‘Khauf’: The Real Horror Isn’t Fiction
In this recently released series, paranormal fears are dwarfed by reality
Trigger Warning – Discussion of sexual harassment and assault
I recently finished watching a horror series called Khauf — the word literally means “horror,” and the show lives up to its name. On the surface, it’s packed with everything fans of the genre expect: suspense, eerie silences, jump scares, layered characters, and enough screams to raise goosebumps. But Khauf does something deeper. It unsettles not just because of what’s paranormal, but because of what’s real.
What struck me most wasn’t the ghosts or the tension — it was the truth underneath it all. The horror in Khauf is a reflection of the everyday fears women live with, across the world, every single day.
We’re talking about the kind of fear that doesn’t need monsters. The fear of being catcalled while walking home. The fear of being labeled “too bold” or “too loud” simply for having an opinion. The fear of sexual harassment and assault — not just from strangers, but from people we know and trust. And yes, the most widespread yet under-acknowledged form of sexual violence: marital rape. You read that right. It’s horrifyingly common, and yet, still largely denied by society and ignored by the law in many places.
There’s more. The fear of being tortured over dowry. The fear of being rejected by in-laws for giving birth to a girl. The fear of being gaslit, shamed, or silenced for not fitting into a box someone else created. It’s not one story. It’s countless stories, stitched together into a pattern that women recognize all too well.
And that’s what Khauf taps into. It shows how these fears are more terrifying than any ghost. Because they aren’t fiction. They’re real, they’re constant, and they’re everywhere.
But here’s the most frustrating part: when I went online to see how people reacted to the series, something became painfully obvious. Most male reviewers praised the show for its “entertainment” value — how gripping it was, how scary, how well-written. And that’s fine, except… almost no one seemed to mention the real horror Khauf was highlighting.
Either they missed the point completely, or they chose not to engage with it. Maybe acknowledging the truth is too uncomfortable. Maybe talking about these realities feels like an attack on their masculinity. That, in itself, is part of the problem.
Because that silence? That denial? It’s not neutral. It’s a product of patriarchy — a system so deeply rooted that it doesn’t just shape how men treat women, but how women treat themselves and each other.
Yes, women have also been participants in upholding patriarchy — and that’s a painful but necessary truth to acknowledge.
Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, teachers, bosses — many of them have internalized patriarchal norms so deeply that they end up reinforcing them, knowingly or unknowingly. Women have policed other women’s behavior, judged them for being “too ambitious,” “too sexual,” “too opinionated,” or “too independent.” They’ve told daughters to stay quiet to keep peace in the home, advised them to compromise no matter the cost, and praised obedience as the highest virtue a woman can possess.
Sometimes, women become the gatekeepers of the very structures that oppress them — because patriarchy doesn’t only work through force; it works through normalization. And that normalization often comes from those we love and trust.
But let’s go deeper. Let’s talk about how patriarchy creates the very conditions that lead to catcalling, harassment, and rape.
At its core, patriarchy is about control. It teaches boys from a young age that dominance, assertiveness, and entitlement are masculine traits, while submission, modesty, and compliance are feminine ones. It creates a power imbalance so baked into our cultures that men grow up believing they have the right to comment on a woman’s body, to touch without consent, to take what they want without consequence. Catcalling, for example, isn’t just about a man expressing attraction — it’s about asserting dominance. It’s a public reminder to women that their bodies are being watched, judged, and claimed, even in spaces where they should feel safe.
Patriarchy also fuels rape culture — the normalization of sexual violence and the blaming of victims. It teaches people to ask, “What was she wearing?” instead of “Why did he think he could do that?” It conditions society to protect the reputation of the perpetrator before acknowledging the pain of the survivor. It romanticizes coercion in film and media, blurs the lines around consent, and makes it painfully difficult for women to be believed when they speak out.
And when it comes to marital rape? Patriarchy’s hand is even clearer. It frames marriage not as a partnership, but as a transaction in which a woman’s body is part of the deal. It assumes that consent is automatic and permanent — an idea so toxic and widespread that many don’t even recognize it as violence.
Patriarchy has done long-term, generational damage to women’s lives, bodies, choices, and minds. It has dictated who gets to speak, who gets to lead, and who gets to matter. It has reduced women’s value to their appearance, their ability to bear children, or their ability to conform. It has told women to dim their light so others don’t feel threatened. To stay silent to “keep the peace.” To endure abuse in the name of family honor, marriage, tradition, or “what will people say.”
And it doesn’t stop there. Patriarchy doesn’t just harm women — it limits men too. It teaches them that showing emotion is weakness, that dominance is strength, and that empathy is somehow unmanly. It creates a world where acknowledging the horror women face feels threatening to male identity, instead of deeply human.
Khauf isn’t just a horror series. It’s a mirror. And the real fear is in realizing that so many people look into that mirror and still don’t see anything wrong.
Until we start having real conversations about what women are going through — not just in fiction but in real life — horror will never just be entertainment. For many, it’s a daily experience.
So no, the scariest part of Khauf wasn’t the ghosts. It was the familiar. The painfully recognizable. The horror that walks among us every day, unnoticed by those who’ve never had to feel it.
A gentle note:
If any part of this piece felt triggering or overwhelming, I want to acknowledge that sincerely. These are not easy topics, and the pain they bring is real and valid. I share these truths not to retraumatize, but because they must be spoken. Silence has protected injustice for far too long. If we are to move toward healing and change, we have to be willing to name the horror — even when it’s close to home.
You are seen. You are believed. And you are not alone.
