At first I felt disgusted by all these freedoms, and self-conscious about my traditional ways. Not until I left did I realize what my experience in Australia had really gifted me. It had poured fuel on my fire. It gave me the space to allow it to burn outside me. I wanted the freedom I saw in Australia for the women in Pakistan. My childhood friends in the village weren’t allowed to laugh loudly because it was too immodest. In Sydney, women shone with confidence that reached into the hearts of those they worked with. The activists gathered there from all around the world made me believe in the connectedness of us all. I understood that thousands of people out there in the world would stand up with me, and that supporters were closer than I thought.
And so a whole new fire, determination, and courage took root in my heart. I had been cautious with the YGDP so far, touching only gently on the subject that mattered most to me. But now I was powerful and brave enough to go home and turn my initiatives into a revolution—a real fight against honor killings. I would use the Internet to connect with the people I had met in Australia and would grow something big and strong.
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TWO YEARS EARLIER MY father had brought home our first computer. That huge hunk of plastic, metal, and wires upended our lives. It came from a secondhand store, in several pieces. My brother Ali spent hours attaching the wires carefully before he finally got it up and running. Then Ammi took a soft clean cloth and wiped every piece of it with a little blessing. We decided that each of the children would be allowed ten minutes to use it. I had used my father’s computers at PDI’s small office, but having a computer in our own house—a tiny house that flooded regularly with wastewater from the open sewers and had a curtain instead of a door—made us feel like we had moved up in the world.
The first thing I did was get on the Internet and visit the Disney website and a site for Nickelodeon cartoons. Then I started to explore more deeply. I discovered Facebook. And I learned about Google (pronouncing it “Joogle” for a long time). Joogle was everything I wanted. What limitless power it held! Similarly Facebook, with its ability to connect people from all over the world through their pictures and mutual friends and interests, fascinated me. We kids had to use our ten minutes of allotted computer time wisely. Because I was the eldest girl, more domestic tasks were expected from me, and I was always the last to finish my chores. So when I finally washed that last dish, I would frantically dry my hands on my dress and run for the computer to get my ten minutes in before bedtime.
Coming back from Australia, I knew how I could use those ten minutes most wisely. I launched the WAKE UP Campaign Against Honor Killings. And it all started with a Facebook page. In the YGDP, I had not been able to touch upon the issue of honor killings directly because it was too sensitive and affected the communities too deeply. From my time in Sydney, I knew that so much more was possible, that we had to force the government not just to enact policies but to implement them. I wanted global engagement. I designed the WAKE UP campaign around a strategy of 3A’s—Awareness raising, Advocacy, and Alliance building. By recruiting support throughout the world, I believed we could force government leaders to change Pakistan’s policies on honor killings and implement those changes to create real protections for women.
The WAKE UP campaign’s Facebook group soon had thousands of people liking and following it. I received messages of support and hundreds of comments from people. We started dialogue groups and shared posters online to spread awareness. As more people joined, we encouraged them to participate in the discussion platform and to tell three to five people about honor killings. I was persistent and sent the link to everyone I knew, urging them to join. I emphasized how important this issue was, and I shocked people with its urgency. Support came pouring in from all over the world through this portal. I joined the United Nations Population Fund as a youth adviser on sexual and reproductive health rights. I set foot in gatherings of upper-middle- and elite-class Pakistanis, among other young people who were confident, educated, and passionate to change the face of this country.
I did more research about Pakistan’s laws on honor killings. I was shocked to discover that in 1977 General Zia-ul-Haq, who had become president through martial law, enforced a new set of ordinances that claimed to Islamize the 1973 constitution of Pakistan. Among these Hudud Ordinances, qisas (retaliation) and diyat (compensation) were later used the most to justify honor killings. Under qisas and diyat, a killer could be forgiven if the family of the victim forgave him. In a case of zina (extramarital sex), a woman who was raped had to bring four male witnesses to prove she had been raped. Otherwise she would be punished in the name of honor. It outraged me but also fueled my desire to work harder for change. Later in 2006, the Women Protection Act would be passed, strengthening the laws around honor killings, but the Hudud Ordinances would remain in effect, essentially nullifying the protections of the new law.
In Balochistan the youth groups we had formed in the YGDP now took part in the WAKE UP campaign. The taboo on discussing this issue seemed finally to be lifting. Then amid these little steps toward a larger-than-life goal, I was selected to be a fellow at the International Youth Foundation, a nonprofit based in the United States that works to promote global youth development and empowerment. I was invited to participate in a week-long event to inaugurate this fellowship.
Although I was honored to be chosen, my first reaction to the thought of going to America was one of fear. Traveling to Australia was one thing—but going to America was another thing entirely.
ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, PAKISTAN watched with horror and sadness at the brutal attack on innocent lives. Our hearts ached with grief. Our teachers led us in prayers for the lives lost and the sorrow of their families. And then we all watched helplessly as America invaded one country after another. We all wondered if Pakistan would be next. Our young friends often scared one another with gossip about flying robots that could sneak into our villages and cities.
Now when my friends and family heard I was selected for the fellowship, they urged me not to go. Everyone warned me about what had happened to Muslims in the United States after 9/11. Girls had their scarves snatched from their heads, I was told. Bearded men were ridiculed, and kids were bullied in schools.
