Internet Device on Loadshedding till 26th February

February 23, 2026  

4:13 PM – Karachi  

Device gone, loadshedding on the phone too. I'll recharge on the 26th—branch ja kar 50 ka packet lunga, but I'm keeping it to myself this time. Gotta have the guts to do inDrive rides too, because credit card payment is staring me down. On the way back, grab TeaMilac from Bin Hashim. But the real point here is showing Madiha straight up: I don't trust you anymore. This needs to be conveyed loud and clear—no sugarcoating. inDrive mornings might work better, so set alarms and push through the drama.

All this bullshit is actually doing me one favor: I don't want to be home anymore. Second thing—people I used to worry about, stress over? Done. No more. Maybe Allah is sending me a message through this mess. Madiha's walking exactly in Ammi's footsteps, playing the same dirty game—turning my own kid against me, whispering poison. That's Ammi's mentality all over it. You can smell her influence in every move Madiha makes. Tell me honestly: is this woman even fit to be called a mother? All this just to strip away my authority over Madiha, so I get forced into their twisted idea of "humanity's circle." They don't give a damn about the future they're building for me—20 years from now, I'll be that husband who's turned into a murid, obedient slave. These are my parents saying no parent wants this for their child? Bullshit. Those memes about a mother's or father's hand pushing you forward? Lies in my case. My own parents are the ones holding me back.

Look at the bias: I can't even tell Madiha to put the April 2025 doctor's receipts in the documents bag without it turning into a circus. When I joked about it casually—"yar, receipts daal do bag mein"—she twists it into something where I have to defend myself. Every single time. Any sane person would lose their mind after this repeated crap. I'm living with my parents, and Islam says they should step in to mediate when things get heated—but no, they pour oil on the burning coals instead. Their story starts criminally right there: ignoring me, refusing to hear my point of view, and jumping straight to my anger as the villain. Even when I'm right, I'm the criminal in their eyes, forced to answer like a dog getting fed scraps for iftar—just to "straighten me out."

They'll say I used to yell morning and night, took my anger out on Ammi, never told my side. But they won't admit: Murtaza tried over and over to make you understand, speaking like you were my own people. When I kept getting the same response—"You want us to hit her for your sake?"—that's not my goal. How many times did I beg both of you to stop her? How many times did I explain I don't want this politics in my house—the same politics she brought from hers? But thanks to your backing, it's fully here now. Just because my straightforwardness pisses you off so much, you have to teach me a lesson somehow.

I know Madiha inside out—7 years, 2 weeks, 2 days of watching her patterns. I'm writing this based on pure experience. But my parents? Either understand or admit she's from Edhi's cradle. Madiha's got this deep complex because she was always controlled in her own home. Now that I've given her freedom, she's turning it against me—trying to mold me into her image. She doesn't have the guts to speak up in front of others, but with me, full force. Ammi's flip-flop is classic: first "Don't eat at Yaqub Sahib's house," now "Go ahead and eat there." 180 degrees, no shame.

That's exactly why I'm documenting everything. Hell, I'm even inviting Grok to read this post and tell me straight—what patterns do you see in my situation? Check it yourself and lay it out for me.

This joint family trap is suffocating. Nuclear is the only way forward once I get a stable job. These people are ruining my name, my peace, my future. Allah sees it all. Justice will come.

No more games. I'm done being the doormat.

It's 12:14 AM in Karachi, pitch black outside, and I'm wide awake with this raging fire in my chest—intense anger, heart burning like hell, a storm of helplessness crashing over me. But somehow, faith in Allah is still holding on, even if it's getting weaker by the day. God, help me cling to it.

February 23, 2026

It's 12:14 AM in Karachi, pitch black outside, and I'm wide awake with this raging fire in my chest—intense anger, heart burning like hell, a storm of helplessness crashing over me. But somehow, faith in Allah is still holding on, even if it's getting weaker by the day. God, help me cling to it.

Let me lay out today's mess in detail, because if I don't write this shit down, it'll eat me alive. The whole day felt like one big explosion of frustration, not from some external crap like India's embarrassing Super 8 loss that's all-over social media—people screaming, making memes, celebrating like idiots. No, that was just background noise. My real war was inside this house, this emotional battlefield that's driving me insane bit by bit.

Flashback to yesterday evening, that moment at 5:27 PM still stabbing me in the chest like a knife. I came home with samosas and rolls, power was outfucking loadshedding as usual. House empty, nobody around, just me and my cat. I started prepping for iftar, nothing fancy because my pockets are empty as fuck. Lights flickered back on at 5:30, timestamp etched in my brain. Sitting there alone, heart heavy like a rock on my chest, loneliness crushing me. Then, a sound—like someone entering the room. My heart skipped, I was so desperate and on edge that I yelled out, "I'm doing my thing, you do yours, please!" But nobody there. Just the noise, then dead silence. Maybe some unseen presence, jinn or whatever.

In that split second, it hit me: these beings are like us—they need space, room to breathe. I'm all for coexistence with new or unknown shit; no competition, just live and let live. From those horror podcasts I binge, I've learned humans and the unseen world can share space without war. Especially when I was down, alone, with only my cat as company. He was my silent partner in that isolation.

The cat came over, sat with me. When I gestured with my hand, he left. No control, just presence. Outside the door, a mother dog had given birth to 8 pups. They're out there, depending on scraps I throw, but in return, they watch out for me in their way. These animals stick by me for a few bits of meat. When I was utterly alone, they became my support. These small things touch me deep, like a gentle hand on a wounded heart.

