Being a Wife in Pakistan

Many people asked, is there a happy story about marrying a Pakistani man? But shouldn’t we ask instead, what is happiness? Is any marriage completely free from problems? Always happy? Happiness, like the morning air, can feel light and refreshing, but it can also disappear into a thick fog if we don’t know where to find it. I am a foreign woman who married a Pakistani man and now lives in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, in a small city that still holds tightly to its traditions.

When I first arrived here, everything felt like a different world. Dusty roads, brick houses with wide courtyards, and women who wore burqas every time they stepped outside. I had lived independently in my own country, but here, I had to relearn how to be a wife. Not just a wife to my husband, but someone who had to fit into his family, the neighbors, and customs I didn’t always understand.

I could no longer walk alone to the market, I couldn’t talk to men for too long, and I had to accept that big decisions in my life were often not mine alone to make. But my husband, despite being raised in this culture, always tried to make me feel valued. Still, in a society with strong expectations of what a wife should be, there were moments when I felt like I was losing myself.

Yet, despite the limits I faced, there were small moments that kept me going. The smiles of my children, the village women who slowly began sharing their stories with me, and my husband secretly buying a piece of fabric in my favorite color.

Maybe happiness doesn’t always come

in grand, perfect forms,

but in small pieces that we must gather for ourselves.

My husband runs a clothing shop. He used to work in Malaysia, but now he manages his family’s store. This business was passed down from his father, but it has grown significantly because his older brother, who works abroad, sends money to support the family’s investment. With better financial stability, my husband decided to return to Pakistan and take over the business, believing it was the best way to secure our future. Furthermore, his mother needs someone to look after her.

Compared to many other women in similar situations, I consider myself lucky. I didn’t have to deal with the challenges of living in a joint family, which is often a major source of stress for many wives. My father-in-law had already passed away, leaving only my elderly mother-in-law in the house. My husband’s older brother lived abroad, meaning there was no pressure to serve or manage relationships with in-laws. Even his younger sister had already married by the time I moved here, so I didn’t have to deal with the typical issues of a lazy or demanding sister-in-law. Because the family’s financial situation had improved, we could afford a housemaid. My responsibilities at home were lighter than I had expected—I only had to cook. I didn’t have to go to the market, as shopping for groceries was considered a man’s duty. While life in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa still required many adjustments, I knew that, in some ways, I had it easier than many other foreign women who married into traditional Pakistani families.

As I write this story, we have been married for 8 years. I am now a mother of two, and life in Pakistan has become my new normal. The days of feeling like an outsider have faded, replaced by a quiet acceptance of the life I have built here. My children have grown up, playing in the dusty streets with their cousins, and embracing traditions that once felt so foreign to me. Life in here still comes with its challenges. Electricity is unreliable, often cutting off for hours, sometimes even the whole day. Without a generator, surviving the summers would be unbearable. Many women in the village still cook using dried cow dung as fuel, a practice that has been passed down for generations. But in our house, we don’t have to do that—we have gas and a proper stove.

The rules separating men and women remain strict. Boys and girls attend different schools, ensuring that they grow up in separate spaces. Even at home, the divide is clear. When someone knocks on the door, I cannot open it; only the men can. If we have male guests, I am not allowed to sit with them. My role is in the kitchen, preparing food, while my husband serves them. I stay behind the curtain, listening to their voices from a distance, waiting until they leave before I can step into the main part of the house again.

Sometimes, I wonder how different my life would have been if I had married someone from my own culture. Back in my country, I had women and men friends, but now I have to cut off all communication with my male friends. Life in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is not always easy, but in its way, it has shaped me into someone I never expected to become.

During my years here, I have witnessed many heartbreaking stories and the unfair treatment of women. My housemaid, for example, is the sole breadwinner of her family. Despite her hard work, her teenage son is also forced to work because of their financial struggles. Her husband, on the other hand, spends most of his time unemployed, smoking hashish. I once visited my husband’s uncle in another village. Their house was enormous, built with money sent by the sons who worked abroad. But inside, twenty people lived together—parents, wives, and children all under one roof. The women often complained that their hands were ruined from endless washing—clothes, dishes, everything. During a family gathering like this, you will hear a lot of gossip about neighbors or other distant family members. I even heard gossip about one of the husbands having an affair with a Filipina woman. There was another rumor about a wife who was thrown into a garbage pile by her husband during a fight. These stories weren’t unique. Similar stories echoed throughout Pakistan, playing out in many households.

Despite these hardships, the women here are incredibly skilled. They can cook elaborate meals, sew clothes, and create beautiful embroidery. Many still use manual sewing machines, not electric ones. My daughter once received a handmade dress as a gift from our distant relatives. Social life here is strictly divided—women gossip among themselves while men gather separately. I can only reunite with my husband at night before bed. The children play with their peers or cousins. One thing that saddens me is how my children have picked up harsh Pashto words from their friends. I have never used such language at home, so I often wonder where these kids learn to speak this way.

