Justice Ali Baqar Najafi’s additional note in the Noor Muqaddam judgment – where he frames an unimaginably brutal murder as a warning against “vice” and “living relationships” – is unsettling not because it’s surprising, but because it confirms what far too many Pakistanis, especially women, already fear: that even the justice system is not fully insulated from the misogynistic narratives that shape society.
A case that united the country in outrage, that exposed the complacency of the powerful and the vulnerability of women, is now being refracted through a moral lens that has nothing to do with the crime itself. Noor’s murder was not about “vice”. It was not about relationships. It was about a man who believed he could act with impunity and a society that routinely excuses or explains away violence against women. Suggesting otherwise diverts attention from the brutality of the perpetrator and redirects scrutiny onto women’s choices – a familiar and dangerous shift.
This mindset is not new. It is the same logic that justifies honour killings, downplays domestic abuse, and polices women’s clothing, friendships, and movements. It’s a worldview in which a woman’s autonomy is treated as a provocation, and violence becomes an almost understandable reaction. And when this logic emerges in judicial commentary, the consequences are far from symbolic; they strike at the credibility of the justice system itself.
We’ve heard similar rhetoric from political leaders. Former prime ministers have implied that rape is a byproduct of men being “not robots,” as if sexual violence is a natural impulse rather than a crime rooted in entitlement and power. Society still blames women who are attacked for walking alone, for working late, for the clothes they wear, or for the company they keep. Even married couples face harassment for holding hands in public.
In this environment, when a judge suggests that a woman’s personal choices carry moral weight in a criminal case, women watching know exactly what that means: if something happens to them, their choices will be put on trial too. For those who already hesitate to approach police stations or courts, such remarks don’t just alienate – they discourage reporting altogether.
The pushback from rights bodies, including the National Commission on the Status of Women and the Senate Human Rights Committee, is therefore crucial. Pakistan is not a neutral landscape for women. It is one where every act of violence is followed by predictable questions: Why was she there? Who was she with? What did she do? Rarely: Why did he commit a crime? Why does the system allow him to think he can?
This is why even an “additional note” matters. Judicial language carries authority. It shapes public discourse. And when that language echoes patriarchal suspicion, it legitimises it.
The timing adds another layer of irony. These remarks surfaced at the start of the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence – a global campaign that Pakistan participates in every year while simultaneously struggling to confront its own internal contradictions. The Noor case should have served as a national wake-up call: that no woman deserves harm, judgment, or moral scrutiny, and that the state’s role is to protect, not police, women.
Instead, we are once again debating women’s morality rather than men’s violence.
If Pakistan is serious about reducing gender-based violence, it must start by drawing a hard line between crime and morality. A woman’s lifestyle is not evidence. Her autonomy is not a threat. And her choices – whether conservative or unconventional – do not determine whether she deserves protection under the law. Justice cannot coexist with moral policing. And no society can claim to be serious about women’s safety while simultaneously scrutinising their behaviour more closely than the crimes committed against them.
If the justice system allows patriarchal thinking to seep into its reasoning, then women will continue to pay the price. And Pakistan will remain trapped in the same cycle: tragedy, outrage, moralising, and silence – until the next tragedy arrives. The Noor Muqaddam case should have been a turning point. Instead, we are being pulled back into old narratives that let perpetrators off the hook and put women on notice. The country deserves better. Women deserve better. And the justice system must do better.
It is worth noting that before his elevation to the Bench as a judge of the Lahore High Court, Justice Baqar was widely known to have worked closely, in a professional capacity, with the late Asma Jahangir. Over the years, some circles speculated that she may have supported or advocated for his appointment. There has been no confirmed evidence to substantiate such claims, and they remain mere speculation.
However, even setting these rumours aside entirely, the larger point remains unchanged and far more significant: a judge who rises to such a senior position carries immense responsibility. As a member of the higher judiciary – and now of the Federal Constitutional Court – he holds an office where neutrality, restraint, and clarity of thought are essential. Judges at this level are expected to interpret the Constitution, safeguard citizens’ rights, and ensure that justice remains impartial, free from personal biases, social prejudices, or moral judgments.
Because of this, any statement within a judicial order or additional note must be weighed carefully. Courts speak not as individuals but as institutions. Their words carry authority, shape public understanding of justice, and directly influence how society perceives the rights of citizens—especially vulnerable groups such as women. When moral commentary or personal views appear in a judgment, even indirectly, it risks blurring the line between legal reasoning and personal opinion.
This is why the concerns raised by the National Commission on the Status of Women are so important. Their stance—that judges should avoid inserting personal moral views into legal judgments—is not a criticism of any one individual but a reminder of the standards expected of the judiciary as a whole. When people already struggle to trust the justice system, especially women seeking protection from violence, comments that appear judgmental or moralising can further erode confidence.
Ultimately, the judiciary’s credibility depends on its ability to remain impartial and focused solely on the law. Statements that may seem harmless or reflective of cultural norms can have heavy consequences when issued from the bench. For women, whose rights are often contested or ignored, such remarks can feel like a signal that their choices, freedoms, and autonomy will be evaluated alongside the crimes committed against them.
For these reasons, it is essential that judicial opinions—whether majority judgments, concurring notes, or additional observations—remain free from personal moral commentary. Pakistan’s justice system must reinforce the principle that every individual’s rights, dignity, and access to justice are protected without prejudice. And judges, especially those at the highest constitutional levels, play the most critical role in upholding this trust.