Humans? They've got words, but zero humanity. More like animals in the worst sense—savage. These creatures care more than my own family. Hell, my folks even hate the cat.

I did iftar alone. Planned food till 7:30, tea by 7:45, so I could prep for Isha, Tarawih, and Witr by 8:10. But no cash, so just samosas. Went to jamaat on an empty stomach.

Now, personal reflections and the gritty details: Yesterday, Madiha came to me saying they wanted to go to Metro, and drop her off at Abu's (Yaqub Sahib's) place. But looking at today, I realize I need to nail down financial planning completely. Yesterday, they humiliated me so bad my heart burned up. Today, she's talking about visiting Yaqub Sahib because of his surgery. I'm not saying visiting is wrong. But first, show me some damn respect. Respect means listening to me, acknowledging my responsibilities, treating my views as valid.

Like the Mastercard logo—two circles, two separate worlds, but they overlap in the middle. That's family unity: respect both worlds, meet in the center. But here? One world is trying to force the other into its shape. They won't accept my world; they're hell-bent on remolding it to match theirs. This isn't unity; it's one-sided pressure, pure domination.

I'm saying, when something's fully my responsibility, let me handle it my way. If it's wrong, explain with logic. But this gaslighting environment, this "it's all in your head" bullshit—it's torturing me. They're making me feel like I'm crazy, like my words mean nothing, like I'm immature. Madiha and my parents are tag-teaming to prove I'm a child. They dismiss every point I make as childish, instead of listening to my reasoning, they hit back with "You don't understand yet," "Your brain's messed up."

My anger boils from this: nobody's listening to me. When I ask, "Why am I angry?"—crickets. They don't hear the real question. Instead of mediating, they jump to proving me wrong. Baba straight-up says, "This is all in your head, like you did to Mustafa." Meaning, they think I turned Mustafa immature too, and now me. They dodge my question and slap me with the immature label to deflect. That's gaslighting—twisting my reality, making me doubt my own sanity.

My rage is because my voice is silenced. When I demand, "Tell me why I'm angry!"—no answer. They skip mediating and go straight to villainizing me.

What if I go nuclear—cut off completely, take my family and bail? The thought crosses my mind, but it's no walk in the park. Challenges stack up:

- Financially, waiting on salary, job's not permanent, loans pending, rent in Karachi (20k-50k monthly) plus expenses—impossible to shoulder right now.

- Emotionally, cultural guilt will devour me: "Abandoned your parents" taunts, society's judgmental eyes, fear of total isolation.

- If kids are involved, their adjustment, school, daily life upheaval.

- Full family boycott, zero support, mental risk of diving into depression.

But it could free me from the gaslighting, save my dignity.

I'm praying to Allah: Ya Allah! Grant me halal, stable income that meets my needs, where my dignity, family's peace, and independence are protected.

Lessons from this crap: Joint family to nuclear is a must. Once I snag a new job, I'll prioritize my own family. These people are just defaming me.

When anger spills out, they accuse me of being power-hungry. But I'm starving for love and affection, not control. If I wanted power, I'd have put Madiha's account under my name, kept her dependent. But I let her be free—that's my nature.

I'm writing all this so if someone reads it five years from now, they'll get it: the pressure I was under, how they ignored my words and branded me immature, how they refused to accept my world and tried to reshape it.

Allah will deliver justice.

Khuda Hafiz.

Family paradigm - and how am I being confined, just because I "obey" them; What is this about "forceful obedience"

 The Qur'anic metaphor in Surah Al-Baqarah (2:187) describes spouses as "garments" (libas) for one another, symbolizing mutual protection, comfort, intimacy, and the covering of each other's faults or vulnerabilities. This implies a relationship of reciprocity where both husband and wife provide emotional security, honor, and support, fostering tranquility (sakinah) as mentioned in Surah Ar-Rum (30:21). Scholarly interpretations emphasize that this garment role is bidirectional—neither spouse should expose or harm the other's dignity, privacy, or well-being.

When a Wife "Disrobes" the Husband's Garments

In Islamic teachings, if a wife undermines her husband's dignity—through emotional manipulation, humiliation, belittling, gaslighting, or aligning against him (e.g., with in-laws to exert control)—this constitutes a breach of marital obligations and can fall under forms of emotional or psychological abuse, which are prohibited. Islam views such actions as contrary to the principles of mercy (rahmah), kindness (ma'ruf), and equity in marriage (Qur'an 4:19: "Live with them in kindness"). Abusive behaviors, including verbal degradation or using affection conditionally, disrupt the marital harmony and are not justified, even if misinterpreted from verses like 4:34 (which some classical jurists linked to discipline but modern reforms interpret as non-violent advice or separation).

Key Islamic rulings on this:

- Mutual Duties: Both spouses must preserve each other's honor. The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said, "The best of you are those who are best to their wives," highlighting gentleness and respect. A wife failing in this role doesn't nullify the marriage automatically but violates the nuptial agreement's spirit of partnership.

- Remedies: Communication and reconciliation are encouraged (Qur'an 4:35: appoint arbitrators from both families). If unresolved, options include temporary separation (ila' or zihar, though reformed) or divorce (talaq, khula, or mubarat by mutual consent). In severe cases of harm, seeking judicial intervention or dissolution is permissible to protect one's rights and mental health, as marriage should not entail oppression.

