By Muhammad Zeb (Peshawar)
Human rights reports occupy a central place in global discourse. Governments respond to them, institutions cite them, and international forums debate their findings. Written with discipline and legal caution, these reports are meant to document suffering and promote accountability. Yet, as a journalist reading them from within Pakistan, a persistent question remains: do these reports truly reflect the voices of those living the reality on the ground?
In countries like Pakistan, human rights are not abstract principles or theoretical clauses. They are lived experiences—felt in hesitation before speaking, in silence after a threat, and in the constant calculation of personal risk. A journalist weighs every word. A trader closes his shop earlier than planned. A family listens carefully to unfamiliar sounds at night. These moments rarely appear in headlines, but they define everyday life for many.
I write this column not only as a columnist, but as someone whose understanding of human rights has been shaped by personal experience rather than academic debate.
In 2012, my family’s long-established and legal business in Peshawar was hit by a major criminal incident. The financial loss was significant, but the deeper impact was psychological. Formal complaints were lodged, legal procedures were followed, and patience was exercised. However, despite the passage of time, meaningful resolution remained absent. That experience revealed a difficult truth: documentation alone does not always translate into protection.
In later years, the nature of fear evolved. By 2020, the pressure we faced was no longer limited to financial or criminal loss. It became a means of intimidation and control. During that same period, a dangerous device was found outside our residence, later confirmed by relevant authorities. In such moments, individuals do not think about constitutional provisions or international conventions. Their focus narrows to a single concern—whether their family will remain safe.
These are realities that human rights reports often struggle to convey fully. Fear is not always sudden or dramatic. More often, it is gradual and exhausting. It becomes part of daily routine. Families relocate repeatedly, not in pursuit of opportunity, but in search of safety. Businesses suffer, children absorb anxiety, and the future feels increasingly uncertain. While these realities may be recorded in reports, their lasting impact continues long after publication.
To be clear, human rights documentation is essential. Without it, many experiences would vanish entirely. Reports preserve memory and provide formal records. Yet a documented threat remains a threat. A recorded fear does not automatically prevent the next one. The effectiveness of reporting must therefore be judged not only by accuracy, but by outcomes.
One recurring challenge is distance. Many reports concerning Pakistan are produced far from the streets they describe. Limited access, selected sources, and security constraints often shape narratives. As a result, voices from smaller cities, independent journalists, ordinary traders, and families without influence are softened or filtered through technical language. Their lived reality becomes abstract.
Selectivity also plays a role. Certain violations receive immediate international attention, while others remain buried in files for years. Political priorities and global interests often determine visibility. For those left unheard, justice begins to feel conditional—acknowledged in principle, absent in practice.
As a journalist, I believe excessive caution in language can sometimes weaken truth. Injustice is rarely polite. Fear does not arrive in balanced paragraphs. When strong realities are diluted, the moral force of reporting diminishes. Victims do not seek carefully measured sentences; they seek recognition, follow-up, and protection.
This column is not an indictment of institutions or the state. It is a professional reflection on purpose. Human rights were never meant to exist solely in reports. They were meant to safeguard human lives—ordinary lives that do not appear in policy papers or international conferences.
In recent years, formal cases have again moved through official channels. On paper, the law has responded. Yet families know the difference between legal acknowledgment and real security. File numbers do not quiet fear.
Human rights reporting should not end at publication. It must extend into follow-up, accountability, and tangible protection. Otherwise, reports risk becoming archives of suffering rather than instruments of prevention.
Pakistan is a complex society, shaped by security challenges, economic pressure, and social constraints. Honest human rights reporting here does not require exaggeration, nor denial. It requires closeness—listening carefully, writing responsibly, and understanding context without excusing harm.
The true measure of any human rights report is not how often it is cited, but whether the people it describes feel less alone and more protected. When reports begin to reflect real lives—fragile, uncertain, yet resilient—they become more than documents. They become witnesses.
Until then, the question remains quietly urgent:
are we truly listening to the ground beneath our feet, or only to voices echoed from a distance?
