On a Pakistani women-only Facebook group called CreepyQorma (a spinoff of Creepypasta, a catchall phrase for horror stories shared by users online, while Qorma is a meat stew in Pakistan), its members share creepy stories and ghostly encounters and discuss the strange and unknown. Some of the superstitious beliefs about urban space shared by women in this group include:

– At the time of Maghreb, or sunset, evil entities gain strength and draw closer to populated areas, hence one should avoid going outside at that time and children should be kept indoors.

– If you come across any bone, piece of meat, or even a puddle of water on the street, don’t kick it aside or jump over it; instead, change your path or walk past it.

– Women should not go out at night with wet, loose, or untied hair, and definitely should not walk under trees at night.

– Girls should not wear strong perfume outdoors, especially around trees.

– Avoid saying the word “jinn” (a supernatural entity that can assume various earthly forms) because they hear it and come to listen to what you have to say.

Superstitions in Pakistan are broad and pertain to multiple objects, cultural phenomena, and folk traditions; in Karachi, these range from household objects to the more popular black cat passing on the sidewalk. For example, if a broom is left upright in a corner or if someone jumps over one, such an action portends a future fight. If one faces personal harm, it must be because someone cast the evil eye. A crow cawing continuously on one’s roof signals the imminent arrival of guests, blessing or good fortune and should be welcomed with open arms. Superstitions encompass a set of attitudes, omens, and beliefs that many Karachi residents believe are held by individuals who abide by them based on ignorance and limited knowledge. For many, superstitions are a way of making decisions that may seem irrational to non-believers. Even so, they organize common social norms within communities and are followed based on shared levels of social acceptance.

Superstitions are also referred to as wehmi baatain, riwayat, old wife’s tales, urban legends, or myths. A crucial difference distinguishes superstitions and myths, despite their seeming relation: the former is a category of paranormal beliefs rooted in supernatural influences, fears, and practices; while the latter is a traditional narrative with supernatural elements and sometimes coded with moral lessons. As a predominantly Islamic society, religious beliefs overlap with superstitions and are embedded in its cultural fabric. In Karachi, Pakistan’s largest city, the coexistence of diverse ethnicities, religions, and cultural practices further shapes these traditions. A rich oral tradition has perpetuated superstitions across generations, and women have heard warnings from elders and have been cautioned to avoid certain situations from a young age.

Myths and superstitions—whether believed to be true or false—still govern women’s movement in cities and urban spaces. For example, strict regulations guide pregnant women during lunar and solar eclipses, controlling their movement and agency. They cannot leave the house or use metal objects, among other limitations. Is the curtailed mobility of women in their environment by way of superstitions a patriarchal construct? Is there truth to such beliefs and practices? Or is the fear of the unknown weaponized to police women, and what are the consequent barriers to their safety? By interrogating the relationship between the city, gender, and the beliefs that govern both, safety in the built environment can be reconsidered as both a psycho-cultural and a physical condition.

I spoke to thirteen Muslim women from 20 to 66 based in Karachi about their experiences of superstitions and safety. The younger ones were students at the University of Karachi (KU). When we broached the topic of superstitions, particularly those concerning safety in public spaces, the conversation quickly veered into multiple, and sometimes contradictory, directions. Contrary to what I expected, the younger women were quick to express their disdain for such beliefs. Hira, Sharmeen, and Nyla said that they don’t believe in superstitions and never took much interest in them. The girls opined that superstitions are born out of ignorance; indeed, superstitions are often falsely considered to be practiced by those with lower levels of education. Even so, they continue to take precautions for peace of mind, sometimes even to the point of believing in certain superstitions because of personal experiences. Darakshan expressed that while she does not pay heed to superstitions, “some things bother when you don’t follow them.” This conflict between logic and experience plays an important role in how women perceive and navigate the city. What are their fears when in public? How does social conditioning frame their experience of safety, or does it give birth to more superstitions?

A city is not simply bricks, mortar and concrete, but a living, ever-evolving entity pulsating with life and emotion. In probing women’s daily lives in Karachi, the number of women who reported fear for their safety in urban spaces far outweighed similar concerns expressed by men. Urban scholars recount the physical features of the city that women have learned to fear: “low potential for escape, poor maintenance, dense vegetation, inadequate lighting, pathways, alleys, bus stops, parking lots, and tunnels,” among other elements.¹ Fear functions as a form of social control; by repeatedly ingraining in them the dangers of being alone in public space, fear curtails women’s independence and mobility. As one example, women in Pakistan and across South Asia are taught from a young age to avoid stepping out after Maghreb (sunset) since it is not safe to do so. Fear is instrumentalized to manipulate their autonomy, leading to their spatial and social exclusion from nightly urban activities.

