustice and the Baloch struggle for survival. Her work has taken her stories into international forums. Recognition beyond her community has existed alongside condemnation within it. “In my community, girls are still discouraged from using social media,” she says. “The struggle of honor is always dumped on our shoulders.” Dhreen describes being shamed by Baloch men of different ages and accused of undermining Baloch honour simply by being visible. The technology men use freely becomes a test of women’s morality. These judgements also shape whether women feel able to seek help.
She describes fears of blame, restrictions, forced marriage or isolation if abuse becomes known. Some girls worry that reporting will bring further punishment at home. Others fear being dismissed or shamed by authorities. A woman can understand what has happened to her and still decide that speaking carries too much risk. “A woman’s worth is determined by how strongly she can hold her family’s honor,” Dhreen says. “Even a fake photo can destroy her life.” A fabricated image exploits this willingness to hold a woman responsible for what it appears to show. Even when people question its authenticity, she may still be expected to explain herself.
Family responses can change what happens after abuse. A second Baloch digital creator, who also asked to remain anonymous, describes threats, deleted accounts and long breaks from posting. She began creating out of curiosity and enjoyment. Sharing online brought confidence, along with scrutiny of her clothes, voice and expressions.
“From the very beginning, I received threats,” she says. “Abuse became normal.” Her family stood beside her. “Many girls stay silent because they know society will blame them. I was lucky, my parents and siblings stood by me completely.” Their support did not stop the harassment. It meant she did not have to face it while also defending her right to be online at home. “I realized the problem wasn’t me,” she says. “It was the people who made something as simple as sharing a post feel unsafe.” Her experience brings me back to the women who sustained Sanj. Being believed, having someone help report an account, or knowing that your family will not blame you can interrupt the isolation harassment creates. Why must a woman prove she is “good enough” to deserve respect online? Why must her presence be educational, respectable or useful before her boundaries matter? Women can be funny, silly, playful or simply enjoying themselves. We should be able to post a joke, dance to a song or share an ordinary moment without justifying it through an achievement or a cause. Respect should not be a reward for being the kind of woman others approve of.
Protection should not depend on being fortunate enough to have a supportive family or circle of friends. Women’s care for one another cannot replace the responsibility of platforms and public institutions.
Seemak Baloch, a lawyer from Turbat now based in Karachi, sees the normalisation of harassment as a barrier to addressing it. Unwanted messages, threats, impersonation, stalking and the misuse of photographs are treated as ordinary features of online life. It becomes harder to name an experience as abuse when everyone insists that you should expect it. She describes young women using initials, pseudonyms or anonymous profiles to participate with less exposure. Anonymity can provide protection. Having to hide also reveals how much calculation can sit behind the simple act of opening an account. Knowing where to report does not remove the fear of judgement, family backlash or further restrictions. Digital Rights Foundation’s 2025 Digital Security Helpline report, released in 2026, recorded 3,012 new complaints, including 2,586 cyber harassment cases. Balochistan accounted for 3 per cent of cases reported within Pakistan. The foundation connects lower reporting from the province with gaps in awareness, infrastructure and access. These figures describe complaints reaching one service; they cannot tell us how many women experience abuse without reporting it. [2]The same report found that only 51 per cent of reported cyber harassment cases came from cities with operational cybercrime offices. Access to help can involve distance and expense before a woman even reaches the point of explaining what happened. [2]Seemak calls for complaints to be taken seriously, privacy to be protected and survivors to be treated without judgement. A reporting process offers little reassurance if using it exposes a woman to further harm. She places responsibility across families, schools, communities, platforms and public institutions, including education that teaches boys empathy, consent and boundaries.
As the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence approaches, technology-facilitated violence demands greater attention. For the women I spoke to, its consequences reach into their homes, relationships, work and freedom to participate in public life. Addressing it means listening when women describe harm, holding those responsible accountable and ensuring that seeking protection does not cost women their independence.
The women I spoke to have practical demands. Sanj wants prompt action when images and videos are misused. The creator whose family supported her calls for stronger moderation, better privacy controls and support with the emotional consequences of harassment. Katrina places particular emphasis on men’s responsibility. “The first and foremost step to protect women from online abuse is educating men,” she says. “If communities took the time to teach men not to harass or objectify women, the situation wouldn’t be this bad.” She calls on platforms to respond, too: “They should implement stricter policies, act on our reports, and ensure quick bans for harassment.” Dhreen proposes digital safety education in Balochi and Urdu, spaces where women can share experiences without fear, and workshops involving fathers, brothers and religious leaders. She wants schools to address consent, bystander responsibility and legal rights. Balochi radio, poetry and community theatre could carry these conversations beyond a workshop or a social media post.
These demands go beyond telling women to secure their passwords. An account’s privacy settings cannot stop someone from fabricating an image. Recognising a fabrication offers little protection if the people around a woman remain willing to shame her. Digital literacy needs to include consent, questioning what we encounter and understanding the consequences of forwarding it. Families must support women without making that support conditional on disappearance. Platforms need reporting systems that respond to the abuse women describe, including when it occurs in their own languages.
For those of us scrolling past this content, responsibility begins before we press share. A mocking caption, a forwarded photograph or a speculative comment can extend the original abuse. We can refuse to circulate it, challenge others who do and stand beside the woman being targeted. I return to the images on my screen and how ordinary their circulation has become. Behind each one is a woman who may have to explain herself to her family, search for copies, report accounts or decide whether posting again is worth the risk. What takes a stranger seconds to share can occupy far more of her life. The women I spoke to want room to create, document injustice, celebrate their culture and enjoy themselves. They want to be taken seriously when that freedom is violated. The 16 Days of Activism gives us an occasion to name these responsibilities. They remain ours when the campaign ends.
For me, the question extends beyond whether Baloch women can become visible. It is whether we can remain visible without continually defending our right to be there. Our presence is not permission to harm us. Our safety should not depend on our disappearance.
Reports cited
- Plan International. Free to Be Online? Girls’ and Young Women’s Experiences of Online Harassment (2020). Survey: 14,071 participants aged 15–25 in 22 countries. Findings and methods: Read source
- Digital Rights Foundation. Digital Security Helpline Annual Report 2025, released April 2026. Organisation’s summary of findings: Read source
