Women I left behind Part-III

(This news article is three-part series. Part-II is published today. Part-I and Part-II can be read here.)

When I finally walked out of Adiala Jail at approximately 11 o'clock at night, I was leaving behind a place where I had spent only five days but had formed relationships that I knew I would remember for a long time. The women who had welcomed me, prepared food, offered tea, helped with my clothes, and listened to my concerns were still inside, continuing lives that I had come to understand only briefly.

My release brought enormous relief, particularly because it meant I could return to my daughter and family. Yet the experience did not end for me when I crossed the prison gates. I carried with me memories of the women I had encountered, the conditions in which they lived and the questions their circumstances raised about the treatment of people deprived of their freedom.

I had entered Adiala after three exhausting days in police custody, physically uncomfortable and deeply distressed by the events surrounding my arrest. By the time I left, I had experienced a very different environment from the one I had encountered in the women's police lockup. There were restrictions, disciplinary procedures and shortcomings in the facilities, but there was also a degree of companionship and concern among prisoners that I had not expected.

It was this combination of hardship and humanity that made the experience so memorable.

Throughout my five days in Adiala, my greatest concern remained my daughter, Aliha.

The kindness of the women around me helped ease the immediate difficulties of prison life, but it could not remove the anxiety of being separated from my child. I knew that she had been handed over to our family after the initial period of detention, yet I continued worrying about the effect of those events on her.

As a mother, I found it difficult to think about anything for very long without returning to the circumstances in which we had been taken from our home. I had never expected my daughter to experience police custody, and the knowledge that she had been exposed to such an environment was more painful than the restrictions imposed on me.

My professional background had prepared me to understand legal proceedings and the possibility of detention, but motherhood brought a different set of concerns. I could examine the legal questions surrounding my situation, consider the procedures being followed and anticipate the next stages of the case. What I could not do was erase the memory of my daughter being drawn into those events.

I was also conscious that many women in prison must endure separation from their children for much longer periods than I did. Some may be awaiting trial, while others are serving sentences following conviction. Whatever their legal circumstances, imprisonment inevitably affects family relationships, and the emotional consequences are not confined to the person in custody.

My own separation lasted only a few days, but it was sufficient to make me appreciate the suffering that prolonged imprisonment can impose on mothers and children.

Children do not choose the circumstances that lead to the arrest or detention of their parents. Nevertheless, they may experience the resulting uncertainty, separation and disruption in ways that remain largely invisible to the institutions responsible for the legal proceedings.

I believe the justice system must take these consequences seriously, particularly when the welfare of young children is involved.

During those days, I waited for news about my bail, hoping that the legal process would allow me to return home. The passage of time was difficult because I had little control over the proceedings and could do nothing to bring the decision forward.

The women around me continued to offer companionship, but my thoughts were frequently occupied by the prospect of seeing Aliha again.

Women Companions

One of the most unexpected aspects of my imprisonment was the affection I received from women whom I had never met before entering Adiala.

When I first arrived, I was physically exhausted and unfamiliar with the surroundings. As the days passed, other women began treating me with a degree of affection.

Some came to discuss their legal problems, while others spoke about their families or the circumstances that had brought them into custody. Our conversations gradually moved beyond professional matters, and I found myself becoming part of a small community of women whose lives had been brought together by imprisonment.

The assistance they offered was often practical and unremarkable in appearance. One woman would wash my clothes, another would iron them, while someone else would prepare tea or ask whether I needed food.

Outside prison, these gestures might be considered ordinary acts of courtesy. Inside, they carried a different meaning because they were offered by women who had limited resources and were themselves dependent on the routines of the institution.

I was struck by the willingness of prisoners to share whatever comfort they could provide, even while facing difficulties of their own.

Their behaviour challenged the tendency to view people in prison primarily through the offences alleged against them or the convictions recorded in their cases. A person's legal circumstances are important, but they do not provide a complete picture of her personality, relationships or capacity for compassion.

The women I encountered had their own troubles and disagreements, and I do not wish to present prison life as an idealised community of mutual support. I had witnessed arguments, disciplinary proceedings and the tensions that arise when people must share confined surroundings.

Nevertheless, the kindness I received was genuine, and it formed one of the strongest impressions I carried away from Adiala.

I had entered the prison as a stranger. Within five days, I had developed relationships that made my eventual departure unexpectedly emotional.

My Bail

I had been waiting for a decision on my bail throughout my stay, and when I finally learned that it had been granted, I felt the relief that comes with knowing that a period of confinement is about to end.

The news also spread among the women who had become my companions.

Their response was deeply touching. They were pleased that I would be returning to my family, but there was also sadness at the prospect of our separation.

Only a few days earlier, we had known nothing about one another. We had come from different circumstances and had been brought together by a situation none of us would ordinarily have chosen. Yet the relationships formed during those days had become strong enough for my departure to feel like a farewell among people who had known each other for much longer.

I was conscious that my release would not change their circumstances. They would remain inside, continuing to deal with the routines, restrictions and legal uncertainties that had shaped their lives before my arrival.