Respectability and family honour also play key roles in their social and spatial conditioning, as women are often told that “girls from respectable households do not leave the house at night.” Hira and Nyla come from a conservative home environment. They are not allowed to go out post-Maghreb, having been warned that “it is not safe outside at night.” Hira believes her parents are right in setting this limitation, as they have heard of routine nighttime crimes against women.² Mansha and Adeeba instead often see friends post-Maghreb. That said, Mansha abides by the curfew set by her father, noting that “ghosts don’t scare us, the restrictions are because of men.”

Sharmeen’s family mindset is different. They are staunch supporters of women’s self-agency, allowing Sharmeen to go out wherever and whenever on her motorbike.³ One night, she was on her bike when a female student asked for a lift. She refused since she was by herself and kept riding. A few kilometres ahead, she encountered the same girl again asking for a lift. Sharmeen was thoroughly spooked out as it was not humanly impossible for the girl to have walked that fast, unnoticed by her. This story marked a shift in the conversation by giving an opening for more intangible experiences to be discussed. Hira and Nyla admitted that they had heard about many such paranormal incidents happening in Karachi University but never really paid much heed to them until it happened to Sharmeen. They nodded in agreement when Nyla voiced matter-of-factly that a sunsaan jagah, a phrase often used to refer to a desolate or deserted area, by default implies the presence of jinn. In Islamic cosmology, jinn are a distinct race created by Allah from smokeless fire. Invisible to the human eye, they belong to the realm of the unseen but can move between their world and ours. Like humans, jinn possess free will and can be both good and evil. Their social structures are said to mirror those of the human world, reflecting their complex and parallel existence.⁴

These firsthand accounts of women’s public safety at night blurs truth and fiction. Another woman said that she does believe that jinn exist, but this is not always on her mind when she goes outside. She noted, “I believe that these spirits attack people with weak faith or the ones who get scared. If I’m getting a negative vibe from something (a place or situation), I always recite Ayatul Kursi. Plus, I’m a working woman, I only get time to meet my friends after work around Maghreb. If I start taking precautions, I will be isolated at home. Everyone believes in the existence of jinn, but I haven’t seen anyone avoid going out at Maghreb time or reciting du’a going out.” Du’a, an Islamic act of worship and spiritual practice, allows Muslims to seek help, guidance, or blessings from God through personal supplication. Unlike formal prayers, du’a is informal and can be made anytime, anywhere, for protection from worldly harm and unseen evils.

For her part, Nilofar, a 66-year-old retired professional, doesn’t step out at the time of Maghreb but is perfectly fine with stepping out afterwards. She waits until Azaan (call to prayers) has ended and has finished saying her Maghreb namaz (evening prayer). She also makes sure that all her doors and windows are shut tight as she believes that evil spirits restlessly flit around and try to seek refuge in indoor, sheltered spaces during Azaan. For Nilofar, Maghreb is a sensitive time since it heralds the fall of darkness, which brings with it the unknown. “It is better to stay put,” she says, “and if one has to head out during Azaan, for whichever unavoidable reason, then it is important to recite safety du’a.”

Whereas Ayesha, a 51-year-old educator, has a different perspective on superstitious beliefs. She prefers to call them intuitions that women are born with. Ayesha explained, “I am superstitious and base a lot of my decisions on instinct. My intuition is always on high alert when it comes to public spaces.” She cites how girls are taught from a young age to avoid going outdoors alone as a cultural rather than religious practice; in effect, women feel unsafe in public because of cultural impositions on their behaviours. While she agreed that most superstitions are patriarchal constructs, she counterargued that most Pakistani parents teach their daughters to believe these out of genuine concern and not necessarily because of authoritarian parenting: “Things are bad out there. We carry this fear when we step outside every single time. We can never rid of it, never shake it off whether it comes from our father or society.”

