Pakistan’s Vanishing Minorities: Maria Shahbaz Case
Rohan Giri In March 2026, a court in Pakistan closed the file on a thirteen-year-old girl from Lahore and, in doing so, opened a much older wound that the country has never quite managed to heal. Maria Shahbaz, a Christian by birth, had been abducted, coerced into converting to Islam, and married off to the man who took her. Her family brought documents to prove her age. They pointed to marriage papers that did not match the facts of her life. None of it moved the Federal Constitutional Court, which ruled that her later statements, given after weeks in the custody of her abductor, were enough to validate the marriage and send her back to him. It is the kind of verdict that, on paper, looks like the end of one girl’s story. In practice, it reads like the latest entry in a ledger that Pakistan’s minorities have been keeping, reluctantly and at great cost, for decades. The European Parliament noticed. On 8 July 2026, it adopted a joint resolution on the case, built from four separate drafts submitted by the European People’s Party (EPP), the Progressive Alliance of Socialists and Democrats (S&D), Renew Europe (Renew) and the European Conservatives and Reformists (ECR). What made the resolution worth reading closely was not simply its condemnation of a single court ruling, but the company that ruling was suddenly forced to keep. Buried in the recitals was a figure that ought to have made headlines of its own. In 2025 alone, roughly three-quarters of the documented victims of forced conversion and marriage in Pakistan were Hindu, a quarter were Christian, and nearly eighty percent of all such cases occurred in a single province, Sindh. A single ruling can be an aberration. A demographic skew repeated year after year, concentrated in one province, against the same two communities, is something else entirely. Anyone who has followed Sindh’s Hindu community for more than a news cycle will recognise the shape of this story before it is even told. In February 2012, a nineteen-year-old named Rinkle Kumari was taken at gunpoint from her home in Ghotki district. What followed was almost a template for everything that came after: a sudden disappearance, a claim of voluntary conversion, a court appearance in which the girl, by then weeks removed from her family and in the custody of the man accused of taking her, said what was required of her. Pakistan’s Supreme Court sent her back to her abductor. She told the court, in words that were reported at the time, that there was no justice for Hindus in Pakistan and that she would rather be killed there than returned to the shelter home. She was never seen by her family again. In the years since, the names have changed, Sunita Kumari, Neena Kumari, Lata Kumari, Reena and Raveena, but the sequence rarely does: abduction, a hurried conversion, a marriage certificate produced after the fact, and a court willing to accept a coerced confirmation as proof of consent. Independent research conducted by the NGO South Asia Partnership Pakistan, together with the Aurat Foundation, has estimated that at least a thousand girls, overwhelmingly Hindu, are forcibly converted in Pakistan every year. That is not the residue of an unfortunate exception. It is a functioning system. It is worth asking why this system has been allowed to function for so long, and the answer has as much to do with numbers as with law. Sindh remains home to the largest surviving Hindu population in Pakistan, a community that made up close to fourteen percent of the region’s population at the time of Partition and has since fallen to somewhere between three and four percent. That decline is usually explained away as the ordinary consequence of migration. But researchers who have studied the pattern closely, in India and elsewhere, argue that migration alone cannot account for a fall of that magnitude, and that a slow, decentralised mechanism of attrition, operating family by family through coerced conversion, has done at least as much to hollow out the community as any single wave of departures. No government needs to announce a policy of demographic erasure if its courts will quietly ratify the results of one anyway. There is a second thread in this story that the final joint resolution touched only lightly, though an earlier draft from the S&D group was willing to say it more plainly. That draft connected the pattern of forced conversions to the wider use of blasphemy laws, anti-terrorism statutes and cybercrime provisions against government critics, naming the convictions of Imaan Mazari, Hadi Ali Chattha, Mahrang Baloch and Sibghatullah Shahji, and the continued detention of Baloch and Pashtun rights figures including Ali Wazir. The final text softened this into a general call for judicial reform. But the connection, once drawn, is hard to unsee. A judiciary willing to accept a coerced statement from a frightened thirteen-year-old as evidence of free will is not a separate institution from the one that has, in parallel, been used to jail the lawyers, journalists and activists who try to speak for people like her. Both failures come from the same place: a legal system that treats the powerless, whether a minority child or a dissident adult, as someone whose stated wishes can be safely disregarded once the right procedural box has been ticked. The most telling part of the resolution, in the end, is not what it says about Pakistan’s judiciary but what it says about Europe’s own leverage. Pakistan has held Generalised Scheme of Preferences Plus (GSP+) status for years, a trade arrangement that grants its exports near-zero tariff access to European markets in return for implementing twenty-seven international conventions, among them the Convention on the Rights of the Child. The S&D’s original draft said, without much ambiguity, that continued failure to honour these commitments should result in the withdrawal of that status. By the time the four groups had merged their texts into one, that line had softened into a