Before leaving, I distributed among the women the food, belongings and other items that my family had sent for me during my detention.

It was a small gesture, particularly when compared with the kindness they had shown me, but I wanted to leave those things with people who had helped make my stay more bearable.

The women saw me off with affection, and I left the prison at approximately 11 PM.

My eight days in custody had finally come to an end.

I was returning to freedom, but the women who had shared their food, time and companionship with me were not.

That contrast has remained one of the most difficult aspects of the experience to forget.

What Imprisonment Taught Me

I had spent years working with the law before my arrest. I understood the distinction between an accused person and a convicted prisoner, the purpose of judicial remand and the constitutional principles governing the deprivation of liberty.

Yet five days inside Adiala gave those legal concepts a human dimension that I had not previously experienced.

A prisoner's life cannot be understood solely through the status of her case. Behind every legal proceeding is an individual whose daily existence is affected by restrictions, separation from family and dependence on the institution responsible for her custody.

During my stay, I saw women preparing meals, carrying out assigned duties, attending religious and educational activities, seeking legal advice and trying to maintain relationships with those around them.

I also saw shortcomings in food and medical arrangements, as well as disciplinary practices and inspection procedures that raised concerns about the protection of prisoners' rights.

These observations reinforced my belief that prison administration must be judged by the conditions experienced by prisoners rather than merely by the existence of formal rules and facilities.

The presence of a dispensary, for example, is important, but its value depends on whether prisoners can obtain medical attention when they need it. Similarly, educational and vocational activities can contribute positively to prison life, but they cannot compensate for inadequate food, sanitation or respectful treatment.

I believe that the purpose of imprisonment must extend beyond the maintenance of order and the enforcement of restrictions. A prison is an institution in which the state assumes direct responsibility for the welfare of people who cannot freely make arrangements for themselves.

That responsibility requires more than preventing escapes or ensuring compliance with daily routines. It includes the provision of adequate living conditions, medical assistance, opportunities for rehabilitation, and safeguards against mistreatment.

My observations were limited to a short period in the women's section, and I cannot claim to have conducted a comprehensive examination of Adiala Jail. Nevertheless, what I experienced was sufficient to convince me that the treatment of women in custody deserves far greater public and institutional attention.

Inspection and Accountability

One of the questions that continued to trouble me after my release concerned the manner in which prison inspections were conducted.

During my stay, I had observed visits by the prison superintendent and a judge. The preparations surrounding these visits were noticeable, with pathways cleaned and formal arrangements made for the arrival of officials.

What concerned me was that prisoners did not appear to have adequate opportunities to communicate their complaints directly and freely.

A judicial inspection should provide an independent means of assessing prison conditions. Its purpose cannot be fulfilled merely by examining facilities or receiving information through the institution's own administrative channels.

Prisoners must be able to explain their difficulties without fearing that their complaints will expose them to adverse treatment.

This is particularly important because people in custody are dependent on the very authorities whose conduct or decisions may be the subject of their grievances.

A woman who is dissatisfied with medical attention, food, sanitation or the behaviour of prison staff should have access to a credible mechanism through which her complaint can be examined.

Such arrangements are not incompatible with prison discipline. On the contrary, effective accountability can strengthen institutional functioning by identifying problems before they become more serious.

As a lawyer, I believe judicial oversight of detention facilities should be meaningful rather than ceremonial. It should be concerned with the actual experiences of prisoners and should provide opportunities for grievances to be heard independently.

The conditions visible during an official visit should also reflect the standards maintained throughout the year. Cleanliness, adequate food, medical care, and humane treatment are obligations that exist every day, regardless of whether an inspection is scheduled.

My experience left me convinced that the rights of prisoners must be treated as an integral part of the justice system rather than as a secondary matter that arises only after a person has been detained.

Burden Carried by Families

Another aspect of imprisonment that deserves greater attention is its effect on families.

During my detention, I was acutely aware of the anxiety experienced by my relatives and well-wishers, particularly when our whereabouts were uncertain during the initial period.

For families, detention can create difficulties that extend far beyond concern for the person in custody. They must seek information, arrange legal assistance, provide necessary belongings and manage responsibilities that the detained person can no longer fulfill.

When children are involved, the consequences can be especially painful.

My own experience brought this reality into focus because Aliha had been with me when I was taken from home. Although she was eventually handed over to the family, I remained troubled by the thought that she had been exposed to circumstances no child should have to confront.

The welfare of children should be a central consideration whenever the actions of law enforcement institutions affect a parent. The emotional and practical consequences for a child cannot be dismissed as incidental to the legal proceedings involving an adult.

I also thought about the women I had met inside Adiala, many of whom spoke about their families and the difficulties caused by separation.

I do not know how their individual cases will develop, and I cannot predict when they may return home. But I know that their imprisonment affects people beyond the prison walls, including relatives who must continue their lives while waiting for legal proceedings to reach a conclusion.

A justice system that takes human dignity seriously must recognise these wider consequences.

I have never believed that the experience of imprisonment should be treated as a badge of honour. There is no virtue in the unnecessary deprivation of liberty, and I do not consider my eight days in custody either a personal victory or a defeat.

