This story first appeared in Voicepk.net

Senior journalist and human rights activist Husain Naqi will never forget that day in 1971 when he was sitting among other journalist friends and one of them mentioned that the breakup of east and west Pakistan into two separate countries had become a reality. On March 25, that year, the military run ‘Operation Searchlight’ had already begun and the region which is now Bangladesh had become a conflict zone. But voicing this sent one of the friends into a rage.

“Ahmad Bashir, the editor of daily Masawaat, did not receive this comment well,” says Naqi. “He was so angry, that the argument concluded after a paper weight was hurled in his general direction.” Shaukat Tanveer, the one who had sinfully indulged in the opinion remained unhurt, but like many other Pakistanis, Ahmad Bashir’s sentiments were not.

Ostensibly, Mr Bashir did not yet recognize the grimness of the situation. There was news of a brigadier being taken in as a prisoner of war (POW). The reality however had still not filtered down. Media propaganda was extreme and so pervasive that most people in west Pakistan had no idea what was actually happening on the other side.

‘In general, the people were being told by the media including the single state TV channel selling the government narrative that everything was alright,” adds Naqi. “If you ever discussed the possibility of the country’s break down, people would in extreme cases be ready to fight with you – or in the least label you an ‘Indian agent’.”

There was complete censorship in those days, he recounts, and it had begun to affect how people were thinking. He remembers for instance how he got into an argument with his brother in law just for saying that the future of a united Pakistan was unforeseen. “He was very angry at me for saying this. But the country did crack, and when it did, he actually broke down and cried.”

MASS GENOCIDE

The conflict had begun right after the Awami League had won the 1970 parliamentary elections and were now waiting for the transfer of power – which was being delayed by Yahya Khan and the PPP.

As Yahya Khan postponed the convening of the National Assembly, ethnic massacres began in East Pakistan. Biharis being non-Bengali speakers – were supporting West Pakistan, were targeted by the Bengali majority. In her book, Gender and War Crimes in South Asia, Bina D’Costa recalls over 300 Biharis were killed by early March 1971, in rioting by Bengali mobs in Chittagong.

Following these series of incidents, the Government of Pakistan used these killings to justify the military intervention in East Pakistan on March 25. Overnight a genocide began.

But as the people were killed, the truth it seemed was buried with them.

“During Yahya Khan’s martial law, before the creation of Bangladesh, we witnessed a moment of openness during the 1970 election campaign when the state-owned electronic media gave full coverage to opposition rallies and invited leaders of various political parties to speak without any let or hindrance. However, soon after the election results, which were totally contrary to the expectations of the ruling junta, censorship was reimposed before the start of the military crackdown in then East Pakistan that culminated in the break-up of Pakistan and the birth of a new country, Bangladesh.”

Veteran journalist and author of several books, Zamir Niazi describes the situation of a censorship in those days in just a few lines in his article ‘And Now For the Good News…’

There had been great courage within the journalist community of the entire country which took risks during the non-cooperation movement as they gave prominent coverage in dailies including Ittefaq, Purbodesh, Sangbad, Azad, Morning News and Pakistan Observer.

The East Pakistan Journalists Union (EPUJ) reportedly held a meeting on March 23, 1971 and gave open support to the emergence of a new country – Bangladesh – by confronting the military threat and promised not to give press coverage to the activities of the military junta.

But as the operation began, many were not spared. “During the riots in East Pakistan many journalists were killed, including East Pakistan Union of Journalists’ (EPUJ) leader Shahidullah Kaiser, killed in cold blood,” says Naqi.

“There was another journalist in Azad, who actually lost his mind. Many others were arrested and tortured. The Pakistan Observer office was fired upon by a tank, and ended up being razed to the ground. Television was limited to PTV with its state narrative. For the west Pakistanis there was an information blackout.”

On the eastern side, daily ‘The People’ which was taken out from Dhaka and was vocal against the military rulers, carrying banner headlines on a daily basis criticizing them, was burnt as the night of March 25 unfolded, through indiscriminate mortar shells.

The very next day, Daily Ittefaq was attacked in the same way. Dr. Helal Uddin Ahmed a former Editor of Bangladesh Quarterly describes it as being ‘traditionally linked to the democratic struggles of the Bengalis since its very birth while adding that a couple of days after Operation Searchlight, the torch-bearer of the country’s culture, literature, progressive politics and, above all, mass movements—the daily Sangbad was burnt to ashes. The renowned journalist and progressive litterateur Shahid Saber was also killed during the incident.’

In 1971, journalists and newspapers were under strict observation and no journalist or newspaper was permitted to write about any situation or incidents that were happening in East Pakistan. When it came to objective or unbiased reporting, there was no freedom of the press or the people’s right to know. Worse, the international media was forced out of west Pakistan. But, Naqi says one could still hear what the radio channels especially the BBC service in English and even Hindi were airing.

Even after the Fall of Dhaka the media continued to try and push the nation’s morale; this was when the Draconian PPO was revived and used against the press by the new government. Weekly Outlook and Punjab Punch despite the fact that these were papers that had supported the PPP in the elections. The Press and Publications Ordinance (PPO) had been formed in 1961 and enforced to keep the newspapers under state control. While the black law had been fiercely boycotted by media organizations and journalists, it was still revived.