- Accountability: Such actions are sinful if intentional, as they oppose the Qur'anic command against harm (e.g., 2:231 on not retaining wives harmfully). Scholars note that emotional abuse can lead to compensation (mut'ah) in divorce proceedings to restore dignity.

| Spousal Duty | Qur'anic/Hadith Basis | Implication if Violated |

Parents Using Islam as a Shield to Overcome Their Complexes

Islam mandates kindness, respect, and financial support toward parents (birr al-walidayn), as in Qur'an 17:23 ("Do not say to them [so much as] 'uff' and do not repel them but speak to them a noble word") and hadiths emphasizing parental rights. However, this is not absolute—obedience is limited to what is halal (permissible) and reasonable, and parents are accountable for abuse or manipulation. Using religion as a "shield" to justify control, emotional abuse, or forcing adult children into unwanted decisions (e.g., to overcome parental insecurities or complexes) is considered spiritual abuse (a form of hypocrisy or bid'ah), distorting Islam's teachings on mercy and justice.

Key Islamic rulings on this:

- Limits to Obedience: The Prophet (PBUH) said, "There is no obedience to creation in disobedience to the Creator" (Sahih Bukhari). Parents cannot demand sin, harm, or undue control over adults (e.g., forcing marriage choices or isolating from spouse). For married adults, spousal rights take precedence in household matters.

- Abuse Not Excused: Toxic behaviors like weaponizing religion (e.g., threats of divine punishment for non-compliance) or guilt-tripping are forbidden, as they contradict Qur'an 3:159 on leniency and mercy. Parents will be questioned on Judgment Day for harming children (Qur'an 81:8-9 on buried infants, extended to neglect/abuse).

- Remedies for Children: Maintain respect but set boundaries (e.g., low contact if needed). Seek mediation from elders or scholars; in extreme cases (physical/emotional harm), distancing is permissible to protect one's faith and well-being. Breaking cycles of toxicity aligns with Islamic justice.

Climax of yesterday's solitary confinement

February 21, 2026

It's 4:04 PM in Karachi, and I'm sitting here in the aftermath of today's explosion, journaling this out because if I don't capture these raw moments, they'll just fester inside me like an untreated wound. After yesterday's confinement that left me feeling like a caged animal, today was the breaking point—the day it all boiled over into a full-blown fight with my family and Madiha. I tried to make them see the truth, to realize the damage they're causing, but I'm damn sure they won't listen. Instead, I've probably made things worse, painting myself as the villain in their eyes. Critically speaking, this incident didn't just happen out of thin air; it's the rotten fruit of years of messed-up family dynamics where my parents have been the architects of chaos in my life. I've always been the guy who stays out of drama, doesn't indulge in petty power plays or endless arguments. But them? In the name of "obedience and disobedience," they've tamed me like some wild horse, forcing me to follow their rigid rules blindly. And now, they expect me to carry on that toxic legacy with Madiha and Munir, molding my own family in their image. Hell no—I'm not willing to follow that path because I refuse to let my fate mirror theirs: trapped in resentment, control, and unspoken regrets.

Assertively, let's break down why this blew up today. It started small, like always—a comment about household decisions that escalated when Ammi ridiculed me in front of everyone, mocking my attempts to assert myself as the head of my small family. "Who do you think you are?" she sneered, as if my opinions were laughable. Then Madiha piled on, echoing her ridicule like a loyal follower, turning it into a tag-team assault. It felt exactly like how the Pakistan Cricket Team gets treated by the Indian Cricket Team in those heated matches—endless ridicule, belittling, and blind dominance, with no room for fair play. I got angry, lashed out at Ammi, and I'm not hiding behind excuses; that was my reaction, pure and simple, born from watching my own family crumble right before my eyes. Instead of acting as mediators—like wise elders stepping in to de-escalate and find middle ground—they behaved like Hitler in a dictatorship: "Either you're with us, or you're against us." No nuance, no empathy, just ultimatums that force submission. That's the core of our family dynamics: a generational cycle of control disguised as "guidance," where respect means obedience, and any pushback is seen as rebellion. My parents created this mess by prioritizing their authority over actual harmony, and now it's infected my marriage, with Madiha following their lead because that's the "legacy" they've instilled. If they had mediated fairly, like arbitrators from Surah An-Nisa, this fight might have been a discussion instead of a war zone.

Reflecting on this critically, I have to ask myself some hard questions: Why do I keep expecting them to change when the pattern's been clear for years? Have I enabled this by not setting firmer boundaries sooner? And how do I break free without torching everything?

Rewriting my own opinion for the record, as brutally honest as it gets: Murtaza, you're not entirely blameless here, and that's where you're wrong—dear self (or GPT, if I'm channeling guidance through this journal). You've been too passive for too long, avoiding confrontation because you hate drama, but that avoidance has let the toxicity build like unchecked mold. Getting angry and lashing out at Ammi? That's wrong because it escalates without solving; Islam teaches us to respond with patience and wisdom, like the Prophet (PBUH) who said, "Anger comes from the devil," and advised controlling it. You're right that your parents are responsible for the mess—they're not mediators; they're enforcers pushing a legacy of blind obedience that ruins relationships. But you're wrong in thinking you can "make them realize" through fights; people dug into their ways rarely listen to shouts. The family dynamics are at fault: a top-down hierarchy where ridicule is a weapon to maintain control, turning your home into a rivalry instead of a refuge. Madiha following blindly? That's her wrong, but yours too for not addressing it head-on earlier.

