There’s a moment in the Pakistani drama Case No. 9 that should make every viewer turn. Not the rape itself, though that’s devastating enough. The truly uncomfortable bit comes afterwards, when Rohit, played with heartbreaking nuance by Junaid Khan, stands at a crossroads between doing what’s right and protecting his friend. He knows everything because he arrived at the scene and found Sehar (Saba Qamar) unconscious in the bathroom. He witnessed the aftermath of his business partner Kamran’s horrific crime. And yet, when push comes to shove, he stays silent. This is the insidious truth that writer Shahzeb Khanzada has woven into his debut drama: male solidarity protects predators long before the law ever gets involved.

Bros before justice

We’ve all heard about male solidarity, haven’t we? It’s presented as something noble — bros having each other’s backs. But Case No. 9 strips away that romanticised veneer and shows what it actually looks like: a protective wall around predators that’s far more effective than any legal defence.

What makes Rohit’s character so brilliantly uncomfortable is that he’s not a villain. He’s clearly troubled by what he knows. He initially offers to drive Sehar to the doctor, but then succumbs to fear and social pressure. This moral weakness feels achingly human, and that’s precisely what makes it so dangerous. Kamran pressures Rohit into silence to the point that Rohit doesn’t even tell his own wife, Manisha, a lawyer who works with abuse survivors. She is the perfect person to help Sehar.

By the time Sehar files an FIR a week later (after being locked in her home for five days by family desperate to hide the “shame”), the cover-up has been orchestrated. Sehar faces an uphill battle not just because of Kamran’s wealth, but because of the silence that preceded it. Had Rohit told the police, or even Manisha, Sehar might have received the help she needed.

The performance of conscience

After struggling with guilt, Rohit finally confesses to his wife. Manisha calls out Rohit’s cowardice and reminds him that silence helps the oppressor. She applies pressure, pushes him towards the moral choice and yet, even she struggles to penetrate the wall of male solidarity. A trained lawyer who knows exactly what’s at stake can’t convince her own husband to do the right thing.

Rohit represents men who think they’re being neutral or feel good about having a conscience. He’s horrified by Kamran’s actions. He’s not attacking Sehar. But his refusal to testify is itself a choice with devastating consequences. Rohit never openly supports Kamran; in fact, he keeps bashing his friend for what he did. He also repeatedly reminds Kamran that he is not against him. And that is enough to protect Kamran. Rohit is the only witness, and his testimony is the deciding factor, yet he chooses to side with a rapist because they are friends and business partners.

What’s really heartbreaking is that Kamran’s wife, Kiran, also struggles with the same question of where she stands, but because she’s oblivious to the truth. So, she gives the benefit of the doubt to her husband. But as soon as she gets the sense that Kamran might have raped Sehar, she moves into her parents’ home and asks Kamran to stay away. A woman, armed with fewer facts than the witness, decides to leave her husband accused of rape. But the witness, his friend, his bro, can’t bring himself to make that choice. Why? What stops him? This is a question I have been asking since the beginning of the show. And you all must too.

What Case No. 9 understands is that guilt isn’t redemption. Rohit’s internal conflict, his visible discomfort, his strained relationship with Manisha — none of this absolves him. Feeling bad while protecting a rapist is just complicity dressed as moral struggle. The show refuses easy answers. Instead, it shows the grinding reality of a man who knows what’s right, feels the weight of his wrong choice, and yet struggles to break free from male loyalty. This is the drama’s greatest achievement: depicting how ordinary, sympathetic characters perpetuate extraordinary harm. Rohit isn’t a monster. He’s just a man who valued the wrong things more than justice.

Who protects the rapists?

The truth is that rapists rarely operate in isolation. They exist within networks of friends and colleagues who make choices, active or passive, to protect them. How many of us have heard stories about men who “probably did something dodgy” but remained embraced by their social circles? How often do we extend the benefit of the doubt to powerful men while their accusers face forensic scrutiny? This solidarity kicks in long before any legal proceedings begin. Kamran doesn’t need a courtroom to defend him; his friend’s silence does the work.

How many Rohits are there in our own lives? The drama’s power lies in showing the ecosystem that allows men like Kamran to act with impunity. At the centre are the friends, the business partners, the mates who know the truth and choose silence. That’s the real horror. Not just that sexual assaults happen, but that there’s often a man standing nearby who could speak up, should speak up, and chooses silence instead. Male solidarity, in this context, isn’t brotherhood. It’s complicity. And it protects predators long before the law ever gets involved, if it gets involved at all.

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