Academic, author, and former chairperson of the Mass Communication department of Karachi University, Professor Shahida Kazi had been working at the Asian TV Service at that time – part of the PTV. As a news producer her job entailed sorting out the news films that came her way and to write scripts and commentaries for them.

“In order to do my job in the state run TV, I had no choice but to follow directives not to write or show anything that went against the state narrative. All of us were affected who saw what was happening had to remain silent because in order to survive, we had to. Otherwise we all knew what could happen to journalists who spoke up.”

In the mainstream media, she says, everybody was being told a series of grand lies, on repeat, which translated to ‘everything is hunky dory; nothing is amiss.’

“I remember one of the films that came from Dhaka, the military had forced people at gunpoint to form lines outside a cinema. The image was being misused to show that life was normal and people were out to watch a movie, when in reality the situation was that bodies were being piled up on streets once Operation Searchlight began.”

In another image on film, says Professor Kazi, people could be seen walking with their bags and luggage to cross over to India. “Again this was misconstrued as people coming back from India. The sights they had been shown were so full of promise, that people could not digest anything other than that. It was hugely traumatic for them when the country did finally break.”

Prof Kazi says that there was a majority of ethnic Bengali East Pakistanis who worked in her department but in fear of being targeted, they remained silent too.

“We were silenced and traumatized because we could only absorb reality but not talk about it. We had to keep our heads down and go about our business. When it comes to press censorship, these two wars have been our worst times.”

“When I went to Dhaka I was shocked to see the level of devastation there,” narrates Husain Naqi. “There were bodies piled up on the streets. There were reports of countless rapes, there was a lot more that was happening that I cannot even recount right now. Entire families were wiped out mercilessly, leaving only one or two survivors.”

Dr Mokerrom Hossain, a Professor at the Department of Sociology and Criminal Justice, at the Virginia State University in his book ‘From Protest to Freedom: The Birth of Bangladesh’ describes the night of March 25:

“When the attack began, army tanks began went in different directions to demolish different targets. One contingent rolled through the main street from airport to the city and attacked a newspaper office in front of the Radio Pakistan Dhaka office, and the same contingent took over the control of the radio station. Another went towards Dhaka University and attacked students’ dorms. This attacked was actually video tapped by a professor of East Pakistan (later Bangladesh) University of Engineering and Technology  University, and the tape was smuggled out of the country as a first hand report of the massacre to the outside world. The area where the attacked took place in the student dorms, there were also selective break-ins at the faculty residences and a couple of professors were killed on that fearful night.

Before the so-called control of Dhaka city it was a night of infamy … one could watch with horror the constant flash of tracer bullets across the dark sky and listened to the more ominous clatter of machine gun fire and the heavy clump of tank guns …That night, the holocaust began”.

“The Pakistan Resolution after this entire passage of time, became brittle and meant nothing,” says Husain Naqi. “This was the resolution moved by the ‘Sher-e-Bengal’ himself, in 194. Yet nothing had been constituted in East Pakistan.

Whatever anyone may say, even today, this situation rings true when we think of what is happening in Khyber Pukhtunkhwa and Balochistan. Operations take place but no details are let out. The people of Pakistan remain oblivious to what is happening in those regions. Today too there is censorship and we seem to have learnt nothing.”

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This story first appeared in DAWN.COM

When Muhammad Iqbal was picked up in 1998 by the police on a charge of murder, from near his home in Mandi Bahauddin, he was barely 17 years old. Iqbal claims he was not even in the village at the time the said murder was committed and that he had been framed by someone.

“Someone we know had some personal enmity with my father and so he made me a scapegoat,” Iqbal says, now approaching the age of 40. “But honest to God, I wasn’t even there when it happened. In any case, the police picked me up, and took me to the police station.”

Whatever happened after that, Iqbal usually skips over, when alluding to his arrest. Ultimately, he was handed a death sentence by an Anti-Terrorism Court (ATC) for “murdering a man and injuring three others”, but not before suffering severe third-degree torture by the local police.

The police torture Iqbal suffered forced him to confess to a crime he vows he never committed. He spent the next 22 years of his life in jail. Despite being a minor, he was even dealt a death sentence which he managed to dramatically escape at the last minute, after being given a ‘black warrant’ — the final order for execution.
Despite hundreds of cases every year, Pakistan seems to downplay the prevalence of torture, inflicted on its hapless citizens by those sworn to uphold the law. There are a number of reasons why this cruel and devastating practice is widespread and considered part and parcel of law enforcement. But perhaps the biggest reason is Pakistan’s failure to criminalise it
However, his story is not about his narrow escape from the jaws of death. His is a story that exemplifies the unspeakable custodial torture suffered at the hands of police and investigation agencies by those facing physical remand or detention.

“Instead of taking me to the police station, where the accused is meant to be taken,” Iqbal tells Eos, “the police took me to a cut-off place located at a distance from the main station.

“I was blindfolded but it seemed like their private cell was meant for such acts. Once they took me inside, they tied me to a metal bed and began their business.”

Iqbal is a little embarrassed when speaking about what he endured. He does not go into the details of the torture methods used.

“What can I say? They made me suffer in every way possible,” he tells Eos. “They kept forcing me to own up to the crime. The torture was so bad that I, just a minor, was at their mercy and ended up taking the blame for the crime. They had been threatening me that, if I did not give a confessional statement, they would nominate my father in the FIR as well.”
“They made me suffer in every way possible,” Iqbal says. “They kept forcing me to own up to the crime. The torture was so bad that I, just a minor, was at their mercy and ended up taking the blame for the crime. They had been threatening me that, if I did not give a confessional statement, they would nominate my father in the FIR as well.”
It took 22 years for Iqbal to be declared wrongfully accused and for his case to fall apart in court. His youth was over. He had lost his parents. But at least he was still alive and finally free from prison.