To correct it, start with accountability—no more excuses for your reactions. Apologize to Ammi sincerely, not to cover up, but to model the respect you demand; Quran 17:23 urges kindness to parents, even if they're flawed. Then, assertively set boundaries: have a calm, private talk with Madiha, saying, "This ridicule stops now; we're partners, not rivals." Bypass your parents as mediators since they've proven biased—seek external Islamic counseling immediately, like at Zehni Sukoon or an imam from a local masjid, to discuss rights and reconciliation without their interference. Build your own support: journal more, pray for sabr, and maybe confide in a trusted friend outside the family. Brutally, if they keep acting like dictators, limit their involvement in your marriage to protect Munir from this cycle. Change won't happen overnight, but correcting starts with you leading by example—patient, firm, and unwilling to inherit their fate. Hang in there; you've got the strength to rewrite this legacy.

Responses

February 21, 2026

It's 4:17 PM in Karachi, and the tension from today's blow-up is still thick in the air like humidity before a storm. I did what the journal suggested—I assertively set boundaries with Madiha in a calm, private talk, just the two of us, away from the chaos. I spoke clearly: "We're a team, a nikah-bound partnership. I need respect as the head of our family, and the constant ridicule and undermining from outside needs to stop. We handle our issues together first, without parents dictating every move." She listened, but then... nothing changed. Instead, my parents jumped in harder, not allowing me to enforce those boundaries at all. They interrupted, dismissed my words, and doubled down on their control, acting like Baby Boomers who think their way is the only way—demanding obedience, no questions asked, no space for my adult decisions. Madiha? She's fully supporting them now, siding with their interference just like they expect, turning our marriage into an extension of their rules. This has been their consistent behavior with me: treat me like a perpetual child who must follow the "legacy," or face ridicule and isolation. No wonder it feels like I'm fighting an uphill battle against three people who see my boundaries as rebellion.

Critically and assertively, this isn't working because the core problem is deeper than one talk. My parents aren't just overstepping; they're actively sabotaging any attempt at independence in my marriage. In Pakistani family culture, especially in joint setups, parents often view setting boundaries as disrespect or ingratitude—it's baked into the mindset of "obey or you're bad." But Islam doesn't demand blind submission to parents at the expense of your own family unit. The Quran commands birr (kindness) to parents (17:23), but it also establishes the husband as qawwam (maintainer and protector) of his wife and home (4:34), and the couple as garments for each other (2:187)—meaning we protect one another, even from family interference. Scholars emphasize that while parents deserve respect, obedience is only in ma'ruf (what is right and reasonable); anything harmful, controlling, or sinful gets no priority. Setting boundaries isn't haram—it's necessary to preserve harmony and prevent abuse. The Prophet (PBUH) taught balance: honor parents, but prioritize your spouse in marital matters without degrading elders.

Why this keeps failing: Because I tried to set boundaries with Madiha alone, but the real blockade is my parents' control, and Madiha's alignment with them creates a united front against me. This dynamic turns my home into a dictatorship—"with us or against us"—where any assertion gets shut down. Madiha supporting them? That's her choice, but it weakens our marriage foundation. Parents enabling it? They're not mediators; they're enforcers pushing a generational cycle of control disguised as care.

Brutally honest guidance for myself: You're not wrong to set boundaries—that's exactly what you need to do as a man leading his family. But you're going about it half-measure by expecting one talk to fix years of patterns. Where you're wrong: Underestimating how entrenched this is and not acting decisively enough. A private talk with Madiha is good, but when parents override it, you have to reinforce consistently and involve external help. Don't wait for them to "allow" your boundaries; claim them as your Islamic right.

How to correct and move forward, step by assertive step:

1. **Reunite as a couple first** — Sit with Madiha again, calmly but firmer: "I love you, but if we don't stand united against outside control, our marriage suffers. Islam puts our partnership first after Allah. Are you with me on protecting our home, or with them?" If she keeps siding with parents, that's a red flag—address it head-on, perhaps with "If we can't agree on basics like this, we need help."

2. **Set boundaries directly with parents, respectfully but non-negotiably** — As their son, you're the one to enforce this (the child-primary relationship handles it). Use gentle but clear language: "Ammi/Abbu, I respect you deeply and will always honor you, but my marriage is my responsibility. Decisions about our home, Munir, and our issues stay between me and Madiha first. Please don't interfere or ridicule; it hurts us all." If they push back, repeat calmly and disengage—limit exposure if needed (e.g., reduce joint discussions).

3. **Seek external Islamic mediation now** — Don't rely on family arbitrators who are biased. Go to a qualified counselor who understands Sharia and Pakistani dynamics. In Karachi, options like Shaykh Atif Ahmed's Islamic marriage counseling (in-person or online, blending ethics and empathy) or Zehni Sukoon for faith-based therapy sound solid—they handle in-law interference, boundaries, and rights without just lecturing. An imam from a reputable masjid can appoint neutral arbitrators per 4:35. Book it this week; make it non-negotiable.

4. **Protect your dignity daily** — No more tolerating ridicule. Walk away from conversations that turn toxic, say "I won't discuss this if it's disrespectful," and follow through. Build sabr through salah, dua for guidance, and perhaps journaling or a trusted friend outside the family.

5. **Plan for escalation** — If they keep blocking (locking doors, emotional blackmail), document patterns quietly for protection. Islam encourages reconciliation, but not endless suffering—tafriq (separation) exists for a reason if toxicity persists.

