Night They Came For Me Part-I

(This news article is a three-part series and Part-I is published today.)

At approximately 2:30 AM on October 10, I was taken from my home in Islamabad along with my nine-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Aliha. I had spent much of my professional life dealing with questions of law, constitutional rights and personal liberty, but nothing in those years had prepared me for the experience of being taken into custody myself, particularly with my young daughter beside me.

I describe what happened that night as an abduction because that is how I experienced it. The events that followed took me through three days of police detention, an appearance before an anti-terrorism court, and another five days inside Adiala Jail. By the time I returned home, I had spent eight days in custody and had encountered a side of the justice system that I had previously known largely through my legal practice.

I cannot say that those eight days transformed me into a different person. My political convictions, my understanding of constitutional rights and my belief in peaceful democratic struggle remain unchanged. What the experience did was give me an opportunity to look at life from a position I had never occupied before, one in which my freedom, movements and daily decisions were entirely dependent on the authority of others.

For years, I had represented people facing legal proceedings and had spoken about the importance of due process, the presumption of innocence and the responsibility of the state to respect human dignity. As a lawyer, one becomes familiar with the language of arrests, remand orders, detention and judicial custody. These are terms that appear routinely in legal documents and courtroom proceedings. Yet there is an enormous difference between discussing someone's detention in a courtroom and experiencing the uncertainty of custody yourself.

The difference became painfully apparent to me during those first three days, when I was held at the women's police station in Islamabad's G-7 sector.

What troubled me most was not simply the loss of my own freedom but the presence of my daughter in an environment she was too young to understand and should never have been required to experience. Whatever difficulties I might have anticipated as a lawyer and political activist, I had never imagined that my child would be drawn into them in this manner.

A mother naturally tries to protect her child from fear and uncertainty. Under ordinary circumstances, she can explain a difficult situation, offer reassurance and make arrangements to ensure her child's safety. In police custody, however, even these basic responsibilities become difficult to fulfil because the mother herself has little control over what happens next.

I was deeply distressed by the thought of what Aliha might be experiencing. She had no connection with my professional or political activities, and there was no reason for her to be exposed to the circumstances surrounding my detention. I could attempt to understand my own situation through my knowledge of the law, but that knowledge offered little comfort when I considered the effect of those events on her.

During the initial period of detention, we were moved between different locations, making it difficult for our family and well-wishers to establish our whereabouts. The uncertainty surrounding our situation added considerably to the mental strain. Eventually, my daughter was handed over to our family, while I remained in custody.

Although I was relieved that Aliha was no longer in the detention environment, separation brought another kind of anxiety. I continued thinking about her welfare, wondering how she was coping with what had happened and whether the experience would leave memories that might trouble her later. Those concerns remained with me throughout the eight days, including the five days I subsequently spent inside Adiala Jail.

Law as I Knew and Experienced

Throughout my legal career, I have dealt with cases involving arrests, detention and the rights of accused persons. I have studied the constitutional safeguards intended to protect citizens against arbitrary exercises of power and have argued that the authority of the state must remain subject to law.

From a lawyer's perspective, the criminal justice system is often understood through procedures. An arrest is followed by legal formalities, court appearances, remand proceedings and, eventually, the determination of a case. Each stage is supposed to operate within a framework of established rules.

For the person in custody, however, the experience is far more immediate. Legal protections are meaningful only to the extent that they influence the conditions in which that person is actually held. The right to dignity has little practical value if a detainee is denied basic sanitation, while the promise of humane treatment becomes difficult to reconcile with unnecessarily insulting behaviour.

Sitting inside the women's lockup, I found myself thinking about the many women who enter police custody without the benefit of legal education or professional experience. Some may not understand the accusations against them, while others may have limited access to lawyers or family members who can assist them. Their ability to challenge improper treatment may be considerably weaker than that of someone familiar with the legal system.

I was conscious that my professional background gave me an understanding of procedures that many other detainees might not possess. Yet even with that knowledge, I found the experience deeply unsettling. It made me appreciate the vulnerability of women who have neither legal knowledge nor the resources to seek assistance.

The state assumes an enormous responsibility when it takes a person into custody. From that moment, the individual loses the ability to make many ordinary decisions independently and becomes dependent on the institution responsible for detention. This dependence makes proper treatment all the more important, because a person who cannot leave the premises or make arrangements for herself has little alternative but to rely on those exercising authority over her.

My concern was not limited to my own circumstances. The presence of so many women in the lockup reminded me that detention is experienced by people whose lives, families and personal difficulties may be entirely different from one another. I did not know the circumstances of every woman held there, and I would not presume to speak on their behalf. But the conditions we shared raised questions about the treatment of women in custody that extended well beyond my individual case.

When Freedom Becomes a Matter of Permission

Before these events, I had often reflected on the restrictions that increasingly shape public life. People sometimes find themselves calculating what they may say, which opinions they should express, where they may go, and what consequences might follow from taking a public position.

Such restrictions do not always take the form of formal prohibitions. They can develop gradually through fear, uncertainty and the anticipation of possible consequences, until people begin limiting their own activities without being directly ordered to do so.

My experience in custody gave those reflections a different meaning. Inside a police lockup, restrictions are neither subtle nor theoretical. One's movements, surroundings and daily activities are controlled by others, and even the simplest decisions can no longer be taken independently.

I began to understand more clearly how profoundly the loss of personal freedom affects ordinary life. Outside, we decide when to eat, when to rest, whom to contact and how to organise our day. We rarely consider these choices expressions of liberty because they are so familiar. In detention, however, their absence makes the value of freedom unmistakable.