Not every innocent makes it out, though.

In September 2019, a mentally unstable man, Salahuddin Ayubi, a resident of Gujranwala, was picked up by the Punjab police on charges of an ATM theft in Faisalabad. The man was subjected to intense and horrific police torture, with a video that surfaced on social media later showing Punjab police officials beating him and humiliating him in the worst possible ways.

In the video, two police officers could be seen beating Ayubi and verbally abusing him to scare him, while the accused appeared to be in extreme pain and was ostensibly confused. The police officials also forced him to stick his tongue out for ‘fun’, as Ayubi had done in the ATM unit while facing the CCTV camera there. This was a display of utter apathy for a person with a mental or physical condition, and rampant abuse of power by the police.

Salahuddin was not only mentally challenged, he was also mute and, according to his father, had been reportedly suffering from a health condition which worsened while he was in custody. When his health began to deteriorate in police custody, only then was he taken to a hospital. But Ayubi could not survive.

Later, a forensic report confirmed that Ayubi had been badly beaten, especially on his right arm and on the left side of his stomach, which had caused severe bruising. There was coagulated blood on different parts of his body where he was tortured, said the report, while adding that the deceased was often out of breath due to a lung disease.

An uproar on social media about this incident lasted for a short time before it evaporated from the collective memory of the public.
Dr Naseem Baloch recounts the horrific details of his first abduction, “When I asked for water, I would be given four strikes of the chhittar [leather whipping strap] before being given a bottle of water held by one of the torturers. The personnel at night would whip me with the leather strap the moment they felt I had fallen asleep.”

PARLIAMENTARY INACTION

For the torture victim, it is difficult to decide which is worse: the torture or the impunity his or her perpetrators enjoy. It is rare to see a police officer get more than a slap on the wrist even in cases of custodial deaths. Not many are tried in court, and even fewer convicted.

Many hold society responsible for enabling a violent mindset that these officers mirror. There is certainly a lack of accountability for these crimes and there are no mechanisms in place that can ensure accountability, either.

In March 2015, the Senate of Pakistan passed the Torture, Custodial Death and Custodial Rape (Prevention and Punishment) Bill 2014. This bill was subsequently sent to the National Assembly, which referred it to the relevant committee. The bill lapsed due to a failure to pass it within the stipulated 90-day period. It was then referred to a joint sitting of the parliament in January 2017.

The National Action Plan (NAP) for Human Rights, introduced by the federal Ministry for Human Rights in February 2016, set a six-month deadline to pass the Torture, Custodial Death, and Custodial Rape (Prevention and Punishment) Bill. However, to date, the bill has not been taken up by parliament.

In 2017, a similar draft bill was approved by the sub-committee of the National Assembly’s Committee on the Interior. Again, this too has not been passed by parliament.

In 2010, Pakistan also ratified the UN Convention Against Torture (UNCAT). Besides not adhering to its international law obligations, this failure to enact anti-torture legislation is also in violation of Pakistan’s own promises made under the National Action Plan (NAP) that was passed eight years ago.

In 2020, life in the idyllic Karora village in district Shangla of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, was troubled after a 52-year-old local man died in police custody. Sayid Muhammad Shah, the brother of the deceased, revealed to local media that all he was told by the police was that his brother had “died in the lock-up.” He was offered no other explanation.

“When I reached the police station,” Shah had said when talking to a local journalist, “I found my brother’s body inside the lock-up, with a piece of cloth around his neck and handcuffs on his wrists. The police tried to show that he had hanged himself. But it was clumsily done and was clearly a cover-up.”

Sayid Muhammad registered an FIR against Naseeb Shah, the additional Station House Officer (SHO) who had arrested the victim from Karora bazaar.

To make matters worse, the police had uploaded, on their Facebook page, a photograph of the victim, holding up a placard with charges of drug possession written on it, to further humiliate him.
In 2014, a ground-breaking study was conducted by JPP and Yale University, where a sample of 1,867 medico-legal certificates (MLCs) from District Faisalabad, filed between 2006 and 2012, were thoroughly investigated. Following this, the National Commission for Human Rights Pakistan (NCHR) initiated an inquiry into the confirmed cases of torture…

IN THE TORTURE CELL

Although the police force has become synonymous with torture, intelligence and investigation agencies have also been regularly accused of meting out torture to people they pick up for ‘interrogation’ or information.

The chairman of the Baloch National Movement (BNM) Dr Naseem Baloch was abducted twice by an intelligence agency from Karachi — once in 2005 and then in 2010. Apparently targeted for his political activism, Dr Naseem suffered such intense torture by his kidnappers that its severity cannot be measured by words.

From cigarette burns on his body to electric shocks to kicking him in his kidneys which affected his urinary system, to sleep deprivation, humiliation, starving and hanging by the arms — the latter seemingly a favourite go-to method of custodial torture — it is a miracle Dr Baloch survived at all.