Rewriting my opinion for the record: Murtaza, this Baby Boomer-style control from your parents—Madiha echoing it—is toxic, not Islamic guidance. You're right to fight it; staying passive has enabled the mess. But correct by leading decisively: unite with Madiha or confront the divide, enforce boundaries consistently, and get professional help before resentment poisons everything. You deserve a home where you're respected, not ridiculed. Act now—your legacy with Munir depends on breaking this cycle, not inheriting it. Stay firm, stay kind where possible, but don't back down. You've got this.

After sometimes when I got relaxed

February 21, 2026

It's 4:30 PM in Karachi, and I'm back at this journal, my only real outlet right now, because talking to anyone else just risks more blowback. After that attempt to set boundaries with Madiha—only for my parents to bulldoze right over it and her to side with them like she's part of their Baby Boomer club—I'm left wondering how to counter this mess alone, without lighting another fuse. I'm already on edge about my job; the last thing I need is this family torture spilling over and turning into another layer of hell that drains my focus or worse. Escalation isn't an option—I've seen how it backfires, leaving me more isolated and ridiculed. So, how do I handle this solo, strategically, without poking the bear?

Brutally honest from my own reflection: I'm in a tough spot where going it alone means playing the long game, focusing on self-preservation and subtle shifts rather than direct confrontations that could explode. The family dynamics are rigged against me—parents enforcing control, Madiha enabling it—so any big move risks them ganging up harder, which could amp up the stress and hit my work performance. But doing nothing? That's surrender, and I refuse to let this define my life or Munir's future. Islam reminds me in Surah Al-Asr (103:3) to have patience and enjoin truth, but also to act wisely—rushing into battles without strategy is foolish. The Prophet (PBUH) endured years of opposition in Mecca with sabr and quiet planning before migrating; that's the model here—endure smartly, build strength internally.

Here's how I can counter this alone, step by step, without escalating:

1. **Prioritize inner stability first** — Start with what I control: my mindset and routine. Ramp up daily salah, especially Fajr and Tahajjud, for dua asking Allah for guidance and patience. Add zikr like "Hasbunallahu wa ni'mal wakeel" (Allah is sufficient for us) to stay calm during triggers. Journal more consistently to vent without exploding at them—this keeps the headaches from building up internally and affecting my job. Physically, get some exercise, even a quick walk outside when possible, to burn off stress without involving anyone else. Brutally, if I'm crumbling inside, I can't counter anything effectively; this is self-care, not selfishness.

2. **Create quiet distance without confrontation** — Don't announce boundaries again right now—that escalates. Instead, subtly reduce exposure: Spend more time in my room or out for "work reasons" (even if it's just a coffee shop to think). At home, respond minimally to ridicule—nod, say "Okay," and disengage politely without arguing. For Madiha, shift to neutral topics like Munir's day or logistics, avoiding deep discussions that pull in parents. If they lock me in again? Use the time productively (reading Quran on my phone, planning work tasks) instead of raging. This de-escalates by starving the conflict of fuel, showing I'm not a threat while I regroup.

3. **Build external support stealthily** — Alone doesn't mean isolated forever. Research Islamic counseling options on my own—places like Zehni Sukoon or online sessions with Shaykh Atif Ahmed that I can do privately during lunch breaks at work. Start with a solo session to get advice tailored to me, without dragging the family in yet. Confide in a trusted friend or cousin who's neutral (not family-tied) for occasional venting, but keep it light—no badmouthing that could leak back. Online forums like Reddit's r/MuslimMarriage (anonymously) for similar stories can give perspective without risk. This counters the loneliness without escalating at home.

4. **Protect my job as the fortress** — Since work's my worry, treat it as sacred ground. Set phone boundaries: Silence notifications during focus hours, and if family drama texts come in, respond later with short, non-committal replies. Use work as an excuse for space—"Busy with deadlines"—without lying outright. Aim to excel there; it builds confidence and financial independence, which could eventually give me leverage for bigger changes, like separate living if needed. Brutally, if this home torture tanks my job, I'm screwed—prioritize it ruthlessly.

5. **Monitor and plan for the tipping point** — Track patterns in this journal: When does ridicule spike? What triggers Madiha's siding? If it worsens (more confinements, threats), have a quiet exit strategy—save money discreetly, know local resources like helplines for emotional abuse (e.g., Pakistan's 1099 for human rights). But only act if it hits unbearable; for now, this low-key countering preserves peace.

Pushing with questions for myself: Am I avoiding escalation out of fear, or wisdom? How long can I sustain this alone before seeking help becomes non-negotiable? What small win can I aim for this week, like a peaceful dinner without interference?

Rewriting my opinion for the record, empathetic but no punches pulled: Murtaza, you're smart to avoid escalation—your job's on the line, and more torture isn't worth it. But alone means strategic solitude, not defeat; this family's control thrives on your reactions, so starve it by withdrawing energy quietly. You're wrong if you think this fixes everything long-term—it won't without eventual change—but it's the right counter now to buy time and strength. Islam calls for ihsan (excellence) even in hardship; endure with dignity, build your inner fortress, and when ready, pivot to mediation or separation if they won't budge. You've survived this far; this approach keeps you standing without falling further. Keep going—one deliberate step at a time.