Mothers here have little time for their children.

They are overwhelmed with housework,

leaving their kids to grow up on their own or

under the care of unmarried aunts.

The burden of household chores falls mostly on the daughters-in-law, while the unmarried sisters in the family have more freedom. This dynamic often results in aunts and cousins spending more time with the children than their mothers, creating an unspoken divide in many families. I could never accept such a situation—being unable to play with or take care of my own children. But, as I’ve said before, I am lucky and deeply grateful. In my home, we have a maid, which allows me to have more time with my children. Unlike many women here, I don’t have to spend my entire day doing household chores, which gives me the freedom to focus on my family.

Another thing that makes my situation easier is that we don't have many family members around. My husband’s older brother lives abroad, and fortunately, he was able to take his wife and children with him. It might seem lonely, but it also spares us from the usual family drama that comes with joint families. As for my sister-in-law, she is even luckier. She married a Pakistani man with a good job and, more importantly, a British passport. She now lives in England, far from the struggles many women here face. Finding a good match for her was never difficult—she is incredibly beautiful. Her skin is fair, her light brown eyes stand out, and she has an elegant, refined look. She never had to search for a husband; instead, proposals came to her. The groom’s family did their research, saw her as the perfect match, and came forward with a marriage proposal.

In many ways, she represents the ideal bride in this society—beautiful, fair-skinned, and fortunate enough to marry into a comfortable life. While I am happy for her, I can’t help but notice how much importance is placed on looks and financial status when it comes to marriage.

For women here,

a good match can mean the difference

between a life of comfort and a life of endless struggle.

At a family wedding, I met a distant relative who was deeply worried about her future. She was 25 years old, and her parents had not yet arranged her marriage because her older sister was still single. She feared growing older without securing a good match. I married at 25, and at that time, it wasn’t considered a young age for marriage. However, in today’s world, 25 is still young, an age when women should be free to chase their dreams. But in Pakistan, many women live in fear of not finding a suitable husband in time.

Before deciding to marry a Pakistani man, I was warned by another woman from my country who had also married Pakistani men. She told me that relationships with Pakistani men were different, and I took her advice seriously. I refused to date for years without clarity. Instead, I made it clear from the beginning that I wanted a serious relationship, one where I would be introduced to his family early on. I didn’t want to wait endlessly for a proposal because I had heard too many heartbreaking stories. Some women spent a decade in uncertain relationships, only to find their Pakistani partners marrying women chosen by their mothers. Others were used for visa marriages or even unknowingly became second wives.

In Pakistan,

financial matters are usually handled by men.

Wives rarely have any involvement in the family’s financial affairs.

They don’t know where the money comes from or where it goes.

Women's role is simply to trust that there will be enough money for food, clothing, and household needs. It is uncommon for housewives to have access to money without asking their husbands. Before marriage, I had my job and financial independence, but after marrying, that independence vanished. For two years, I hesitated to ask my husband for personal spending money. When I finally gathered the courage to request an allowance, not for household expenses but for my own needs—it felt like a child asking their parents for pocket money. Thankfully, my husband agreed, and though the amount was not large, at least I had some financial freedom to buy things I wanted without waiting for his permission. Job opportunities for women in Pakistan are extremely limited, especially for those who do not speak Urdu. The most common jobs available to women are teaching or working in healthcare. If you are a doctor or a nurse, you will always find work, but outside these fields, options are scarce. Many women remain financially dependent on their husbands, which further limits their freedom.

In Pakistan, wealth and foreign passports symbolize status. Unlike in my home country, where people prioritize saving for retirement, education, or even traveling after years of hard work, in Pakistan, people prefer to display their wealth through material possessions. Luxurious cars, grand homes, extravagant weddings, and branded clothing and handbags are considered the ultimate status symbols. Traveling is not part of the culture for most women here. If they do travel, it is usually to visit family members abroad, and even that requires permission from their male guardians—whether it be their fathers, elder brothers, or even brothers-in-law if there are no immediate male relatives.

In Pakistani marriages,

a woman’s family has little influence

after she gets married.

The focus shifts entirely to the husband’s family. I rarely get to visit my home country, even though I miss it deeply. There is always another financial priority that takes precedence over my desire to go home. Since moving to Pakistan, I haven’t had the opportunity to return. Looking back, my life here is a mix of blessings and challenges. I am luckier than many women, but I have also made sacrifices. I have witnessed heartbreaking stories of struggle and mistreatment, but I have also seen resilience and strength among the women here. Despite everything, I have built a life with my husband and children. My journey has been one of adaptation, learning, and finding gratitude in the small freedoms I do have. While I may not have control over everything, I have carved out a space where I can still be myself.