“The doorbell rang at 3am while I was in a deep sleep,” Dr Naseem recounts the horrific details of his first abduction for Eos. “Around 20 uniformed personnel accompanied by plain-clothed men stormed my flat the moment I opened the door. After being hit a couple of times with a gun butt on my head and neck, I was left half unconscious. But from the sounds from the next room I could tell that my other colleagues were being blindfolded and tied up. I remember being barefoot, as I was escorted to one of the security jeeps.”

They didn’t allow him to sleep for the first three days.

“I was hung by my wrists, arms stretched upwards. It was a huge hall with black and white tiles. A high beam searchlight would hover in my face. I was made to hang like this in such a way that my toes barely touched the ground.” At the same time, his head was covered with a plastic bag, making it difficult to breathe and he was burnt with cigarettes all over his body.

“I had only 40 seconds to relieve myself when they allowed me to, and when I asked for water, I would be given four strikes of the chhittar [leather whipping strap] before being given a bottle of water held by one of the torturers. The personnel at night would whip me with the leather strap the moment they felt I had fallen asleep.”

Each whipping would leave a thick bloody mark on his body.

“They did other things too — electrocuted me on my thighs, for example — all of it depended on what mood they were in to kill time.”

His ‘interrogation’ did not begin before the fourth day. An officer sat opposite him questioning, while he sat on a chair blindfolded, while another stood behind him, ready to whip him hard when the need arose. It continued like this for weeks. After 45 days, he was shifted to Quetta, where the whole cycle continued. Later, somehow, he says, he was freed along with some others on May 25, 2005.

“The second time I was picked up was from Quetta in 2010, when I was heading home from my hospital shift. I was stopped by the Frontier Corps (FC) personnel, who were accompanied by some plainclothes intelligence agents. Again, I was blindfolded and tied and put in the back of a vehicle.”

Once again, the whole procedure began on repeat, but this time by midnight, shortly after the whipping had stopped, a bearded man entered the dark room. Dr Naseem’s blindfold was removed, and the man began showing him some pictures on a cell phone for him to identify.

“This is when I saw a blue electric shock machine. The man pointed a remote at the machine and warned me that the power could go up to 450 watts should I choose not to cooperate.”

Needless to say, Dr Naseem was tortured by the machine.

“I was left unconscious after the electric shocks and do not remember what happened afterwards,” he says. “In the morning, when I asked permission for a toilet break, I discovered blood on my clothes, mainly the lower part of the body and the testicles,” he says, adding that there was blood in his urine too.

“The toilet break was for two minutes a day and was the only place where I could see things. This continued for a week. They would often electrocute my head, my genitals and other sensitive parts of my body.”

There was also waterboarding, dipping his face in oil, forcibly making him stand on ice for long periods of time, pulling off nails, and even hammering iron nails on the ankles and bones of legs.

The psychological impact of these two abductions still remains with Dr Naseem. He gets nightmares and sometimes he himself cannot help but become aggressive towards those nearest to him, realising it was an overreaction often too late.

He has also developed a panic disorder, which can be triggered at any time. After his release, the sound of keys would send fear through him, because it would remind him of an officer unlocking the cell door to take one of the prisoners away for a torture session.

Even today, he visits a psychiatrist to heal himself. The scars of his body may have diminished, but the scars on his mind remain.

Dr Naseem has left the country and lives in self-exile.

THE UNSEEN NUMBERS

The Justice Project Pakistan (JPP) is one of the main organisations to have highlighted custodial torture in the country through various campaigns. Their project ‘Torture Watch’ conducts anti-torture advocacy, spreads awareness regarding this practice and pushes for police reform to eradicate torture.

The organisation has also released some detailed research, including in the report ‘Policing as Torture’ and on the abuse of women and juveniles by the Faisalabad police. It has also submitted a report to the UN Special Rapporteur against Torture and other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment and Punishment, and provides pro bono legal aid to prisoners and torture victims.

In 2014, a ground-breaking study was conducted by JPP and Yale University, where a sample of 1,867 medico-legal certificates (MLCs) from District Faisalabad, filed between 2006 and 2012, were thoroughly investigated. Following this, the National Commission for Human Rights Pakistan (NCHR) initiated an inquiry into the confirmed cases of torture, acting on a complaint filed by JPP. NCHR recorded testimonies of witnesses and survivors, and conducted a hearing with police officers named in the complaints. It also surveyed 350 random MLCs.

The MLCs were prepared by the Faisalabad District Standing Medical Board (DSMB), which was set up by the government to conduct medical examinations in response to allegations of torture. The DSMB includes four government-appointed physicians.

Over 61 percent of the women in the sample had been sexually assaulted, 81 percent had been subjected to cultural humiliation and 61 percent had been forced to witness torture of others, often their family members. This shows the systematic prevalence of police torture and adds fuel to the assumption that it is also accepted by authorities as part of the process of criminal investigation.

In January 2021, Dawn reported 10 encounters, 10 incidents of deaths in encounters or in custody and 11 incidents of physical torture or violent intimidation by the police across Pakistan.

News reports taken only from Dawn during 2020, where incidents of police violence had occurred that had resulted in the deaths of individuals came to around 109 in number; 89 news reports were of police encounters. There were 80 other articles on torture, intimidation and other abuses of authority. This was published in an investigative report by Voicepk.net, an initiative of the Asma Jahangir Legal Aid Cell.

Meanwhile, for the same year, the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) monitored a total of five national newspapers, both English and Urdu, and tabulated 146 reports on police encounters that resulted in the deaths of 225 individuals, and 19 news reports on custodial deaths which claimed 23 victims. However, these figures do not include the number of inmates (convicted or under trial) who had died in prisons.

