In the male-dominated corridors of law, I expected resistance, but not from the women. When I began practising as a lawyer in Multan, I was prepared for the familiar skepticism that women face in conservative professional spaces. I anticipated dismissive glances, veiled comments about capability, and the constant need to prove myself before male colleagues. What I did not anticipate was that some of the most disheartening resistance would come from senior women, women who had themselves fought long and hard to be recognized in the same profession.
I still remember the day I presented my first detailed arguments at the High Court bench. The judge listened attentively and engaged with my arguments through pointed questions, treating me as he would any other professional lawyer. My senior lawyer congratulated me warmly outside the courtroom, acknowledging my preparation and composure.
Just as he did, a senior female lawyer hurried towards him, advising that he should tell me to tie my hair and to refrain from bringing a handbag into court. Her words had nothing to do with the law, professionalism, or ethics, yet they carried a tone of authority that sought to belittle rather than guide. My senior, to his credit, brushed off her comments with quiet dignity. I silently admired him in that moment for embodying true camaraderie and refusing to indulge the tactics that so often diminish women in this profession.
That incident was heartbreaking. For someone who has long been committed to gender equality, it was jarring to realize that my first experience of professional hostility would come from another woman. It was a painful reminder that women, too, can become instruments of the very patriarchy they have endured.
Over time, I came to see that this was not an isolated experience. In cities like Multan, young female lawyers are rarely judged on their legal skill or intellect. They are evaluated instead on their appearance, their tone, their choice of clothing, and their behavior. Reputation becomes a fragile currency, and character policing replaces genuine mentorship. While men are critiqued for their arguments, women are critiqued for their accessories. The more competent a woman is, the more she becomes a target of whispered judgments and subtle exclusion.
What makes this dynamic even more troubling is that men, despite their differences, often maintain an unspoken professional solidarity. They protect one another’s reputations and support each other’s standing within the fraternity. Women, in contrast, seem to lack that collective instinct. Instead of a sisterhood built on mutual encouragement, we often see a hierarchy of insecurity where another woman’s success is viewed as a personal threat.
I often wonder how different the profession would look if women supported one another with the same loyalty men extend to their peers. If senior lawyers celebrated the success of their female juniors rather than resented it. If mentorship replaced gossip and encouragement replaced envy. We often speak about breaking glass ceilings, but perhaps the first step toward doing so is to stop throwing stones at one another.
I have witnessed senior female lawyers complain to male colleagues about their female juniors’ clothing or perceived attitude. These are rarely matters of professional concern. They are personal and trivial observations disguised as mentorship. Yet, in a profession where informal perceptions hold immense power, such remarks can be damaging. The same women who once struggled for recognition, now use the same tools of criticism and exclusion that were once used against them.
Patriarchy’s most enduring success lies in how effectively it makes women its enforcers. It not only limits women’s access to power but also conditions them to police one another’s behavior. Many women internalize the idea that the only way to survive in male-dominated environments is to align themselves with men and distance themselves from other women. They seek legitimacy through conformity, believing that male approval will safeguard their position. In doing so, they replicate the very structures that once denied them respect.
As someone who has worked extensively on gender issues through research, collaboration with organizations committed to women’s rights, and advocacy in international forums, I have witnessed both the best and the worst of professional sisterhood. I have represented Pakistani women among leading human rights professionals from across the world, and I have had the privilege of learning from extraordinary figures who understand what genuine solidarity means.
The late Asma Jahangir’s courage and conviction remain an enduring example of what it means to fight for women without compromise. Internationally, mentors such as Professor Mary Ellen O’Connell in the USA and Professor Diane Desierto in the Philippines have shown me what true mentorship looks like. They never viewed another woman’s ambition as competition. Instead, they uplifted and inspired those around them, proving that strength is amplified when it is shared.
The contrast between such examples and what I have observed in our professional culture is striking. Within Pakistan’s legal community, mentorship among women remains limited. Instead, competition and conformity are often rewarded. Every time a woman’s professionalism is questioned because of her attire or demeanour, it reinforces the idea that women must continually justify their place in law. Every instance of one woman undermining another strengthens the same patriarchal norms that have long kept women from advancing collectively.
Some argue that this behaviour stems from competition over limited opportunities. When space for women is scarce, rivalry can appear inevitable. Yet that very logic sustains the inequality it claims to explain. As long as women believe that there is only room for a few at the top, they will continue to fight each other for acceptance rather than challenge the structures that exclude them. True empowerment comes not from competing for scraps of legitimacy but from expanding the space for all women to thrive.
The legal profession in Pakistan does not merely need more women; it needs women who are willing to support and uplift one another. It needs senior lawyers who see mentorship as a responsibility rather than a threat. It needs women who understand that solidarity is not weakness but strength. Until that happens, progress will remain partial and precarious.
Breaking this cycle requires both courage and humility. It requires women to recognize how deeply patriarchal thinking has shaped their own instincts and to consciously choose collaboration over criticism. It demands a shift from validation-seeking to value-building, from insecurity to confidence, from competition to community.
Women cannot claim to be fighting patriarchy while practicing its patterns in subtler forms. We cannot demand equality from men while denying empathy to women. The transformation we seek in our society must begin with us.
I often wonder how different the profession would look if women supported one another with the same loyalty men extend to their peers. If senior lawyers celebrated the success of their female juniors rather than resented it. If mentorship replaced gossip and encouragement replaced envy. We often speak about breaking glass ceilings, but perhaps the first step toward doing so is to stop throwing stones at one another.
