A Simple Reason Why There Are Hardly Any Female Entrepreneurs in Pakistan

A few days ago, someone asked me what my ideal ICP (Ideal Customer Profile) would look like if I were to run an agency. The first thing that came to my mind was: a female founder.

However, in my experience, finding women who lead, especially in the tech space, is rare—particularly in Pakistan.

I've been in the tech industry for quite a while, and I've spent enough time working within the Pakistani culture to understand the challenges firsthand. And nothing explains this better than an email I received from a female client after a rather frustrating call:

I smiled when I read it, but beneath the humor was an undeniable truth. I’d become so accustomed to this treatment that it barely registered as abnormal anymore. The casual disrespect, the dismissiveness—it had all become my “normal.” But this was a bitter reminder that, no, this isn’t normal. At least not to the same extent in other cultures.

It made me wonder: Would I ever want to lead in an environment where my voice is rarely heard? Where I often feel like I’m not even in the room? The safe choice would be to step out, to protect my mental peace. And that’s exactly what many women do.

You’d think these issues are confined to small, local markets or traditional industries. But they’re not. Even Pakistan’s largest corporations, known for their international standards, fail to provide an environment where women feel truly comfortable.

By “comfortable,” I don’t just mean free from sexual or non-sexual threats. Comfort also means feeling respected, being heard, feeling like you belong—and knowing that your work will be recognized without having to scream for attention.

Let me share an example. When I landed my first job—and this was one of the largest tech companies in the world—I was later told that they originally wanted to hire a man for the role. They screened 800 applicants, searching for someone “tough” enough to handle the client-side visits. It was only when they couldn’t find the right male candidate that they “settled” for me. The message was clear: the door was barely open for women to even step in.

During my time there, I was very fortunate. My colleagues—who were 95% males—ensured that I felt safe in the workplace. But we should not confuse safety with inclusion. It didn’t mean my voice was heard. I had to scream twice as loud, to get the recognition my male colleagues earned by simply bonding over a cricket match after work. Most days, I felt like an outsider, trying to break into a world where I didn’t quite belong.

By the time I resigned, I knew one thing for certain: I didn’t want to take on a leadership role if it meant working in a culture where I have to fight for recognition.

I believe that I’ve been very privileged throughout my career. I’ve never been a hardcore victim of the misogyny that permeates in this industry. But choosing to stay silent about these issues makes me complicit. It makes me a bystander.

The lack of female founders in Pakistan is a complex issue, but at its core, it’s one simple thing: Women shouldn’t have to fight to prove they belong. We shouldn’t have to tolerate being treated like we’re lesser, or worse, like we don’t belong at all.