In 2020, approximately 34,000 law-enforcement personnel were punished for offences according to the police department’s accountability mechanisms, amounting to some 17 percent of the personnel enrolled in the Punjab Police force. Punishments included dismissal from service, demotions, censures and putting a hold on promotions.

LACK OF FRAMEWORK

Why torture is widely accepted and perpetrators given impunity is because of multiple reasons. They include a socio-cultural acceptance, the lack of independent oversight and investigation mechanisms, widespread powers of arrest and detention, procedural loopholes and ineffective safeguards. However, perhaps the biggest reason this practice continues is Pakistan’s failure to criminalise torture.

The existing framework has inherent flaws. Despite this, Muhammad Shoaib from JPP says that there are multiple ways at present in which a complaint against torture may be filed.

“When it comes to the legal process, a constitutional petition can be filed at the high court,” he says. “Besides this, Sections 155 and 157 from the Police Order deal with police accountability and with arrest or detention without reason. The latter can entail a five-year imprisonment period for offenders. There is also Section 166 of the Pakistan Penal Code (PPC) which is not used much — covering disobedience of the law by a public servant, with an intent to harm. The NCHR is a platform where a complaint can also be made. However, all such forums mete out very little punishment for the perpetrator.”

Unfortunately, apart from this, there is no mention of torture under the PPC and the Code of Criminal Procedure 1898 (CrPC) — Pakistan’s two primary criminal codes. Under the PPC, there are penalties for certain acts of torture under related offences, such as “causing hurt to extort confession or to compel restoration of property”, “wrongful confinement to extort confession or compel restoration of property” or provisions governing “criminal force and assault.”

The offences described under these sections, however, do not highlight all the components of torture that have been outlined in detail under Article 1 of UNCAT, especially when it comes to custodial torture.

The term “hurt” has been used, rather than “torture” under section 337-K of the penal code and this is legally ambiguous, especially since there is no specification of whether it refers to physical or mental torture. There is also no mention of the after-effects of torture, such as a victim forced to commit suicide.

In Article 156(d) of the Police Order 2002, there are penalties against police officers who inflict “violence or torture” upon any person in their custody, but this is only limited to police officers and not other public officials. Plus, it contains no definition of torture. It does not recognise torture as an offence distinct and more severe than the mere infliction of violence by police officers.

THE UNPASSED BILLS

Instead, the 2017 Torture Bill gives a comprehensive plan to report incidents and, most importantly, defines torture, including its indirect effects.

The bill also proposes a method for reporting torture. First, the complainant must lodge a complaint before the sessions court, which would then direct the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA) to conduct an investigation within a set period. Both the court and the NCHR have the power to monitor this investigation.

If a magistrate feels there may have been torture, he can order an MLC and, if the results point towards torture, the sessions court will be notified and will take cognisance. This framework effectively removes the possibility of police making arrests without warrant and initiating the investigation into complaints of torture on their own — there is now a layer of scrutiny, oversight and regulation from the court, to ensure that complaints of torture are actually investigated.

The bill also provides for strict punishments, complying with UNCAT directives. It stipulates express penalties for torture, ranging from imprisonment for a term of three to 10 years, as well as a fine which may extend to two million rupees. Importantly, it also provides penalties for those public servants who have a duty to prevent the commission of torture and “intentionally or negligently” fail to do so. It also provides penalties for those public servants who incite or instigate the torture of any person.

But the problem is not in the wording of the bill. Rather, it lies in the fact that the bill is not being passed. In fact, since 2010 when UNCAT was signed and ratified by Pakistan, any attempts to have an anti-torture bill passed have been unsuccessful.

In 2015, the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) Senator Farhatullah Babar managed to have a bill passed in the Senate. But because PPP did not have a majority in the National Assembly, the bill did not pass there.

“When, in 90 days, a bill is not passed by the other house, you may call a joint sitting of the parliament,” explains the former senator and human rights activist. “But it did not even go to this session, despite the fact that the Senate had passed a resolution for it.”

In July 2021, a new Anti-Torture Bill was passed this time by Sherry Rehman, another PPP lawmaker. It was again transmitted to the NA, but there it remains to this day.

“To me it seems as if the parliament is being ‘remote controlled’ by a third party,” says Babar. “It is being blocked at different stages, despite the number of attempts to have a bill passed.”

Babar deeply criticises the state’s response towards torture.

“Whenever there is an incident of torture, a common response from the government is that ‘action is being taken, and an inquiry has been ordered.’ But what happens next, we never know,” he says. “We continue to live in a state of denial. We do not even bother to acknowledge that there is torture meted out by the LEAs [law enforcement agencies]. In fact, in our Universal Periodic Review [UPR] report, the government audaciously declares that the country’s constitution and Islam both have no tolerance for torture, therefore there is no torture in the country.”

However, he says that retired police officers have themselves confessed that they prefer to interrogate suspects in private detention cells.

“Pakistan’s own laws, such as the ‘Action in Aid of Civil Power’ law, gives the freedom to officers to practise torture,” says Babar. “This law allowed the constitution of internment centres in the tribal areas of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, and then later they were extended to the whole province. What are these internment centres but the Guantanamo Bay prisons of Pakistan?” he exclaims. “Once someone goes inside, the walls close in on him and no one has any idea about what is happening inside.”

