Between Voice and Reality | by Bushra Majeed

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Growing up, my greatest fear was experiencing the fate of the women in my surroundings.

No education. No recognition. No way to earn. Completely dependent on a husband’s income that was always insufficient to have basic necessities of life. I always believed in women having full rights. I support it.

I never encountered one defining moment that made me understand the significance of feminism. Instead, it became clear through the realities faced by Pakistani women. Stories of spousal abuse, harassment at work, denial of education, limited mobility, and innumerable other ways that women are made to shrink are found in every news outlet. Feminism, in my view, grew from witnessing this recurring pattern rather than one isolated event.

While I'm writing this, a voice outside insists repeatedly that feminism matters. The night is bitterly cold, and the sound travels throughout the whole town. For some, it is just noise made by an insane lady. In the hills above, a woman’s voice carries—singing, screaming, shouting, speaking to herself so loudly that every household can hear. People say she has lost her mind; to me, she is an echo of inhuman treatment. Her husband, a drug addict, used to beat her. She was chastised for not having a son despite having four daughters. Even after she gave birth to a boy, nothing changed. Her husband stole the money for drugs while she begged to feed her kids. No one protected her.

No one stood up for her.

Now she wanders, singing and shouting into the cold night. And I cannot stop asking myself: What if feminism had entered her life earlier? What if she had gone to school? What if she had known her rights? What if she had a means of earning, leaving, and surviving? Perhaps this voice would never have had to echo through the hills.

When I hear the woman, I think of what was withheld from her before her mental breakdown. She was never taught that violence was a crime. Radical feminism in action would have met her as a child with education, safety, and economic independence and as a woman, with protection and dignity.

I believe feminism must be material before it is symbolic. In action, it would not start with debates or banners but with schools that keep girls enrolled, jobs that pay women directly, laws that protect them inside their homes, and systems that make leaving possible. Feminism would mean that endurance is no longer the highest achievement expected of women.

Too often, feminism travels as a finished concept, assuming universal expressions and strategies. Yet liberation cannot be imported whole; it must be shaped by material realities, religion, class, and culture. What works in one nation may endanger women in another. Listening is not inaction—it is respect.

Here I want feminists from different groups, nationalities, and ethnicities to understand that feminism does not always take the same appearance. It does not grow from the same soil, and it does not answer the same urgencies. In places like Pakistan, feminism is not first a movement or an identity; it is a condition of survival. It begins long before language, before theory, before public debates. It begins in kitchens, in classrooms that girls never enter, in homes where violence is normalized, and in lives shaped by economic dependence.

Global feminists have to understand that what looks like silence is often a strategy. Many women cannot afford loud resistance. They cannot leave their homes, confront their families, or risk social exile. Their perseverance, compromise, modest rejections, and thoughtful decisions taken to safeguard themselves and their kids are examples of their feminism. These kinds of resistances are real and courageous, even though they might not translate well online or internationally. Not all redemption is public, and not all oppression is evident. It is already radical in my own country for a woman to be able to complete her school, work for herself, or go outside safely. For many women, safety is the first step toward feminism rather than choice. It begins with the right to survive without violence, hunger, or humiliation.

In countries like Pakistan, feminism often arrives in a distorted form. What many people encounter does not resonate as care or a pursuit of justice; instead, it can appear as anger directed outward rather than as a grounded, inwardly rooted concern. In this shift, the everyday realities of women’s lives—education, safety, employment, and survival—are too often sidelined, as the focus moves from supporting women to critiquing men.

At the same time, global feminism must be more honest about class. For many women, feminism is not about shattering glass ceilings but about securing a floor beneath their feet. Financial independence, access to healthcare, education, and legal protection matter far more than visibility or representation alone. Without material security, rights remain fragile promises rather than lived realities.

I want earlier voices in feminism to understand that although the world has changed, women's issues still have their origins. The platforms may grow, and terms may change, but the need for economic independence, safety, and education is still critical. I hope they keep creating room for fresh perspectives, particularly those influenced by various cultures and material circumstances, and keep in mind that listening and patience are also qualities of leadership.

To me, being louder than others is not what feminism is all about. It has to do with paying attention to real lives. It is about refusing to erase women whose struggles do not fit global narratives. If feminism is to mean anything across countries and cultures, it must remain human, grounded in listening, humility, and care. Only then can it truly claim to speak for women everywhere. Perhaps the most radical act within feminism is not speaking, but listening—especially to those whose realities are most often ignored. When generations come together with humility, respect, and a common goal of making women's lives safer, more liberated, and more fulfilling, progress is at its strongest. When daily lives are respected, secure, and autonomous, feminism flourishes.

The most precious part of my feminism is its insistence on freedom, the freedom to earn, to choose, to leave, and to live without fear. It is the belief that women deserve more than survival. They deserve lives that do not end in silence, madness, or regret. To me, this is what feminism looks like: women who are still whole, still standing, and still sane.

I quietly practice feminism in the decisions I make on a daily basis. I refuse to acknowledge that women's suffering is normal and insist on education for both me and others.

I support women in my family, my village, and online, sharing stories that often go unheard. I do feminism by noticing the small ways life limits women.

Feminism is not only a theory. It is freedom, opportunity, and protection. It is action, daily, personal, and unyielding in small choices, in speaking up, in imagining a world where every woman can live fully and freely.

I do it by teaching, writing, and imagining alternatives. I approach feminism with attention, care, and perseverance rather than anger or slogans. Every day, I actively participate in the world I can influence.

Bushra Majeed is a Pakistan-based emerging writer.

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