Modesty is not woman’s burden alone

By Shabana Ayaz

Every year, conversations about the hijab return to Muslim communities around the world. World Hijab Day, founded by Bangladeshi-American activist Nazma Khan in 2013, is observed globally on Feb. 1, while in Pakistan the religious political party Jamaat-e-Islami and some other religious and civil-society groups have traditionally organized hijab-awareness activities around Sept. 4.

Whatever the date, these observances generally focus on the significance of the hijab — the headscarf many Muslim women wear — the right of women to practice their faith, and the values of modesty and dignified dress.

But two horrific cases involving little girls in Pakistan force us to ask whether our conversation about modesty has become far too one-sided.

In Karachi’s Qayyumabad area, a toddler named Aizal was allegedly taken from her home by a relative on the pretext of buying her something. According to police, she was returned in critical condition and rushed to hospital, where she died; doctors reported signs consistent with sexual assault, and a teenage relative was taken into custody.

Then came the case of five-year-old Ayat Noor in Haripur, who went missing after leaving her home. Her body was recovered from a well more than two weeks later, and police said she had been sexually assaulted and killed; several suspects were detained, and one reportedly confessed before a court.

Significantly, the Quran does not begin its instruction on modesty by telling only women what to wear.

In Surah An-Nur, verse 30, it first commands believing men to lower their gaze and guard their chastity; the following verse gives parallel instructions to believing women.

That sequence deserves greater attention, because Islam does not place the entire burden of sexual morality on women. Men are accountable for their eyes and their desires — and, above all, for their conduct.

For generations, we have trained daughters to protect themselves from the world, while doing far less to teach sons that they must never become the people from whom daughters need protection. That educational gap can have devastating consequences.

What Türkiye made me notice

Living in Türkiye made me think more deeply about this question.

On the metros of Istanbul and Ankara, women dress in many different ways. Some wear full hijab or cover their hair with a simple scarf; others wear ordinary Western clothing, or considerably more revealing dress. I remember standing on a train opposite a woman whose arms, neck, and much of her midriff were visible. My own eyes briefly went toward her — but then I looked at the men around me, and noticed something that stayed with me.

Nobody appeared to be staring at her or examining her body. Nobody seemed to be using the crowded carriage as an excuse to move closer or to touch her.

After that, I began to observe this more consciously, and the contrast with my memories of bus journeys in Karachi was uncomfortable. I remembered hands slipping around the sides of seats, men deliberately pressing against women, and opportunistic groping in crowded buses — where even women in full burqa were not necessarily spared.

That contrast led me back to the same question raised so painfully by the cases of Aizal and Ayat Noor. If clothing is the problem, why are fully covered women also harassed? And if the absence of a hijab is supposed to provoke men, how can that argument possibly explain the sexual abuse of children? The responsibility lies not with the victim’s clothing, but with the person who chooses to violate another human being.

The other hijab

To insist on the hijab of a man’s gaze does not diminish the importance of a woman’s hijab.

For a Muslim woman, the hijab may be an expression of faith, modesty, dignity, and religious identity. If she chooses to wear it in obedience to her understanding of Islam, her decision deserves respect, and she must be protected against discrimination because of her religious dress. But a woman who does not wear the hijab possesses exactly the same right to dignity and physical safety. Her clothing is not a license for harassment, just as attractive or revealing clothing does not authorize a lustful stare, unwanted touching, or assault.

Being outside after dark does not amount to consent. And when the victim is a child, any discussion of her clothing should never even enter the conversation.

This is why the cases of Aizal and Ayat Noor should disturb us at a level deeper than the horror of the individual crimes. They challenge a convenient social narrative that places disproportionate responsibility on women while avoiding harder questions about male behavior. A society genuinely committed to haya — the Islamic principle of modesty and moral decency — must address both sides of that moral responsibility. It should teach women the modesty their faith asks of them, while teaching men, with equal seriousness, that Islam begins their moral responsibility with their own eyes, desires, and conduct.

Sermons alone will not protect children

There is another uncomfortable truth: sexual crimes will not disappear through religious instruction and sermons alone.

The abuse of children requires us to move from moral exhortation to effective accountability. Pakistan needs robust laws, professional policing and investigation, modern forensic systems, reliable child-protection mechanisms, and courts capable of delivering justice without endless delay. Most important, perpetrators must know they are likely to be caught and held accountable.

A severe punishment written into law means little if offenders believe investigations will collapse, evidence will disappear, or cases will drag on for years. The real deterrent lies not merely in the severity of a sentence, but in the certainty and fairness of its enforcement.

Law and moral education must therefore reinforce each other, and families, schools, mosques, and religious scholars all have a role to play. When we teach a daughter about the hijab, we should also teach her brother about lowering his gaze.

When we teach girls about haya and personal safety, we should teach boys about boundaries, consent, and responsibility. And when a woman is harassed or assaulted, our first question should concern the conduct of the perpetrator, not the clothing of the victim.

So whenever we observe a day dedicated to the hijab — whether on Feb. 1 internationally or through the Sept. 4 observances held by some groups in Pakistan — we should continue to defend women’s right to practice their faith and observe modesty without ridicule or discrimination.

But let us speak just as loudly to men, reminding them that modesty also requires them to guard their gaze, control their desires, and keep their intentions and conduct within moral boundaries.

They must be taught to respect a woman’s dignity, and to understand that another person’s body is inviolable — regardless of what she wears, where she goes, or how she chooses to live.

If we genuinely desire a modest society, we must speak about our sons’ gaze and conduct with the same seriousness we devote to our daughters’ covering.

Aizal was only a toddler; Ayat Noor was just five years old. Neither had any choice of dress that could explain what happened to her, and neither should ever have needed protection from the predatory behavior of an adult.

Their tragedies leave us with a question that goes beyond debating women’s clothing and respecting a woman’s choice to wear the hijab: we also need to spend enough time teaching our sons how to control themselves and behave.

The views expressed in this commentary are the author’s own.