For Babar, the way forward is that all of civil society must stand together and give this matter importance and, at the government level, the UNCAT law must be made and implemented.

While Babar may be right, the many survivors of torture in Pakistan, such as Iqbal and Dr Naseem, have little belief that the law will ever even be passed, let alone be implemented.

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This story first appeared in Voicepk.net

Half a century on – 50 years after West Pakistan lost its eastern counterpart – those who had taken the painstaking journey all the way to present-day Pakistan, travelling in a state of starvation and poverty, and hoping for better times to come – are living today in a country that has not even declared them its own. They live hopeless lives, scarred by frustration. Whatever little they earn is not enough to feed their families.

Aafia Khatoon, squints as she tries to remember what it was like when she arrived in Karachi. It was so long ago, the memory is like an old faded photograph. Her gray hair frames her face as it peeks out from under her dupatta, and a large nose-pin shines dully in the afternoon light. As she loses the battle in trying to rake her memory, she breaks into a pleasant grin, showing paan-stained teeth.

“I can’t remember much – I’m an old woman now!” she laughs speaking a dialect that is a mixture of the Noakhali and Cummila districts of Bangladesh.

Half a century on – 50 years after West Pakistan lost its eastern counterpart – those who had taken the painstaking journey all the way to present-day Pakistan, travelling in a state of starvation and poverty, and hoping for better times to come – are living today in a country that has not even declared them its own. They live hopeless lives, scarred by frustration. Whatever little they earn is not enough to feed their families.

Khatoon too came with her husband and three of her children, in the aftermath of 1971. Leaving behind her two married daughters in Bangladesh, Khatoon had three other children to take care of, and so she and her husband who wanted better economic prospects arrived in Karachi, settling in the locality now called Macchar Colony. The name is derived from the word machera (Sindhi) or fisherfolk and not ‘mosquito’ as many believe it to be, and this lack of understanding tends to further ostracize the locality in the eyes of many. And though she misses her daughters terribly, having no CNIC, Khatoon can never travel back to Bangladesh to see them again.

When she had arrived, the Pakistan Citizenship Act (PCA) 1951, was already in place, and particularly in Section 16A, it stated that those people who had been residing in present Pakistan’s territories before December 16, 1971, would be then officially declared as citizens of Pakistan. Their children born here would be considered citizens of Pakistan by virtue of their descent.

Today, NADRA’S (National Database and Registration Authority) own guidelines also recognize that a person is a Pakistani citizen if they can prove they have been residing in Pakistan since before 1978. In fact, this timeline provides an extension of seven years to the date that is mentioned in the PCA.

Yet even today, Khatoon has remains stateless – neither a Bangladeshi, nor a Pakistani. Neither country owns her.

“We tried to get a NIC made for ourselves. But there was so much red-tape involved, that we ultimately just gave up,” says Khatoon. “We knew nothing happen. Our lives would just remain the same.”

Without an ID card, Khatoon and her family have been limited to working at a shrimp peeling factory, which pays just a meagre sum of money: 700 Rupees a day.

Aafia Khatoon is not the only one. Other people who had arrived from Bangladesh in that time period are also facing the same ordeal. And with no documented identity of their own, those who belong to the ethnic Bengali communities continue to live miserable lives with little in store for them.

Muhammad Babul came to Karachi in the early 70s. He came alone back then but started his own family here. He lives in a house, whose main room on the lower floor is a shrine (aastaana) in remembrance of his father in law, a man whom he fondly calls Chacha. After Babul reached here, he was given refuge by ‘Chacha’.

“Chacha or father – it means the same thing to me. If it wasn’t for him I would not even be alive,” he says.

Sporting long locks, a henna-dyed orange beard, and several rings and bead necklaces, Babul looks after the ‘aastana’ which is simply decorated with tinsel and faded paper flags, while fairy lights adorn the walls. A large picture of his father in law is in front of the entrance, with a garland of flowers around it.

As he starts speaking, Babul’s anguish cannot be hidden anymore.

“I have been here since 1971, I even remember the day Ziaul Haq was killed in a crash,” says Babul. “I am as Pakistani as the rest of them, but to date I have never had an ID card.”

It is not like he did not try.

“I spent an entire year running to and fro. They made us run like mad just to apply for a card. I spent so much on transport, we did not even have enough money for food that year. But despite the time and money spent, I didn’t receive anything. All that happened, in the end, was that the NADRA officer told me they needed proof of my migration and my parents’ documents.

“I came when I was very little. My parents had died; from where do I get their papers?” he questions. “I am sick and tired of running around. In the end, I thought, first I should think of feeding my kids, then maybe God willing I will try again.”

There is almost no help that the community is getting from anyone else on the outside. But Imkaan Welfare Organization, founded by lawyer Tahera Hasan, has been making a huge impact in their lives. First and foremost they are providing legal aid by taking up cases of those whose criteria match the law, but they are still without CNICs. But the organization does not limit itself to this. In fact, the reason they began to research and work in the locality was that they wanted to study the children being brought up here. They set up a recreation centre, called Khel Ghar, just to start to get children off the streets, but it received so much popularity that it began growing organically, and young people still come there all day long to play table tennis, do gymnastics and to just spend their time. It is better than being out there with nothing to do, being exposed to dirt, sexual abuse, and drugs among other things.