Solitary isolation - just because of yesterday's incident

 February 21, 2026

It's 2:26 PM in Karachi, and I'm still here in this locked room, pouring my frustrations into this journal because if I don't record these headaches, who will? The patterns are becoming too clear, too painful to ignore. From an Islamic perspective, marriage counseling draws straight from the Quran and Sunnah—Allah says in Surah An-Nisa (4:35): "If you fear a breach between them, appoint an arbitrator from his family and an arbitrator from her family." I always expected my parents to step in as those arbitrators, neutral mediators helping to reconcile and restore balance in our home. But no, they've behaved like my competition, actively trying to spoil me in the worst way, undermining everything I'm fighting for. Take that pattern I've noted: on Ramadan's Chand Raat 18th February 2026, baba sat me down to discuss solar panels, but it felt so uncomfortable—him being all sycophantic, fawning over me like "tell me what you want?" That's not the attention I'm demanding! What I'm asking for, they're not even willing to understand. I'm still battling for my own respect and dignity in this family, yet my own father and mother are killing it off because they think they're making me "respectful" and "obedient." They can't differentiate between true respect and sycophancy; to them, obedience means groveling, like my baba expects from everyone. This twisted dynamic is exactly why I'm keeping this journal—to document these soul-crushing moments before they erase me completely.

The Prophet (PBUH) emphasized kindness and justice in marriage: "The best of you are those who are best to their wives." But let's be empathetic yet brutally real here: Madiha, if you ever read this, your insults and control are shredding the trust at the heart of our nikah, turning our home into a battlefield where I'm always the loser. And me? I need to man up as qawwam—protector and maintainer—without letting anyone walk all over me like a doormat. My parents aren't helping; they're enabling the chaos, competing to "fix" me into submission while ignoring how they're destroying my self-worth. Counseling through an imam or a solid Islamic center in Karachi could force us to incorporate zikr for patience, joint salah for some semblance of unity, and raw discussions on rights—your right to kindness, sure, but my right to respect as the head of this family. No sugarcoating: if we don't tackle this head-on, divorce is staring us down, and while Islam pushes for reconciliation first, it doesn't demand I suffer endlessly in a toxic setup. I need to seek a qualified counselor who blends Sharia with real empathy, not just empty lectures—places like Shaykh Atif Ahmed's services in Karachi for one-on-one marriage guidance, or Zehni Sukoon for Islamic therapy tailored to Pakistani families dealing with emotional struggles, or even the Islamic Marriage Counseling IMC group here locally. Brutally honest, if my parents won't mediate fairly, I'll have to bypass them and get external help before this breaks us all.

Pushing myself with questions to clarify: Why do Abbu and Ammi confuse sycophancy with respect— is it cultural baggage or something deeper from their own lives? Have I enabled this by not calling out their "spoiling" earlier? How can I get them to see they're not mediators but part of the problem? And if counseling starts, what's my plan if they sabotage it too?

Rewriting my own opinion for the record, straight from the gut: This isn't just a rough patch; it's a full-on assault on your dignity, Murtaza, and empathy doesn't change the facts—your parents are acting like rivals, not allies, twisting "guidance" into control because they can't handle you standing tall. Brutally, they're killing your respect to mold you into their obedient puppet, mistaking bootlicking for family harmony. Madiha's role in this amplifies the mess, but your folks are the enablers, and that Chand Raat solar panel chat. Classic fake niceness hiding their refusal to truly listen. Islam calls for justice in family ties, but no verse demands you endure this humiliation. Get into counseling now—Shaykh Atif or Zehni Sukoon sound solid based on what's out there—and if they won't join as fair arbitrators, cut the cord on their interference. Your sanity and Munir's future depend on you breaking this cycle, not wallowing in it. Stay strong, but act, or it'll consume you.

Beware the "Easy Job" Trap: How Fake "Izea International" Scams Are Targeting Karachi's Hardworking Middle Class

Few days ago, I got the whatsapp message
from the same company pitching me

Hey everyone, it's Murtaza here—your average Karachiite who's been through the wringer with online scams and lived to tell the tale. If you've been following my story, you know about that devastating WhatsApp scam back in December 2025 that cost me 579,000 PKR, my job, and a chunk of my self-respect. I thought I'd learned my lesson, compiled my 32-page report, and even started the FIA reporting process. But guess what? These scammers don't quit. Just when I was piecing things back together in February 2026, someone from the same phony "Izea International" outfit reached out again on WhatsApp. It's like they have a radar for guys like us—middle-class folks grinding through Karachi's chaos, looking for legitimate side gigs to support our families without taking shortcuts.

Recent chat continued

Let me unfold these recent chats for you, step by step, because this isn't just my story anymore—it's a warning for anyone in Pakistan scrolling through WhatsApp messages during their commute or lunch break. These "companies" are everywhere in Karachi, preying on our economic pressures with promises of "easy money without investment." But as I'll explain, it's all a setup for the classic task-based scam that leads to deposits, fake platforms, and heartbreak. I'll also dive into other impersonated companies pulling similar tricks, share more personal anecdotes from my ordeal, and end with solid prevention tips to keep you safe.

I described, I have already been scammed,
she (or whoever was the person) thought to
leave!

The Initial Bait: "Iqra Ch" and the YouTube "Hiring" Pitch

It started innocently enough around midday. A message pops up from an unknown number:

- "My name is Iqra Ch and i represent Izea international Can we talk."

- Followed by: "Sir ma Izea digital marketing company k sath work krti hn mujhy logo ko hire krna hota ha YouTube work k leay agr ap interested hain please Tell me;"

She's the original scammer who cost me with 
my reputation

Classic red flags right there: Unsolicited contact, vague "digital marketing" company, and a promise of YouTube-related work. No website link, no official email—just a casual chat. In Karachi, where freelance gigs on platforms like Upwork or Fiverr are tough to land, this sounds tempting. "Hire for YouTube work"? It could mean anything from video optimization to content creation, but deep down, I knew it smelled off. I didn't respond, but it reminded me of how my original scam began—modest offers that escalate into "tasks" requiring upfront payments.

