Last week, I observed a group of girls standing in a line at a government school in Sindh; some were holding hands, while others were adjusting their dupattas. It wasn’t recess. They were waiting for vaccines. HPV shots. The kind that might stop cervical cancer from steamrolling through another generation.
Most of them didn’t even know what the vaccine was for. Their mothers had been told by someone in a white coat that it was important. So, they showed up. A few girls asked questions. Most just nodded. It felt like, for once, we were ahead of something instead of reacting too late.
Pakistan’s aiming to vaccinate thirteen million girls, aged nine to fourteen. The goal is ninety per cent coverage. Not symbolic. Urgent. Every single day, eight women die here from cervical cancer. Most had no idea until it was too late. Some never got diagnosed. Just pain. Silence. Gone.
A group of mothers was observed sitting in Rehri Goth, near Karachi. One asked, will the vaccine stop her daughter from having children? Another wasn’t sure if it was even allowed. A third said she had never heard of it until that day. They weren’t being difficult. They were asking what no one had ever explained to them.
And this is what gets missed. These are not questions you can answer with posters. Trust isn’t printed. It’s built. Slowly. In conversations. In sitting down with someone and talking, like you’d talk to your own sister. You answer gently. You listen first.
One thing that’s working. The vaccinators are mostly women. That matters a lot. Mothers may be more inclined to communicate with vaccination staff who resemble acquaintances. Teenage girls tend to experience less anxiety when the nurse appears familiar or shares characteristics with individuals from their local community.
But step back for a second. Last year, Pakistan had nearly 4,800 new cases of cervical cancer. Over 3,000 women died. That’s not a number. That’s a wave of grief sweeping through thousands of homes. The disease doesn’t kill quickly. It gives time. But only if you catch it early. And for most women, no one catches it. They are too far from a clinic. Or too poor. Or too scared. Or told not to worry. Until it is too late.
That is why our Lady Health Workers matter so much. Almost 96,000 of them. Walking miles every day. Giving vaccines. Checking on pregnant women. Explaining things quietly, respectfully, door to door. They know which mother just gave birth, which child is sick, which family needs extra help but won’t ask. They are the invisible engine of our public health system. And they are exhausted.
Providing meaningful support requires more than the use of slogans; it necessitates the allocation of sufficient resources, enhancement of staffing levels, advancement of training programmes and assurance of competitive compensation.
If we want this campaign to succeed, we need to speak the way people understand. Not just in schools. But in homes, mosques, tea stalls, wedding halls. And not in polished speeches. In stories. In real, lived words. Tell people why this matters. Tell them that protecting their daughters is not shameful. It is love in action.
Also, don’t forget the women already at risk. Vaccines protect the future. But what about the women who are scared right now? The ones with quiet symptoms they keep ignoring. We need mobile screening, more clinics, more time to listen.
Women’s health isn’t a luxury. It’s the core of everything. You protect women, you protect families. You keep children fed. You keep schools running. You keep grief from settling into homes too early.