Imkaan also provides medical services focusing on mother and child health as well as mental health services – around 100 clients who come for regular therapy – and awareness programs being given to both men (on domestic and gender-based violence) and women on marital conflict.

It was during their initial work here that Imkaan discovered the extent to which statelessness was prevalent.

“People who are stateless means they have no identity of their own, and no country is willing to recognize them,” explains Tahera Hasan. “There are multifold problems and challenges that occur because of this lack of identity: those who are affected cannot access public health, they cannot get into schools – educational institutions do not allow them to give matric exams without a B form; there is no permanent employment, so even when they work in factories, they work on minimum wages, and they don’t get any benefits. They also cannot have a SIM card issued in their name or buy property, or even get a drivers’ license.”

It does not stop there, either.

“Even during the lockdown, they had no access to COVID testing, and faced many challenges concerning vaccinations,” she adds. “Only now, a year later, has the government allowed undocumented people to be vaccinated. On top of everything they never got access to any relief packages, or Ehsas Programme – which were all linked to the identity cards.”

There are 126 Bengali communities in Karachi, and despite the fact that they are already marginalized and the poorest of the poor, they were still unable to access these rights and benefits.

MIGRATIONS AND THE FORMATION OF MACCHAR COLONY

According to Mohammad Jaffar, who arrived there when he was very little, Macchar Colony must have begun forming in the early 70s.

“A lot of people came here and settled: Pukhtoons, Afghanis, Punjabis, Sindhis but most of all Bengalis,” he says.

Statistics provided by Imkaan reveal that from a population of about 700,000 people dwelling in Macchar Colony, at least 65 per cent of them are ethnic Bengalis, and most of them work in the fisheries sector.

Two or three different types of immigration took place in Pakistan over time, which affected the demographics of Karachi specifically.

At first, it was the ethnic Bengalis who were already living in the then West Pakistan area prior to 1971, and who stayed on after Dhaka fell away. The migrations included those who arrived after this separation of East and West Pakistan. These migrations took place mostly from 1971 to 1978. There were also migrations from 1978 to 80, mostly due to economic reasons, and many of these people even returned to Bangladesh after their economic benefits decreased here and thought they would do better there. Tahera highlights that under the PCA, there is a birthright citizenship clause, where it specifies that all children who are born in Pakistan have the right to be given Pakistani citizenship.

In fact, the Bihari population living in Karachi – who are also subject to the same problems as Bengali communities – claim that they are true Pakistanis because they migrated from India to what was then East Pakistan, and then migrated again after 1971 to West Pakistan, and they should also not be deprived of nationality.

Mohammad Jaffar was just a child when he came here but he remembers a lot.

“Border control may not have been very strict here and so the West Pakistani authorities allowed several people to cross over – people who had been badly affected by poverty and famine, people who had lost their families in the war, or had to leave some of their loved ones behind. Entire families were broken up.”

But dynamics of power soon surfaced. Jaffar says those who came from the east, and established good relations with influential here, managed to make a stronger place for themselves. Others ended up being exploited.

“The local authorities have looted our people shamelessly,” he says. “Our community was hard working, they worked at sea, but later police officials would extort chunks of their daily wages, or create situations where bribery was the only way out. This has been happening for decades. Political parties have come and gone yet not one of them in power have thought of providing us with our basic rights of electricity, water or gas.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN

Like any other downtrodden area where economic issues are rampant, in Macchar Colony, women often get the raw end of the deal. Intersectionality reveals that while men are struggling, women suffer more, sometimes in the form of gender based or domestic violence.

Babul’s niece through marriage, Rozina says men have the freedom to marry or to leave whenever they want and this is what she has seen in her life. Her father divorced her mother when she was three years old, and when she turned eight, he left for Bangladesh without a thought for his child.

When she got married at 18, her husband and in laws kept pressurizing her to bring in more dowry, but eventually ended the marriage in a divorce, leaving Rozina to care for her son alone.

“Initially my father in law wanted to marry my mother but upon her refusal he made his son marry me. I think their intention was to take over our house,” she says.

Now 21 years old, Rozina lives with her mother upstairs in the same house as Babul, and does some work when she can. Mainly it is her mother who works for the fishery but the wages are few compared to their needs.

Because her mother has always been the only bread earner in the family, Rozina missed out on her studies, a fate which several children, but especially girls have to face here. She has been working since she was 15 and bit by bit they changed their shanty hut into a concretized home.

“Eighty per cent of the women living in Macchar Colony go out for work,” says Rozina. “They go to the fish factory and work there. Some women work inside their homes but this kind of work doesn’t pay much – I have to work inside the house too because I have young children to take care of here. We get around Rs800 to 900 a day that’s it for work that’s about eight to 12 hours long, maybe even longer.”

Babul’s own wife has to work for long hours – sometimes even 15 hours and they all must work while standing. The work comprises packing or sifting, and the women who stand for so long end up with serious health complications – with legs and feet affected as well as back problems and since they work in cold temperatures they suffer those as well. There are transport issues as well, as they have to come back home so late at night. They hardly get enough rest though because they must wake up again at dawn, cook food and then leave by 7 am for work again.

“How do we get out of this poverty? This is our life, we have accepted it,” says Rozina smiling sadly. “Still I will try and educate my son as much as I can.”

CNIC WOES

For Rozina having an ID card made is difficult because the information on her mother’s card is not correct. “When my mother had her ID card made she asked someone else to do the paperwork because she could not spare any time off from work,” says Rozina.