What matters is whether the exercise of state authority is lawful, proportionate and consistent with constitutional safeguards.

The power to arrest and detain is among the most serious powers available to the state. Its exercise affects not only an individual's freedom but also her dignity, family relationships, livelihood and ability to participate in public life.

For that reason, detention must always be accompanied by transparent legal procedures and meaningful accountability.

I remain particularly concerned about the distinction between people awaiting trial and those who have been convicted.

An undertrial prisoner has not been found guilty of the offence alleged against her. Yet she may spend considerable time in custody, living under restrictions and enduring separation from her family while the legal process continues.

The presumption of innocence is not merely a principle to be repeated in courtrooms. It must influence the treatment of people whose cases have not yet been decided.

Even where a person has been convicted, the deprivation of liberty does not remove the state's obligation to ensure humane conditions.

Punishment imposed through lawful procedures should never become a justification for degrading treatment.

I believe the true measure of a justice system lies not only in the judgments delivered by its courts but also in the manner in which people are treated while they remain under its authority.

A society may have elaborate laws, constitutional guarantees and judicial institutions, but their value is diminished if individuals in custody cannot obtain basic necessities or raise grievances without fear.

Women Whose Stories Remain Untold

Since my release, I have often thought about the women I encountered inside Adiala.

I remember Iman's welcome when I first entered the barracks, her efforts to make me comfortable and the tea we shared after I had finally been able to bathe and change my clothes.

I remember Hadi's concern and the food she arranged for me.

I remember the women who approached me for legal advice, the conversations about their families and the small acts of assistance that made my stay easier.

I also remember the arguments that sometimes disturbed the barracks at night, the disciplinary arrangements that followed and the restrictions under which everyone lived.

These memories belong to the same experience. It would be misleading to separate the kindness from the hardship or to describe prison life entirely through one or the other.

The women I met were not merely prisoners occupying cells or barracks. They were individuals with different personalities, circumstances and concerns, trying to manage their lives within the limitations imposed on them.

Some had been convicted, while others were awaiting the outcome of their cases. I do not know enough about their individual proceedings to make judgments about their legal responsibility, and that is not the purpose of this account.

What I can say is that I encountered people whose humanity was evident in the way they treated someone who had arrived among them as a stranger.

Their kindness reminded me that compassion is not confined to people who enjoy freedom, social standing or favourable circumstances.

Sometimes it is found most clearly among those who have very little control over their own lives.

Questions I Brought Home

When I left Adiala Jail, I regained the freedom to return to my family and resume my ordinary life. But I also brought home questions that I believe deserve answers.

Why should a woman in police custody have to endure conditions without proper bedding, privacy or adequate medical arrangements? Why should the treatment of detainees depend so heavily on the attitudes of individual officials? And why should prisoners have limited opportunities to communicate their grievances during inspections intended to protect their welfare?

These are not questions arising from personal resentment. They concern the responsibilities of institutions that exercise authority over people who are unable to protect their own interests fully.

I believe prisons should be places where lawful sentences and judicial orders are implemented without depriving people of their basic dignity. They should also provide opportunities for education, rehabilitation and personal improvement wherever possible.

The administration of justice cannot end with the issuance of a remand order or a conviction. The state remains responsible for the conditions in which people are held and for ensuring that their legal and human rights are respected.

My eight days in custody have strengthened rather than weakened my commitment to constitutional government, democracy and peaceful political struggle.

I continue to believe that no society can make meaningful progress if fear replaces freedom, silence takes the place of dialogue and the exercise of power becomes a substitute for justice.

The rule of law must protect every citizen, including those who disagree with the authorities and those who stand accused of offences.

It must also protect people who have little influence, limited resources or no public voice.

For me, the experience of imprisonment has made these principles more immediate and personal, but it has not changed their fundamental meaning.

I returned home with my freedom, grateful to be reunited with my family and particularly with Aliha. The relief of leaving custody was considerable, and I do not wish to minimise it.

Yet my thoughts have repeatedly returned to the women who remained behind.

They had shared their food, offered their companionship and cared for me during a difficult period, even though they were facing uncertainties of their own.

I was able to walk out of Adiala after five days. For them, the routines of prison life continued.

I cannot forget that difference, nor can I forget the generosity I encountered in a place where I had expected little beyond restriction and hardship.

Those eight days did not make me a different person, but they gave me a deeper understanding of the relationship between freedom, human dignity and the responsibilities of the state.

I had entered custody as a lawyer who believed in constitutional rights. I emerged with the same convictions, strengthened by the knowledge that the protections we discuss in courts and public forums must have meaning in the everyday lives of those who are most vulnerable.

Ultimately, the character of a society is not measured only by how it treats its powerful, influential or free citizens. It is also measured by the treatment it extends to people who are confined, dependent on others and unable to defend their dignity without institutional protection.

I left Adiala Jail with memories of hardship, companionship and unexpected kindness. Above all, I left with a conviction that the struggle for justice, dignity and the rule of law must continue, not out of personal bitterness, but because these principles are essential to the freedom and security of everyone.

(Concluded)