In a deeply tragic and heartbreaking development, the decayed body of Pakistani model and actor Humaira Asghar was found in her Lahore apartment, more than six months after her death. This chilling discovery, marked by its loneliness, serves as a powerful and poignant metaphor for the age we live in. For over half a year, not a single family member, colleague, or friend checked in on her. No one raised questions about her absence, no one noticed her silence, and no one mourned her until her death became a headline. It was only when a bailiff entered her home after seven months of unpaid rent that her remains were discovered.
About a month earlier, another horrifying case emerged. The body of Ayesha Khan, a noted artist of television, was found in her Karachi apartment weeks after she had passed away. Like Humaira, Ayesha had been completely forgotten by his two sons and relatives. Neighbours reported a foul smell but assumed it was garbage. Her social media remained active, with old posts still receiving likes and comments, yet no one questioned why she had suddenly stopped updating. When police finally broke into her home, they found her decomposing body.
These are not isolated tragedies but also indictment of a world that has grown disjointed under the illusion of hyper-connectivity. We have long been fed the lie that modernity, with its dazzling technologies, instant messaging, and online presence, has brought people closer. But incidents like these expose a terrifying truth: we are more disconnected, more fragmented, and more emotionally distant than any previous generation. We scroll through each other’s lives on screens but fail to notice when someone goes into silence. We press ‘like’ on each other’s pictures but forget to check in when someone suddenly disappears. This is not a connection but an imitation of connection, without presence, concern, or true human warmth.
The modern chase of self, often shrouded in the language of ambition, success, and self-expression, has come at a sheer cost. In going after careers, followers, likes, and status symbols, we have ignored the most basic human need of meaningful relationships. We celebrate independence to the extent that dependence, emotional or otherwise, is viewed as weakness. We’ve turned ourselves into isolated islands, floating in a sea of digital noise, pretending we are surrounded, when in reality we are alone.
Global crisis of loneliness
Humaira and Ayesha’s tragic stories are just an example of a rising worldwide phenomenon of loneliness and social disconnection. According to a recent report by the World Health Organization, one in six people are experiencing loneliness, a staggering statistic that cuts across age, gender, and geography. Even more disturbing is the finding that loneliness and social isolation are linked to the deaths of over 871,000 per year.
Ironically, the very tools designed to bring us closer have increased emotional distance between individuals. Algorithms prioritise engagement over understanding, social media promotes comparison, and digital interactions replace real human presence. Texts have replaced touch, emojis have replaced emotions, and digital avatars have replaced physical human presence. As we spend more time behind screens, we lose the ability and the will to be present in each other’s lives.
Besides technology, there is a darker force driving this disconnect: capitalism and uneven distribution of wealth and development leading to hyper-urbanisation. These systems have stolen our resources, talent, time, our gatherings, and the quiet moments we once shared with loved ones in rural settings. They have uprooted us from natural rythms and habitats —forests, pastures, mountains, rivers and valleys where life was once lived collectively and stories were told. In the name of “growth” and “efficiency,” we have traded community for competition, depth for speed, and soul for productivity.
We were never meant to become bureaucratic machines, optimised and scheduled into silence. We were created as social beings, reliant on touch, interaction, and collective care. Yet today, even in the most crowded cities, people suffer in isolation, strangers to their neighbours.
Moreover, the culture of hyper-productivity has only worsened the crisis. We now measure human worth in terms of output, how much we earn and how busy we are. This has fostered a society in which there’s no time left for real conversations, for unexpected visits, or for quiet moments of connection. Everyone is rushing, caught in the rat race, jumping on trends, algorithms, and societal scripts, without pausing for a second to reflect: Where are we heading, and who are we leaving behind?
Pain of migration
The tragic deaths of two women are not just urban phenomen. They are symptoms of a broader societal collapse, one exacerbated by the mass migration of youth from rural and mountainous regions like Gilgit-Baltistan, Kashmir, Balochistan and Pakhtunkhwa to Pakistan’s cities in search of better future, and economic survival. This migration has left behind empty villages, fractured families, and loneliness among those who remain.
In the remote valleys of Gilgit-Baltistan, for instance, majority of young men and women have left for urban centres or abroad, draining their communities of their vitality. The elderly are left to fend for themselves, children grow up without parents, and the once-vibrant communal bonds where neighbours were family, and no one ate alone, are eroding. The same digital technologies that were supposed to bridge distances have instead highlighted the absence, as video calls become painful reminders of what has been lost.
Yet, while these migrants chase economic survival in cities, they often find themselves just as isolated, stuck in cramped apartments, working brutal hours, and disconnected from both their roots and their new surroundings. The tragedy is twofold: the villages they leave behind grow lonelier, and the cities they move to offer no real belonging.
Misogyny and patriarchy
What makes these deaths even more haunting is the hypocrisy of a society that preaches “unity,” “family and religious values” while abandoning its own at the slightest deviation from rigid norms.
Humaira and Ayesha were not just victims of urban alienation; they were also casualties of a culture that rejects individuals for their choices. Pakistani society claims to value relationships, yet it ostracizes women who defy tradition, artists who challenge conservatism, and anyone who dares to live outside prescribed roles.
If a woman chooses a career over marriage, she is labeled “selfish”. If an actor embraces bold roles, she is shamed as “immoral.” If someone leaves an abusive family, they are disowned in the name of “honour.” Religion, which is supposed to teach compassion, is often weaponised to justify this exclusion.
For women, particulalry actors and activists, the loneliness is even more suffocating. They are expected to be self-sacrificing daughters, wives, and mothers. But the moment they step outside these roles, they are cut off, gossiped about, or worse. The same society that consumes their art shames them in private, creating a cycle of exploitation and abandonment.
Wake-up call
The deaths of Humaira and Ayesha should not fade with the headlines. It should serve as a wake-up call, a moment of collective reckoning. We must reimagine community, think about it, not as a nostalgic ideal but as a necessary part of modern survival.
If we are to prevent more deaths, we must acknowledge the loneliness crisis in both cities and villages; challenge the hypocrisy of “family values”; stop using religion as a tool of exclusion; protect women from societal abandonment. No one should die alone because they chose to live freely.
We must teach ourselves and the next generation that success without connection is shallow and superficial, that independence without interdependence is dangerous, and that no amount of technology can replace for physical presence, we should redefine success as well.
Wazir Aftab Hussain has done a Master’s in Media and Communications from Brunel University, London. He is currently serving as Deputy Controller of Examinations at the University of Baltistan. He contributes essays on social, political, and environmental issues, as well as tourism, to High Asia Herald pages.
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