What must a woman do if she is harassed on the street in Pakistan? She has two options: grind her teeth and bear it, or go to a police station and initiate legal proceedings.
Yes, we actually have laws against sexual harassment on the street. Section 509 of the Pakistan Penal Code (also known as Act XLV of 1860) and related sections of the Criminal Procedure Code (Schedule II, Act V of 1898) were amended in 2010 to include a wide range of acts, including sexual harassment on the street, that ‘outrage the modesty’ of women. Punishment includes imprisonment of up to three years, or a fine of up to Rs500,000, or both.
The purpose of these changes, according to the recommendations forwarded by the National Assembly was to ‘make the public and work environment safer for women’, ‘open up the path for more women to pursue livelihood with dignity’; and reap the ‘social benefits… of providing protection for [sic] women’ and enabling to become ‘a major contribution [!] to the development of this country’. Sounds great thus far.
The implementation of said laws, however, is a different story altogether, as I found out the hard way this week. I was merrily on my way from somewhere to somewhere one evening, when a young man on a bike decided to become attached to my cab for around 30 minutes and indulge in all possible methods of sexual harassment barring actual physical contact. Since I don’t own a gun, and I’ve unfortunately lost my knuckle-duster, there was little I could do at the time than close my eyes and hope he’d bugger off soon. I got the registration number of his bike, though.
The next day, I went to the Taimuria Police Station to lodge an FIR. The duty officer heard me out and then asked me if I knew the young man. I most certainly did not, I replied. But that didn’t stop him from insisting that I probably did know the harasser; until I snapped and asked him if sexual harassment by a familiar person counted as a lesser crime. He then shuttled me off to the SHO of the Hyderi Police Station, muttering something about jurisdiction.
The same story was repeated at the Hyderi thhaana until I snapped again and was bundled off to the DSP of North Nazimabad. This gentleman took it upon himself to ask me to show him what had happened. “What exactly did the man say and do,” he asked, wide-eyed in anticipation. Predictably, 10 minutes later, I snapped again, and followed it up with a rant about ‘harassment all over again’ (I know this because I’d recorded the proceedings on my phone).
Mr DSP, however, is one cool cucumber. Once I was out of steam, he calmly told me that his ‘boys’ had acted the way they did because I was ‘intimidating’, and so on and so forth. Of course that makes it okay; silly me to think otherwise! I didn’t have the energy to rant any more.
So, did I get my FIR? No, sir. Eighty-five minutes later, I walked away with a migraine, a written complaint, and orders for officers concerned from the DSP to get back to me within two days. That was a week ago. I’m thinking of going back soon to ask them to update the calendars at the thhaana.
Seventeen years ago, when I got my first passport at the age of 10, the issuing officer had jokingly told me that I was now officially a citizen of Pakistan. I’d signed a contract with the state in the form of the constitution and related laws, he had said; I had responsibilities towards the state, and in turn, like in any other relationship, the state had a responsibility towards me. I took his words to heart. As a citizen, I continue to fulfil my responsibilities to the best of my abilities, but I’m still unable to claim my rights. As such, my relationship with the State of Pakistan is thoroughly dysfunctional, and as I was reminded last week, often extremely abusive. Unfortunately, we can’t break up.
‘Grinding my teeth and bearing it’ is not an option either. I’d sought help from the state, and I’m yet to see any results. My harasser is still roaming free, probably doing to other women exactly what he did to me. And he’s just one amongst hundreds of thousands of similar sociopaths who seem to thrive in Pakistan. So, coming back to my main question, what is a woman to do in such a situation?
PS: If you’re wondering what buffaloes have to do with any of this, you, dear reader, must update your dictionary of Karachi street slang. And what do you mean women can’t cuss! Leg of buffalo!
The writer is a researcher and freelance journalist based in Karachi. She’s generally found lurking online on Twitter (@UroojZia) or at contact@uroojzia.com.