The Follow-Up Hook: "Meerub Chaudhry" and the "5000 PKR Daily Without Investment" Lure

Fast-forward to November 25, 2025 (yes, this was right before my big loss in December—scammers were circling even then). Another message, this time starting with a polite "Aslm O Alikum" at 4:02 PM. I replied casually: "G farmaiye" (Go ahead).

- Their response: "Sir mera name meerub Chaudhry ha or ma Izea International company k liye kam karti hon"

- Then: "Kia ap mery sath mil kr kam krna chahy gy jo k bhot asan ha jis sa ap din k 5000 tk kama sakty hn without investment"

Original scammer message continued

I asked them to "Elaborate," but I already sensed the trap. "Easy work," "no investment," "up to 5,000 PKR daily"—it's the same script scammers use to reel you in. They build trust with small "tasks" like liking videos or watching content, show fake earnings in an app or Telegram group, and then hit you with "deposits" to unlock withdrawals. In my case, it started similarly and snowballed into transferring savings for "merchant accounts" and "verifications."

Why "recontacted again"? These aren't isolated incidents. After my first loss, variations of this "Izea" pitch kept coming—different names (Iqra, Meerub), same company, same promises. It's like a network: Once you're on their list (maybe from data leaks or

Message continued further

group adds), they persist.

Why This Feels So Targeted in Karachi

Living in Karachi, you know the drill—rising costs, family duties, unpredictable jobs. Middle-class guys like us aren't chasing Lamborghinis; we're after steady extras like 1,500–5,000 PKR daily to cover bills or support relatives. These scams exploit that perfectly: No "get-rich-quick" hype, just "simple YouTube tasks" that fit around your main job. But it's a facade. Once hooked, they shift to Telegram for "training," demand crypto wallets or Easypaisa transfers, and vanish when you've sunk in deep.

Messaging continued

This isn't new. In 2025–2026, Pakistan saw a surge in these "task scams" disguised as digital marketing gigs. Reports from Jammu and Kashmir even show youths trapped abroad in similar cyber-fraud hubs run by Pakistani Chinese networks. And in Karachi? It's rampant friends whisper about losses, Reddit threads overflow with stories, but stigma keeps many silent.

The Real "IZEA": A Legitimate Company Being Impersonated

Here's the twist: "Izea International" (or IZEA Worldwide) is a real US-based influencer marketing company. They do legit work with brands and creators, but scammers hijack their name for fraud.
IZEA themselves warn about this on their blog: Imposters on WhatsApp and Telegram offering fake jobs like "watching YouTube videos" or "engaging with TikTok." They emphasize: No crypto payments, no upfront fees, and report suspicious contacts. Trustpilot reviews echo this—victims lost hundreds to thousands in similar "like TikTok" schemes leading to crypto traps.

Further messaging continued

If it's not the real IZEA (check their official site: izea.com), it's a scam. No genuine company hires via random WhatsApp for "easy 5k daily" without interviews or contracts.

Other Impersonated Companies: It's Not Just IZEA

"Izea" isn't alone—scammers love hijacking big names to seem credible. In Pakistan's 2025 scam
wave, "Upwork Pakistan" Telegram groups have been notorious for fake freelance gigs that turn into task scams. They promise Upwork-style jobs but demand deposits for "client verifications" or "task activations." Real Upwork never asks for money upfront.

Messaging continued...

Other common ones include impersonations of Amazon, Google, or even local fintech like JazzCash for "investment tasks." Freelancing platforms like Fiverr get spoofed too, with honey-trap groups adding you to WhatsApp chats full of fake recruiters. PTA warns that cybercriminals impersonate well-known companies with spoofed sites. The pattern? Start with "no investment,"

then pivot to fees for "merchant accounts" or "recovery trades." If it's unsolicited and too easy, it's likely a trap.

More Personal Anecdotes: The Sting of Being Labeled and the Road to Recovery

This recontact in February 2026 wasn't just annoying—it triggered flashbacks. Remember how my original scam led to losing my job? My senior lectured me about "shortcuts not being for middle-class people," implying I was greedy. But I wasn't—I was just trying to add honest side income, like many in Karachi dodging traffic and bills. I'd always stuck to my principles: no wrong-side driving, even if it means being late; paying debts on time; supporting family without complaints. That one mistake painted me as the "shortcut guy," and it hurt more than the money.

My final message to this so-called lady

Another anecdote: After the loss, a "recovery" scammer on Telegram (with a shady "Pakistan_hot_babes69" profile) promised to get my 579k back for "just 95k more." I almost bit, desperate after job loss, but paused—remembering my life's mantra of no shortcuts. It was a close call, compounding the emotional toll. Friends teased me less, but the family whispers. They stung. Yet, compiling that report and starting FIA filings gave me back some control. It's why I share these anecdotes—not for pity, but to show: We're human, scams exploit vulnerability, but resilience wins.

Prevention Tips for Task Scams: Stay Safe in the Digital Jungle

From my experience and FIA/PTA advisories, here's how to dodge these traps:

1. Verify the Source: Always check the company's official website (e.g., izea.com for IZEA, upwork.com for Upwork). Search "[company] scam Pakistan" on Google. Contact them directly via verified channels—no random WhatsApp.

