PAKISTAN: The story that changed me forever (My voice to #EndGBV)

About this Story

This story was first published on the World Pulse platform and is shared here through a collaboration between World Pulse and Imaara Survivor Support Foundation. As part of Imaara’s Project Tell-Tale initiative, selected stories from World Pulse are being cross-posted to amplify survivor voices and strengthen conversations around gender-based violence.

The story was submitted in response to a call for stories connected to the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence (2025), inviting survivors, advocates, and allies to share lived experiences, reflections, and pathways toward justice and healing.

Read the original story on World Pulse!

By: Laraib Shah

(The author has chosen to be identified in this publication)

I never experienced gender-based violence myself, but I grew up seeing it around me in small, silent, heartbreaking ways. Sometimes the pain you witness in others becomes a quiet wound inside you, shaping the way you see the world forever.

There was a girl in my neighborhood whom I’ll call Ayesha to protect her privacy. She was bright, warm, and full of dreams that she talked about with so much hope.

But slowly, I watched something change in her. Her smile became shorter, her laughter less frequent, and her presence quieter. People whispered around her, but no one ever asked her what was wrong. Everyone acted as if it was easier not to know.

One night, I heard her crying through the thin wall between our houses. It wasn’t the kind of cry that comes from a bad day, it was the kind that comes from a soul breaking. I froze. I wanted to knock on her door, to ask if she was okay, to tell her she wasn’t alone. But fear held me still. I told myself, “It’s not my place,” and stayed silent.

The next morning, she was gone. Her family had taken her back to her parents’ home. The only explanation we heard was, “There were problems.” That was the day I learned that silence does not protect survivors, it protects the ones who hurt them. And my silence, even if it wasn’t intentional, felt like a small betrayal.

For a long time, the guilt stayed with me. Not because I caused her pain, but because I did nothing when she needed someone. In our communities, we are taught not to interfere, not to ask questions, not to involve ourselves in “private matters.” But ignoring violence doesn’t make it disappear. It just allows it to grow in the dark.

Ayesha’s story transformed me in ways I never expected. Around that same time, my sister began her own journey in the fight against gender-based violence. She launched an initiative called Voice Against GBV, dedicated to supporting survivors, raising awareness, educating communities, and encouraging people to speak up, whether for themselves or for those who feel unheard. Watching her fight so fearlessly inspired me deeply. Her strength lit a spark in me, reminding me that change often begins with a single brave voice, and then grows as others join in. I slowly became part of her mission, learning from her, supporting her work, and taking my own steps to stand against the silence that once held me back.

Since then, I’ve learned more about emotional and digital abuse, about the signs people often miss, and about how to support someone who feels trapped. I have become the friend people come to when they need a safe space. I talk openly about GBV, even when it makes others uncomfortable. I guide young girls on online safety and confidence. And above all, I listen, truly listen! to women who feel unheard.

I may not be a survivor, but I am a witness who refuses to stay silent anymore. I fight for every girl who cannot speak, for every woman who whispers instead of shouts, and for every person who thinks no one will believe them.

Ayesha never told her full story, but the echo of her silence stays with me. It reminds me why raising my voice matters. If my words can bring even a little awareness, strength, or comfort to someone, then sharing this story is worth it.

Because no girl should ever feel alone. Not again. Not ever.