This post is also available in: العربية (Arabic) اردو (Urdu)
Life was good for me, from the occasional ups and down, of course. Belonging to a well-reputed family, I recently completed my law degree. I was a motivated person, wanting to correct all the wrongs, knew what my rights are, aware of how women are treated and how they should be treated, I believed I had to bring a change.
One day I was on my way from the park to our house. I was teaching my little brothers, however, less I knew about the world, about female rights and empowerment. This was the calm before the storm. Suddenly, my brother asked me: “Appa you don’t wear a dupatta is that not wrong?” To this, I questioned him of where he learned that? I started giving him a sermon on how he is not to decide who should and should not wear a dupatta. Promptly afterward, a group of boys overheard us and said that I must apologize for labeling boys as ‘stupid’.
My brothers got worried but I did not flinch, I knew how to protect myself, I knew everything there was to know about the justice system of Pakistan. After the group of boys did not stop chasing me, I screamed out: “I am a lawyer, you have to back off before I file a harassment case against you”. However, those boys had other plans and one of them smacked me across my face in broad daylight and left a few bruises on my uncovered or as we would say inviting arms. I told my brothers to run home as I did not want them to come under the bus, for my valor or as so I used to call it.
Immediately, I knew what steps had to be followed. Step 1: I had to be strong and resilient, I saw the guys walking back into their hostel, I told their hostel warden I would sue her under civil litigation and her assets will be liquidated, if she lets the boys get away. This legally made no sense but for a layman, that was enough jargon.
Step 2: Use your phone, call the right people. Firstly a more experienced lawyer, and quickly narrate your story to him so he tells you how to proceed. The second phone call I had to make was to my dad so he would come pick me up because I was after all a battered girl who would break down at any moment.
Step 3: Collect proof. This step might sound silly but it is real. I asked the hostel warden to take pictures of my bruises because I was scared they would go away before I reached my house, and how can a girl prove she was harassed if she does not have any material proof. Her words are never enough to be audible in the noises that a court makes.
Next thing I knew, there was a media van in the vicinity and it had not even been an hour since the incident. I quickly evaluated my options, should I go confront them like the brave femme fatale I am? Or will this change the entire course of my life? Will I be known as the victim, as the worn-out women in my circle of my friends, in front of the entire country? This was the moment I broke down and hid in a room in that very hostel.
It has been five years, and the miserable part is, there’s a lingering fear in me that my assailants might come back. It is not the legal system that supports the assailant it’s us, you and me who support them, by remaining silent, like I did.
