News Desk
KARACHI, Pakistan — In the early weeks of 2026, as Pakistan’s cities swell and strain under the weight of rapid urbanisation, one truth has become impossible to ignore: women remain largely invisible in the very public spaces that shape economic life. Their absence is not accidental. It is the predictable outcome of decades of planning that privileged cars over pedestrians, men over women, and private comfort over public inclusion.
Across Karachi, Lahore, Peshawar and Quetta, the daily routines of millions of women unfold within a geography that was never designed for them. The consequences are visible everywhere — in the long walks along unlit streets, the dependence on male relatives for mobility, the lost wages, the abandoned jobs, and the quiet calculations women make to stay safe.
Karachi, a megacity of more than 20 million, offers a stark illustration. Its transport networks, from rickety minibuses to the newer Bus Rapid Transit lines, still reflect a male commuter’s rhythm: long-distance routes, peak-hour surges, and little accommodation for the short, frequent trips women make while juggling work, childcare and household responsibilities.
For Rehana, a garment worker who often returns home after dark, the system’s blind spots are costly. When a bus conductor refused to let her board late at night — fearing he would lose male passengers — she spent nearly a day’s wages on a rickshaw ride home. “They talk about empowering women,” she said, “but the city doesn’t let us move.”
Her story is echoed by Mehreen and Saba, salon workers who rely on a patchwork of Qingqis, ride-hailing apps and favours from relatives. Their commute is not simply a journey; it is a negotiation with risk.
Pakistan’s transport data reveals the structural tilt: motorcycle registrations have surged, while buses and taxis have steadily declined. The shift toward individualised, male-dominated mobility has left women dependent on unreliable, unregulated and often unsafe options.
Even when public transport exists, it rarely accounts for women’s needs. Few stations offer clean toilets or child-friendly facilities. Sidewalks are broken or non-existent. Parks and playgrounds — where they exist — are dominated by men and boys. In many low-income neighbourhoods, women avoid public spaces altogether unless accompanied.
Nasreen, a domestic worker, lives just a few kilometres from her job. But when authorities restricted Qingqi routes, her commute became a punishing daily walk in Karachi’s heat. “I thought I would have to quit,” she said. “The roads were not made for people like us.”
The consequences extend far beyond mobility. Pakistan’s female labour force participation — already among the lowest in South Asia — has slipped to around 22 percent. Urban design plays a quiet but decisive role: workplaces without childcare, neighbourhoods without safe transit, and cities without public amenities force women back into the home.
Architects say the problem is not merely cultural; it is structural. “We design cities as if women and children are an afterthought,” said Fariha Khan, an architect and academic in Karachi. “A mother pushing a stroller should not have to navigate an obstacle course just to reach a clinic or a bus stop.”
The result is a steady erosion of dignity and opportunity. Women with degrees remain underemployed. Those in informal work face daily hazards. And millions who might join the workforce never do.
Karachi’s development blueprints — from the 1952 Greater Karachi Plan to the 2020 Strategic Development Plan — promised infrastructure, housing and transport. But they rarely included women in the planning process, and the outcomes reflected that absence. Informal settlements expanded, basic services lagged, and public spaces shrank.
The new Greater Karachi Regional Plan 2047 promises a more inclusive approach, with public consultations and feedback mechanisms. But women’s groups warn that without structural reforms — from zoning to transit to safety — the city will continue to reproduce old inequalities.
Women across Pakistan enter 2026 with a remarkably clear and consistent vision of the future they want to inhabit. At its heart is the desire for cities where movement is not a daily risk — where transport is reliable, affordable and designed around the way women actually travel, with short trips, multiple stops, children in tow and the need to return home safely after dark. They imagine public spaces that welcome them rather than warn them away: parks, sidewalks, markets and workplaces that are lit, accessible and dignified, allowing them to exist in the city without fear or scrutiny.
Their aspirations extend to the infrastructure that makes work possible. Women want childcare and care facilities that allow them to earn a living without compromising their children’s well‑being, a basic support system that remains out of reach for many. They also want a voice in shaping the cities they live in — a seat at planning tables, in transport authorities and in municipal bodies where decisions about mobility, safety and urban design are made.
Above all, they seek economic independence. They want a city that enables them to earn, save and control their own income, rather than one that forces them to choose between safety and employment. Their vision is not extravagant; it is a call for a Pakistan where women can move, work and participate fully — not as exceptions, but as equal citizens.
Pakistan’s urban future is not predetermined. Around the world, cities that once excluded women — from Vienna to Seoul — have redesigned public spaces with gender in mind, improving safety, mobility and economic participation.
Pakistan’s women are not asking for special treatment. They are asking for a city that recognises them as citizens.
As 2026 unfolds, the question is whether Pakistan’s planners, politicians and policymakers will finally see what women have long understood: a city that excludes half its population cannot call itself modern — or prosperous.
