What pained me almost as much as the crime itself was how quickly the tragedy faded from public consciousness. A society that becomes insensitive to the suffering of its daughters begins losing a part of its soul.
Dr Fiaz Maqbool Fazili
Another daughter. Another grief. Another shattered family. Another wound upon the conscience of Kashmir.
The brutal rape and murder of little “Haya” (name changed) has left a scar on our collective soul. A Class 5 student, barely ten years old, she was taken from this world in a manner so cruel that words struggle to describe the horror. Her only “crime” was being born into a society where some hearts have become so deprived of humanity that they no longer recognise the sanctity of childhood, innocence, or life itself.
She was not a statistic. She was not a social media trend. She was not a fleeting headline. She was someone’s dream, someone’s heartbeat, someone’s carefully nurtured child.
Today, as people demand justice, we must ask ourselves a difficult but necessary question: what does justice truly mean?
The police deserve appreciation for the professionalism and urgency with which they investigated the case and apprehended the accused. Swift detection and arrest demonstrate law enforcement’s capability when institutions function with commitment and purpose. Yet even while acknowledging this commendable work, we must recognise that justice cannot end with the arrest of a suspect.
Across social media platforms, debates rage over whether the accused deserves life imprisonment, capital punishment, or even public execution. Emotions are understandably high. The brutality of such crimes evokes anger, grief, and an instinctive desire for the harshest possible punishment.
But while society argues over punishments, a deeper question remains largely unaddressed: why does the state punish offenders in the first place?
The purpose of law is not merely revenge. Modern legal systems seek accountability, deterrence, protection of society, and reinforcement of moral boundaries. Punishment sends a message that certain conduct is intolerable and that society will defend its most vulnerable members.
Yet the uncomfortable truth is that despite increasingly stringent laws, sexual violence and crimes against women continue to occur. Every new tragedy raises a troubling question: are our responses truly addressing the roots of the problem, or are we merely reacting after irreparable harm has already been done?
A safe society is built long before police investigations begin and long before courts pronounce judgment.
It is built in homes. It is built in schools. It is built in neighbourhoods. It is built in mohallas. It is built in places of worship. It is built through the values we teach our children and the conduct we tolerate among adults.
Justice for Binte Hawa demands more than emotional social media posts, seminars, photo opportunities, press statements, and ritual expressions of grief. It demands a sincere and sustained commitment to confronting the social conditions that allow such crimes to occur.
Can we move beyond slogans? Can we move beyond speeches about samaj sudhar and women’s safety? Can we move beyond temporary outrage and demonstrate meaningful engagement with the issues that breed such tragedies?
Too often, our collective response follows a familiar pattern. A horrific crime occurs. Society erupts in anger. Candlelight vigils are organised. Press conferences are held. Social media timelines overflow with condemnation. For a few days, everyone speaks about reform.
Then attention shifts. The outrage fades. The headlines disappear. Life returns to normal. Until the next tragedy arrives.
As Kashmiris often say, “Tott samovar”—the samovar cools once the fuel is exhausted. Unfortunately, our public concern often cools in exactly the same manner.
This time, what pained me almost as much as the crime itself was how quickly the tragedy faded from public consciousness. Soon afterwards, the Valley echoed with the sounds of Eid celebrations and bursting crackers. People naturally have every right to celebrate their blessings and moments of joy. Yet I could not escape a profound ache. Every crack of a firecracker seemed to pierce my heart, reminding me of a child whose laughter had been silenced forever.
The issue is not celebration. The issue is memory.
The issue is how rapidly collective grief gives way to collective amnesia.
A society’s conscience should not be measured by how loudly it mourns for a few days, but by how long it remembers and how sincerely it acts thereafter.
Perhaps the most troubling aspect of recent years is not merely the rise of horrific crimes but the growing reluctance in some quarters to unequivocally condemn evil. Whether due to fear, social pressures, ideological calculations, or misplaced priorities, hesitation and silence send dangerous signals.
When society becomes reluctant to call evil by its name, evil finds room to grow.
What should concern us even more is the emergence of misplaced priorities in public discourse. We passionately debate roads, pensions, transfers, promotions, political developments, and personal entitlements. Yet the safety, dignity, and protection of our daughters often receive only episodic attention, usually after a tragedy has already occurred.
When priorities become distorted, the vulnerable pay the price. A budding rose of innocence can be crushed. A child’s future can be stolen. A family can be destroyed forever.
The question is not only who committed the crime. The question is what emboldened the criminal.
Predators do not operate in isolation from society. They observe the environment around them. They see public memory shorten. They watch outrage fade. They notice that moral clarity is often selective and temporary. They learn that many people prefer silence to confrontation and indifference to responsibility.
Most importantly, they learn that society frequently moves on. That realisation should disturb us all.
The greatest deterrent to crime is not fear of punishment alone. It is the existence of strong families, vigilant communities, ethical education, moral accountability, and a culture that refuses to tolerate abuse, exploitation, or violence.
– Parents have a responsibility to raise sons who respect women and girls.
– Schools have a responsibility to cultivate character, empathy, and social responsibility.
– Religious institutions have a responsibility to reinforce moral values beyond ritual observance.
– Community leaders have a responsibility to speak consistently, not selectively.
– Civil society has a responsibility to remain engaged long after television cameras disappear.
– Ordinary citizens have a responsibility not to remain silent when they witness wrongdoing.
A healthy society cannot outsource its conscience entirely to the police, courts, or government. The police can investigate crimes. The courts can punish offenders. Governments can enact laws. But only society can create the moral environment that discourages such crimes from occurring in the first place.
Justice for Bint e Hawa, therefore, requires more than a verdict in a courtroom. It requires a collective examination of who we are becoming and where our priorities truly lie.
It requires sustained vigilance rather than temporary outrage. It requires moral courage rather than selective silence. It requires community responsibility rather than passive spectatorship.
Most of all, it requires us to remember.
For if we forget too quickly, we become part of the cycle that allows such tragedies to repeat themselves.
Little Haya now rests beyond the cruelties of this world. Her pain has ended. The tears of her parents, however, continue. The wound in the conscience of Kashmir remains.
May Allah grant her the highest place in Jannah and comfort her grieving family.
The true tribute to her memory will not be found in hashtags, speeches, seminars, or press releases. It will be found in the actions we continue to take when the headlines disappear, when the cameras leave, and when public attention turns elsewhere.
Justice for Binte Hawa begins in the courtroom. But it will only be fulfilled when society itself decides that protecting its daughters is not an occasional concern—it is a permanent moral obligation.