Courage is not the absence of fear but the decision to move forward despite it. Samar Haroon Bilour never envisioned a career in politics, yet when tragedy struck, she found herself at the frontlines of a battle she never sought. The first woman ever elected to the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Assembly from Peshawar, she entered the political arena not out of ambition, but necessity—a necessity born of loss, legacy, and sincere commitment to her people.
In a candid conversation with Margalla Tribune, Samar Haroon Bilour — the first woman ever elected to the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Assembly from Peshawar — speaks about her unexpected entry into politics, the weight of legacy, surviving personal tragedy, and why women need to break out of the boxes society places them in.
Q: If we could take you back to that moment — when did you first decide to enter politics? What was the catalyst?
SB: In 2018, during the general elections, my husband, Haroon Bilour — the Information Secretary of Awami National Party — was contesting from a constituency in Peshawar. I had returned to Peshawar, a city I once called home, to campaign alongside him. But Peshawar had changed. It had become dangerous. I had moved to Islamabad with my children in 2009, after a series of suicide bombings, one of which even targeted our home. A rocket collapsed the roof of my children’s bedroom — they were miraculously not in the room that night.
Then in 2012, my father-in-law, Bashir Bilour, was assassinated — it was the fifth time he’d been targeted. He didn’t survive. Fast forward to July 10th, 2018, and tragedy struck again. My husband Haroon was assassinated in a suicide bombing during his campaign. There were no male family members of age to contest in the by-elections. Our party workers were devastated — they needed an outlet for their grief and anger. So, the decision was made: I would contest. I agreed, mostly to calm the storm and carry our family’s legacy forward. And so, on October 14th, 2018 — during my iddat period — I ran.
All parties except PTI withdrew their candidates out of respect. PTI contested, and security remained a concern. I couldn’t have my face on banners or appear on social media. People said, “No one in Peshawar will vote for a woman.” Even Benazir Bhutto lost here. But when I won — it was a shock. Not just for me, but for many. I believe our party workers won that seat — through their loyalty, their grief, and their sheer will.
Q: Were there moments where you felt like giving up?
Yes. There still are. Being a woman in politics in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is tough. I was the first female ever elected from Peshawar, and until 2024, the only one. When I first joined the Assembly, I was constantly told where the “ladies’ area” was or which issues “belonged to women.” Once, during a city-wide meeting of MPAs on gas supply problems, I was all but pushed out. But I held my ground. I represent a constituency — that is my place.
Over time, I broke a few of those boxes. I began talking about issues women weren’t “meant” to raise — electricity shortages, policing failures, ATA quotas. I wanted to be taken seriously, and I wasn’t going to be boxed in.
Q: People say you didn’t play politics — you just got to work. Is that accurate?
I think so. From the beginning, I was compared to my late father-in-law who won five times and did incredible work for Peshawar. Politics isn’t in my nature, ironically — considering where I am now. I approached my constituency like I would my own household: with care, attention, and the desire to fix what was broken.
I was in opposition, with little power and minimal support. PTI was in government, and they didn’t believe in power-sharing. To make things harder, I was a woman — now a single parent. But I had a strong team. And we managed.
Q: Emotionally, it must have been overwhelming. How did you balance the trauma with public duty?
There was no time to grieve properly. I had to process everything on the job — as a politician and a single parent. When there are two parents, you can lean on each other. But when you’re alone, every decision, every emotion, is yours to handle. I had to keep going — for my children, who had already lost so much.
For over a year, we couldn’t even sit at the dinner table as a family. Silence had taken over our home. Slowly, meal by meal, conversation by conversation, we came back to life — together.
Q: What are the most pressing challenges facing women in your province?
First and foremost — visibility. We need to see more women in leadership: in police, in governance, in decision-making. So that young girls know they can be more than homemakers. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with raising a family — I do it myself — but it shouldn’t be a woman’s only option.
When I campaigned, girls in androon (interior) Peshawar used to call me up to their homes just to look at me — to see how I was walking among so many men. That image alone gave them something to aspire to.
Also, safety is a concern. Police stations need women’s desks. Girls need to stay in school. Families often educate sons and not daughters — or pull girls out too early, fearing they’ll become too “modern.” And of course, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa has suffered immensely from terrorism. The emotional toll is devastating. Widows — like those who lost their husbands in the same blast as mine — have told me they’ve lost their place in the household, too. We urgently need mental health services and financial aid for such women.
Q: Have reserved seats for women helped in any way?
To an extent, yes. It’s certainly better than not having female representation. But it’s limited. Women on reserved seats often face restrictions from their parties — they’re expected to only speak on certain issues like minority rights, child abuse, women’s health. Why shouldn’t they talk about terrorism, security, or the economy?
And many parties just fulfill the 5% quota by nominating women on seats they know they won’t win. So, it’s tokenism. We need reforms to make sure women contest winnable general seats — and that they’re empowered even in local bodies.
Q: Politics in KP is deeply patriarchal. Have you shifted anything within your own family?
I’m the first woman from either side of my family to enter politics. Both my parents’ and in-laws’ families have been involved in politics — but it was always the men. It’s been a learning curve for everyone.
At first, I was constantly reminded that the “honour” of the family was on my shoulders. But over time, the dynamic shifted. My kids now hear, “Are you Samar Bilour’s children?” And they like it. So yes — something has changed.
Q: Do you now feel supported in decision-making within your family?
Yes. I lean heavily on two people: my father and my son. They give very different advice — but both support me fully. Social media has been tough — the trolling, the personal attacks, the sexism. But my children remind me not to care. They say, “We’re proud of you. Don’t let others define you.”
Q: Any final message for our readers?
Be kind. You never know what someone is going through. People are suffering in silence. So be forgiving — and generous in your judgment.
And to women: step out. Step up. You can make a difference. Every contribution counts.