Some of these slippery dealers have even gone so far as to take around Rs100,000 in order to have ID cards made for those who need them desperately – mostly for work purposes. But many of them disappear soon after getting the money.

“An old man in our extended family is very worried because if he doesn’t get his ID card made, his whole family will suffer. But he has been conned a few times, by people who take his money and run, which is sad really. He really wishes to go for Hajj or Umra but he cannot.”

GOVERNMENT FAILURE

Tahera Hasan says that if PCA is fully implemented, then 80 per cent of the problems these ethnic communities face will be resolved.

“Then it comes to the remaining 20 per cent who have absolutely no documentation at all,” she says. “For them, the government can start Alien Registration or something else, but even in their case, their children who have been born on Pakistani soil, have a right to Pakistani citizenship.”

The biggest failure of the government is the non-implementation of law. Along with that the prejudice within the frontline workers in government institutions, resulting in the process being stalled for long periods of time. The moment such people see that the applicant is a Bengali or a Bihari, there are other types of challenges that happen.

Tahera says initially it was NARA (National Alien Registration Authority) that gave Bengali citizens their cards but even under that there was some discrimination. Several people even ended up with their citizenship being cancelled for vague reasons.

“Sometimes clients do exaggerate but there definitely is some ethnic discrimination against them,” she says. “There has been departmental corruption in that regard so we gave them door to door awareness on the issue. But there is so much lack of education on the matter.”

Now that NARA has been wrapped up and NADRA deals with everything, such an applicant’s information is sent to the DC for approval, but in many cases, it is also sent to the International Bureau for checking. In this whole system, anyone can reject citizenship.

It brings to light the level of prejudice that is actually deep-rooted within Pakistani society against ethnic Bengalis. Jaffar believes that there is so much of it, and so systematic, it almost seems as if society wants them to lag behind so that they are easier to exploit.

“First of all if the father has a CNIC, the son can have his made; if the father doesn’t have one, the son won’t either,” he says. “Some people left their ID cards behind in Bangladesh, some brought them. If a NADRA officer who is prejudiced knows the applicant is a Bengali, he will say something like, “This is impossible to get made”. After this the applicant is ready to pay a bribe for this important piece of evidence. What can a poor person do? You need ID cards even to go to the sea to catch fish.”

Jaffar’s uncle brought him and his sister to Pakistan after their parents died.

“Now when NADRA asks me for my father’s documents, where do I get them from?” he asks. “They insist that I bring a blood relative. The only blood relative is my sister who is so old that she cannot even walk to the bathroom by herself. Everyone else is dead now. But I was born during the war, and when they treat a person like me this way, it hurts because I have lived here all my life. I could die for this country but they will still not accept me.”

Jaffar says the way Bengalis are treated, is worse than a stepchild is.

“We are looked upon as slaves. They think we are the scum of the earth. And though this prejudice targets all ethnic communities, Bengalis face a hard time dealing with it.”

Jaffer is the proud father of a young girl who is an award-winning gymnast, and while he wants to accompany her everywhere when she is on tour, he cannot go because he has no card.

But Tahera says, “It’s not like there is a departmental policy to discriminate against this part of the population, however, there is an attitude of discrimination and a filtered down process against these communities which breeds prejudice,” says Hasan. “Things have greatly improved after NADRA began a crackdown here and closed down a few of  these businesses.”

In a situation where ethnicity matters so much, to protect their children from being labelled, parents have even begun teaching them Urdu instead of Bengali. In many Bengali households, even though the parents know how to speak in Bengali, the children cannot.

“We have to clear them of this identity,” says Rozina. “The police causes problems for us Bengalis.” On the other hand like Aafia Khatoon, many of the older generations don’t know any Urdu, even though they have lived here all their lives.

A DARK FUTURE

Meanwhile, in one of the largest garbage dumps life goes on uninterrupted.

Everywhere around there is litter, cacophony and the ugly odour of fish hanging in the air – but for some it is paradise. A boy is completely passed out, and leans against the scum ridden wall his mouth sagging open; he is ignored by the others who huddle busily like flies over their precious purchase, squatting in knee-deep waste.

One must be daring enough to enter this muck, yet these addicts are in a state of euphoria. A couple of the boys, turn around slowly and robotically to see who is watching them – their eyes are glazed but completely cognizant of what is happening.

This is a common enough sight in Macchar Colony on a daily basis. Children as young as 13 can be seen converging in dark corners lighting cigarettes and sharing joints. They are society’s rejects, but these are the only places that will welcome them with open arms. In the whole of Macchar Colony, there is not one playground to be seen. Any empty space is filled with garbage. Houses are scrunched up next to each other. From ship breaking to fish factories, this area thrives on pure functionality: all work and no play.

Jaffar remembers a time when Prime Minister Muhammad Ali Bogra – himself a Bengali – inaugurated a school here. But the other governments of the province and city have been so inattentive that generations have been ruined.

“This entire zone has become a huge hub for drug peddling,” he says. “Everyone is selling heroin on street corners, and there is no stopping them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the authorities know about it and are allowing the dealers to make this their stronghold. I myself have tried several times to control the situation but in vain. The police see it happening but do nothing.”

They are broken down like the place they come from. For these young people, this vicious cycle of depression, frustration, and angst only mirrors the lives led by their own families and communities. When will things change for them, no one knows.

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