Rethinking consent in marriage

A wife cannot refuse. Or can she?

In Pakistan, there is a kind of silence that lives inside many marriages. It is not the silence of comfort or companionship, but of calculation, the kind where a woman weighs the cost of refusal against the price of compliance. In that moment, “no” is not unheard because it is never spoken, but because it has never been allowed to matter.

In Pakistan, we grow up believing marriage is a shield, a sacred bond built on love, respect, and security. But for many, marriage is where their voice begins to fade and consent is weakened. Where patience is celebrated and discomfort is re-framed as responsibility and duty, and silence is treated as consent. Violence does not always come with bruises; sometimes it hides quietly in expectations, customs, and the belief that once a woman becomes a wife, her body no longer belongs entirely to her. This uncomfortable reality has collided with our jurisprudence.

A recent Lahore High Court decision, Jameel Ahmad v. The State (2025 LHC 7342), has reignited a debate that we have long avoided: can a husband be held criminally accountable for rape while the marriage legally subsists? Interpreting existing law, the Court held that under the current legal framework, rape is not recognized if the marital bond has not legally ended. The court’s reasoning rested on the technical question of whether the marriage legally subsisted under existing family laws, rather than on the woman’s lived experience of force, exposing how the law itself fails to recognise sexual violence within marriage. The judgment does not justify violence but it reveals something really disturbing. Our law still treats marriage as a barrier to recognising sexual harm.

This is not really about one judgement or one court. Judges apply the law as it exists. The real failure lies in what the law refuses to acknowledge and in the social beliefs that have allowed this silence to continue for so long.

At the core of the issue is one of the assumptions so normalised that people hardly even consider it: that marriage implies permanent consent. That once nikkah is solemnised, sexual access becomes a right rather than a mutual choice. This concept is not written explicitly in our laws, but it shows up everywhere in daily life, in the advice given to brides, in the pressure placed on wives, and in the threats about what happens to women who say no.

“Compromise,” they say. “This is how marriage works.” But compromise doesn’t mean surrendering bodily autonomy, and marriage doesn’t mean losing the right to say no.

What makes the current law so disturbing is the line it draws between rape and marital rape. It assumes that harm and trauma changes once a woman is married. But forced sex does not become less violent only because it occurs in a bedroom rather than on the street. The psychological harm and trauma is the same, even when the man responsible is her husband. Yet the law sends a clear message to married women that what they go through is not recognised.

Until Pakistan enacts a law that criminalises marital rape and recognises consent as belonging to the woman, not the marriage, justice will remain conditional for married women. As long as marriage is treated as a shield for abuse, women will keep suffering quietly, not because they consent, but because the law refuses to listen. Till then, we must realise that a woman does not stop being human the day she becomes a wife.

This silence comes with a price. It discourages women from speaking out. It reassures abusers that marriage shields them from consequences. It reinforces the dangerous belief that a woman’s bodily autonomy is conditional and valid only until nikah.

Every time this issue comes up, the same argument resurfaces, that recognising marital rape would destroy the institution of marriage. It sounds protective, but it is deeply misleading. If the institution of marriage is so fragile that it will break unless it extends protection to sexual offenders, then the institution needs some serious reimagining. Marriage is not harmed by consent; it is harmed by coercion. It is not strengthened by silence; it is corroded by unchecked harm. No relationship becomes sacred by ignoring violence. Another argument which is found appealing to some is difficulty of proof and misuse. By that account, all offences committed in private should receive immunity. 

Religion is commonly used to end this discussion but Islam does not support the use of sexual coercion. The Qur’an describes marriage as a bond built on love and mercy. The life of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) stands as an example of gentleness, respect, and restraint. In Islamic teaching, causing harm (zulm) is never allowed. Marital relations are meant to be based on mutual willingness. Forced intimacy does not protect marriage but takes away its meaning. What we are witnessing, therefore, is not a conflict between law and religion, or culture and morality. It is a conflict between patriarchy and dignity.

Our Constitution guarantees dignity, equality, and the right to life. These promises are not symbolic; they are meant to apply inside homes as much as outside them. The fact that a woman becomes a wife does not make her inferior before the law. However, unless the issue of marital rape is explicitly identified, the married woman is technically in a legal grey zone where physical independence can be negotiated.

This discomfort is not new. Pakistan has faced it before. Domestic violence, honour killings, and workplace harassment were previously ignored as “personal matters” or “cultural issues.” Progress only began when we admitted that tradition is no excuse to abuse. Every reform was both controversial and  necessary. Recognising marital rape does not criminalise marriage. It criminalises violence. It does not bring in foreign values, it confirms constitutional principles and Islamic ethics. Most importantly, it restores a woman’s right to say “no”, not as rebellion, but as humanity.

Until Pakistan enacts a law that criminalises marital rape and recognises consent as belonging to the woman, not the marriage, justice will remain conditional for married women. As long as marriage is treated as a shield for abuse, women will keep suffering quietly, not because they consent, but because the law refuses to listen. Till then, we must realise that a woman does not stop being human the day she becomes a wife.