In The Weird and the Eerie, Mark Fisher explores the unsettling tension between absences and presences. Linking the concept of the eerie to the outside, in landscapes devoid of human and earthly presence, Fisher asks, “Why is there something here when there should be nothing? Why is there nothing here when there should be something?”¹ Who—or what—commands strange absences or presences? Ayesha mentioned that the area she lives in is notorious for hold-ups and home robberies, even though her street is central and well-lit. Residents have installed car alarms, some have hired security guards, and others have subscribed to CPLC (Citizens Police Liaison Committee) security services, which offers a van to do regular rounds for security checks. But despite the thorough safety measures in place, as soon as school is over and the sun sets, Ayesha’s neighbourhood becomes deserted and empty: “At 7pm, it feels like 3am. It is very quiet and peaceful but at the same time extremely desolate.” She does not feel afraid, but her guests have expressed finding it eerie and strange, wanting to quickly get out of the car and into her house.

Superstitions and the darkness of night are strongly linked to the unknown and the eerie. In Pakistan, girls and women are routinely told to stay put inside as evening descends and the sun disappears, and if one must head outside, then they are cautioned against wearing strong fragrances and keeping their hair untied. Women are especially warned not to walk under trees at night, since trees are said to be nighttime abodes for supernatural entities. Nilofar explained that walking under trees during the day is fine, but when darkness approaches, such entities spread out and choose veeran, ghaney (desolate and dense) trees to settle down for the night—they take over the absence created by darkness with their presence. Neem and Peepal trees, indigenous to Karachi, are said to host more jinn than others.

Zonash said that she makes sure to cover her head to ward off bura saya (evil shadows) if she has to be out after Maghreb, but that she does not take any other other precautions. Mansha and Adeeba have been told the same, mentioning that, realistically, they cannot avoid walking under trees. If a tree is in their path, they are not going to change their route. Nilofar regrets the newer generation’s tendency to disregard these beliefs, warning that “the younger generation doesn’t listen and understand anymore. They should take these precautions.” From her perspective, one must not roam around alone at night: “two sets of eyes are better.”

But in Pakistan, the haunting of old trees has much more significance beyond nighttime superstitions. Trees that have existed for more than a century bear many stories. Over time, such trees have been claimed to house many such beings, and so it is cautioned not to chop down or destroy ancient trees—this can lead to tragic outcomes. Nilofar shared an incident of how one family came to devastating financial ruin and suffered tragic deaths because they decided to not pay heed to the advice to not chop down an old tree on the land where they were constructing their new home.

Recently, this tweet went viral across Pakistan. While amusing, it more seriously highlights a prevalent form of street harassment by random men who offer unsolicited rides to women walking on the street. This tweet speaks volumes about the entanglement of Pakistani women’s safety and mobility with their seeming penchant for believing in supernatural beings and phenomena. It also acts as a subversive gesture: for one moment, women mobilize fear and superstitions to scare men in public space. Yet while women fear physical harm, men only fear women if they appear in ghostly or as a churail (witch) form in public spaces.¹

Safety rules devised to protect us are based on specific norms and regulations. Habits, behaviours, and rituals also become rooted in notions of protection and self-preservation. A central point of discussion in the conversations I’ve had with women about superstition and safety concerns self-protection through religion and prayer. The girls believed that that Ayatul Kursi is a du’a given and gifted by God for their safety and they are convinced that if they don’t recite it daily then some mishap is bound to happen. Many other preventive prayers serve as “safety measures.” Both Muslim women recite them before going out anywhere as protection from worldly and otherworldly beings. They believe that the power of these du’a is immense and can prevent all harms apart from death. Muslims express their faith in and reliance on Allah, trusting that this will protect them from harm in public situations.

In her research on the interrelation of stress, superstition, and religion, Siobhan Roddy highlights how superstitions often become more prevalent during stressful situations, offering a coping mechanism to boost one’s sense of safety.² She also emphasizes how religious and superstitious beliefs and practices are intertwined, as both operate in the realm of the miraculous, beyond the physical world. Superstitious beliefs and religious practices are both mechanisms that defuse stressful situations and provide an illusion of control over unpredictable outcomes and circumstances by shifting the burden of power to an immaterial entity. They provide a similar form of existential security but at the same time, they can function as opposites: protection prayers are often invoked to counteract the negative outcomes associated with superstitions.

In contemplating the mechanisms we have created and the stories we tell ourselves to navigate the world, superstitions about safety are one of the ways we make sense of our lived reality. These beliefs, rooted in religion, culture, or personal experience, reflect a common desire for comfort and agency in the face of uncertainty. Beyond safety codes and rules, superstitions, myths, and rituals provoke a form of worldbuilding through which individuals and communities co-create shared understandings of safety, shaping the urban spaces they inhabit.