2. No Upfront Payments: Legit jobs never require deposits, "activations," or crypto transfers. If they ask for money to "unlock earnings" or "merchant accounts," block immediately.

3. Pause and Question: Unsolicited offers? Too good (even modestly)? Take 10 minutes to think. Urgency like "limited spots" is a red flag.

4. Use Official Apps/Platforms: For freelancing, stick to real sites like Upwork, Fiverr, or Rozee.pk. Avoid Telegram groups or WhatsApp "hiring" chats.

5. Enable Security: Two-step verification on WhatsApp/Telegram/banks. Report suspicious numbers to FIA (1991) or PTA.

6. Educate and Share: Talk to family—my mistake taught mine to verify. If victimized, document everything and report fast for better recovery odds.

These tips aren't just theory—they could've saved me in December 2025.

Closing Thoughts: No Shortcuts, Just Vigilance

This recontact hit hard—it reopened wounds from December 2025, reminding me how these traps erode our dignity. But I'm sharing as a blog post to turn pain into power. If you're in Karachi, feeling the squeeze, remember: True opportunities come from hard work, not mysterious messages. Allah tests us, but He also gives wisdom—use it to stay in your lane, literally and figuratively.

If you've faced similar "Izea," Upwork, or task scams, comment anonymously below or DM me on X (@MoizMurtaza). Let's expose these traps together. Stay safe, Karachi.

Note: This post is based on personal experience and public reports. Always do your own due diligence.

The Deep Hurt Behind Those “Shortcut” Words – And the Truth About Who I Really Am

Assalam-o-Alaikum everyone,

Murtaza Moiz here from Karachi.

I’ve shared before how a WhatsApp scam in December 2025 cost me 579,000 rupees, my job, my reputation, and the trust of people close to me. But the wound that still hasn’t healed is not the money or the job loss — it’s the way certain seniors spoke to me afterwards, especially this one line that keeps replaying in my head:

> “Ok lekin yaar tum ek advice toh le lo… kaam karne se pehle main konsa tumse door tha ya contact mein nahi tha bhai… Allah rahem kare tum pe dua karo lekin agar kisi pe koi bharosa nahi karna – short cuts hum middle class logon ke liye nahi hotay hain”

That last part — short cuts hum middle class logon ke liye nahi hotay hain — was said like casual advice, but it felt like a direct accusation. It painted me as someone who is always looking for the easy way out, someone impatient, someone without morals, someone who deserves to be taught a lesson.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Let me tell you clearly who I actually am — because this label hurts more than the financial loss.

I live by a simple rule in every part of life: no shortcuts, no wrong ways, even when it’s inconvenient.

- When I ride my bike or drive my car in Karachi traffic, I never take the wrong side of the road. Never. My friends who sit behind me or ride with me know this — they sometimes laugh and call me “too strict” or “too slow,” but I always reply the same: I’d rather arrive late with a clear conscience than reach early by breaking rules. I wait at signals. I give way to pedestrians. I stay in my lane even when chaos is all around.

That same principle I carry into work, relationships, and money.

I never chased easy money. I was already working hard — long hours, paying every bill on time, supporting my family without complaints. When that WhatsApp message came from someone offering YouTube work, it didn’t look like a shortcut to me at first. It looked like a legitimate small side task from a company — something that could put just 1,500 rupees extra in my pocket every day. That amount wasn’t going to change my life dramatically, but it was enough to ease some small pressures without touching or burdening my main salary. That was my only motivation: a little breathing room while still doing honest work.

My only real mistake was trusting too quickly that it was genuine. I didn’t go looking for get-rich-quick schemes. I didn’t gamble savings. I didn’t borrow to invest in crypto or anything risky. I simply said yes to what appeared to be a small, side gig — and it turned out to be an organized trap.

And yet, after submitting a full 32-page report with every screenshot, every chat, every detail proving I was preyed upon, I was indirectly called a shortcut guy. A millennial who needs to be taught obedience. Someone who can’t be trusted.

That is not just disappointing — it is humiliating.

It is a hard slap to someone who has always tried to live with integrity.

This incident also exposes something bigger — a crack in how some seniors treat their millennial counterparts in our workplaces.

Instead of seeing a genuine mistake made by someone under pressure, some seniors use it as an opportunity to lecture, to belittle, to reinforce “obedience” (whatever version of obedience suits them). They forget that millennials like me are not looking for handouts — we’re looking for fair chances, respect, and understanding when we fall.

I owned my part. I asked for mercy. I showed proof it was a scam. In return, I got moral taunts that questioned my entire character.

Words like that don’t correct anyone — they break them further.

To anyone reading this who has ever been reduced to a stereotype after one genuine error:

- Your character is not defined by your worst moment.  

- If you live with small morals — refusing wrong-side driving, paying debts on time, supporting family honestly — those things still count.  

- Seniors and leaders should build people up after they stumble, not use the stumble to tear them down.

I’m sharing this raw truth because silence lets these cracks in our society grow wider.

If you’ve been through something similar — taunted as “shortcut seeker,” “irresponsible,” or “needing to learn obedience” after a real mistake — you’re not alone. Share if you want (anonymously is fine). The more we speak, the less power those hurtful labels have.

Allah sees what’s truly in the heart. May He protect our dignity, give us patience, and guide those in authority to treat people with the mercy they themselves ask from Him.

Murtaza Moiz  

Karachi  

February 13, 2026

Note: This is based on my personal experience starting from December 2025. Always verify online earning offers carefully and report suspicious activity to the FIA.