The uncertainty was particularly difficult during the first three days. We were moved between locations, and I did not know precisely how the proceedings would develop or how long I would remain in custody. My family was also struggling to obtain information about our whereabouts.

For the person detained, waiting becomes a major part of daily existence. There is little opportunity to plan beyond the immediate circumstances, and the mind repeatedly returns to questions about the next stage of the legal process and the possibility of returning home.

The uncertainty also extends to the family outside. Detention does not affect only the person whose freedom has been restricted. Parents, children, siblings and other relatives must cope with anxiety, seek information and make arrangements while remaining largely dependent on decisions taken by officials and courts.

In my case, these difficulties were compounded by concern for Aliha. Even after she had been handed over to our family, I remained conscious of the distress she might have experienced during our time together in custody.

I have always believed that political and legal disagreements must be addressed through lawful procedures, and that the use of state authority should be subject to constitutional limitations. My detention did not weaken that belief. Instead, it reinforced my conviction that legal safeguards are most important when an individual is vulnerable and unable to protect herself.

From Police Custody to Courtroom

After approximately three days in detention, I was taken to the anti-terrorism court in Islamabad's G-11 sector.

Courtrooms had been familiar places throughout my professional life, but this appearance was different because I was no longer participating in proceedings as a lawyer representing another person. I was appearing as a detainee whose own liberty was at stake.

The experience brought into sharp focus the difference between professional familiarity with the law and personal involvement in a criminal proceeding. As a lawyer, one examines legal questions, prepares arguments and advises clients about the possible consequences of judicial decisions. When one becomes the subject of those proceedings, the consequences are no longer confined to professional responsibilities. They determine the immediate circumstances of one's own life.

The court ordered that I be sent to judicial custody, and arrangements were made to transfer me to Adiala Jail.

For lawyers, the distinction between police custody and judicial custody is an important part of criminal procedure. The legal authority under which a person is detained changes, as do the responsibilities of the institutions concerned. For the detainee, however, the immediate reality remains that she is unable to return home and must continue living under restrictions imposed by the state.

I had already spent three difficult days in the women's police lockup. The conditions there had left me physically exhausted, and by the time I was transferred to prison, my clothes and shawl were dirty. I had been unable to look after myself properly and was longing for an opportunity to bathe, change my clothes and recover from the discomfort of those days.

I was also worried about my daughter, whose absence was now a constant source of emotional strain.

My destination was Adiala Jail, a prison I knew by reputation and through my professional understanding of the criminal justice system. Although I had dealt with matters involving prisoners and detention, I had never personally experienced life inside its women's section. I was therefore uncertain about the accommodation, daily routines, medical facilities and treatment of prisoners, as well as the arrangements through which women awaiting trial lived alongside others facing very different circumstances.

I was particularly interested in understanding how women managed their everyday lives in an institution where so many ordinary choices were restricted. As a lawyer, I was familiar with the legal distinction between undertrial and convicted prisoners, but I had little direct knowledge of how those categories shaped daily life inside the women's barracks.

I would soon discover that the prison had its own routines, internal arrangements and relationships, many of which were largely invisible to people outside its walls.

Approaching Adiala

By the time I reached the next stage of my detention, I had begun to appreciate that the loss of freedom was not simply a matter of being confined within a particular building. It affected the way one thought about family, time, personal dignity and the ordinary arrangements of daily life.

I was also becoming increasingly conscious of the difference between the formal protections of the law and the practical realities faced by people in custody. A system may have established procedures for arrests, remand and judicial oversight, but the experience of detention depends heavily on whether those procedures are accompanied by humane conditions and respectful treatment.

I do not regard my arrest and imprisonment as either a personal defeat or an achievement to be celebrated. Nor do I believe that detention should be romanticised as an experience that necessarily makes a person stronger or wiser. The deprivation of liberty is a serious matter, and it must always be justified by law and accompanied by safeguards against arbitrary treatment.

Nevertheless, having experienced those circumstances, I cannot ignore what they revealed about the vulnerability of detainees and the responsibilities of the institutions entrusted with their custody.

My first three days had exposed me to conditions that I believe no woman should have to endure. They had also reminded me how easily the suffering of people in detention can remain hidden from public attention, particularly when those affected lack the means to communicate their experiences.

I had entered the legal profession with a belief in constitutional rights, the rule of law and the importance of protecting individuals against abuses of authority. Those convictions remained intact as I prepared to enter Adiala Jail, although they were now accompanied by a more personal understanding of what happens when the protections of the law are tested in everyday circumstances.

What awaited me inside the prison was quite different from the experience of the police lockup. Over the next five days, I would encounter women who showed me remarkable kindness, offered companionship and helped me navigate an unfamiliar environment. I would also observe the routines, disciplinary arrangements and difficulties that shaped their lives behind prison walls.

Some of those women would approach me for legal advice, while others would offer assistance in ways that I had not expected. Their gestures of generosity would become among the most memorable aspects of my imprisonment, reminding me that the deprivation of liberty does not extinguish the capacity for friendship, compassion or concern for others.

As I entered Adiala Jail, I was still carrying the exhaustion of three days in police custody and the anxiety of separation from my daughter. I had no way of knowing when I would return home, but I was about to encounter a world that would deepen my understanding not only of imprisonment but also of the people who must endure it.

The experience would leave me with questions about the treatment of prisoners, the purpose of judicial inspections and the responsibility of the state towards those in its custody. It would also introduce me to women whose kindness I would remember long after my release.

(Next part: Behind the walls of Adiala Jail Part-II)