Ammi was especially concerned. “I’m sure they can send you your award,” she said seriously. “Haven’t you heard? These days they can send you things like letters but in big boxes!” According to her thinking, this was why I did not need to travel.
But my curiosity was greater than my fear, so I applied for a visa.
The process of getting a visa to go to Australia had been difficult, but I had no clue how hard it would be to get to the United States. The visa application wanted all my life details, my parents’ details, my siblings’ details, and my work details. With the scarcity of paperwork and documentation in Pakistan, it was an eye-opening experience for me to know how much evidence you need to prove your existence!
For the visa, I had to fly to Islamabad to be interviewed at the American embassy. Hundreds were making applications that day; we stood in a line at four A.M. to beat the crowd. The process was slow and detailed. When my turn came for the interview, my knees were shaking. Americans were going to have me: whether they were going to beat me, bully me, or just hate me, I would be at their mercy.
Little did I know that God had completely different plans for me.
My visa arrived three months later, and I was to fly to Washington, D.C., in November 2008. I had no idea that my arrival would coincide with one of the most historic moments in American history. Barack Obama had just won the presidential election, and the hotel where I was staying with the other activists was only twenty minutes from the White House. Out in the streets people held posters and banners expressing love and support for the Muslim world. Their empathy for our people beamed through the streets of Washington, and the city seemed to be glowing with a new b
eginning. It infused me with hope and excitement.
On the day of the election, white people with yellow hair, whom I had been scared of only the day before, cried with hope and joy for their nation. I cried too. Suddenly I was a part of their history, and that made me a part of their future. And I was proud of it. I was no longer afraid.
America, like Australia, was not what I had imagined. I had watched Disney movies my entire life with my siblings and cousins. That’s how I had developed my desire for an American accent. I read about two hundred novels in English in two years, trying to become fluent. But none of the books or movies prepared me for my visit: for the strong smell of coffee, or the fact that people greeted you with a big smile, or the way they asked, “How are you?” and then turned to another customer while you were describing your current life situation. I noticed everything: the big refrigerators, the toilet seats, the piercings, the beautiful yellowing of tree leaves like a poem being told, the sky so blue and clear. I was prepared for none of it. Although my trip was for just a week, it was long enough for me to learn that humans sitting far away from one another are bound to have poor judgment about one another. I realized this is why our Prophet Muhammad P.B.U.H. advised people to travel in order to learn.
Only a week later I returned to hardships in Pakistan. WAKE UP had organized some rallies out in the streets that were not received well. A strangeness was in the air. One day my father received a crumpled-up ball of paper saying his daughter was a threat to this community and its women. According to that letter, I was leading young girls toward Western and un-Islamic values, and I needed to beware.
This letter shook Aba. He took me aside to warn me, but I refused to be cowed. I had clearly hit a nerve, and though people were hiding behind Islam to condemn me, it was in fact Islam that condemned the behavior we were trying to change. In the United States, I had met with some of the most amazing entrepreneurs and activists from all around the world, and I felt newly empowered. These challenges seemed small in the face of that feeling.
But I had to have a sense of realism too. I started wearing the veil, covering my whole face with the long chador. But it wasn’t enough.
One morning as I was riding with some of our team members to our office, we passed some young people on the side of the road throwing stones. I thought I was imagining it, but then rocks came flying at our car, popping loudly as they hit the metal and glass. Our driver had to rush through the small street.
On another morning, we arrived at the office to find the metal signs with our office name and contact information torn down, bent, and beaten as if to teach us a lesson.
Aba insisted that I return to Karachi immediately so that no real harm would come to our family or to me. At home, he took my phone from me. He demanded I shut down my Facebook and Twitter profiles and put strict rules on my coming and going out of the house, allowing me only to go out for college classes. The YGDP came to its end. The WAKE UP campaign was crushed and silenced. For the first time since I began my work, I felt utterly defeated.
MY FATHER ONCE GAVE ME a piece of advice that would become the cornerstone of both my work life and personal life. As a child, I had a mostly cheerful nature and was quick to laugh. But I could just as quickly turn into a weeping ball of sadness, as I did each time I heard about a friend getting married off too young, or another friend being forced to stop going to school because she got her period. I cried every time I saw a mark on the faces of my aunts, the bruises from domestic violence. To weep, I hid behind curtains, put my face in a pillow, or stood behind the old metal door of our haveli, crying in secret.
One day I was playing with my friends in the street and asked after one of my very close friends. They told me she was no longer allowed to play with us because she was engaged to be married and her family was planning her wedding. I dropped everything and ran home. I cried and cried, and as I threw myself through the front door, my father caught me in his arms. I cried until I couldn’t see through my tears.
Then, while stroking my wild hair, he whispered gently: “Shhh…don’t cry, my daughter. Strategize.”
I didn’t understand what he was saying at the time, but he repeated this advice whenever I cried. Only as I grew older did I begin to understand what he had been telling me: that every challenge must be met not with despair but with a plan, even if the heart is in pain.
Aba saw life as a battleground to fight for one’s rights and for those who are voiceless. He fought for his own education and that of his daughters. As a young man, when he was writing poetry and working as an activist, he had been ridiculed, thrown out of houses, and gone hungry. “I welcomed insults,” he had told me once, with deep pride lingering in his voice. “I wanted people to put me in my place, because how else was I to find my place and my path?” Every challenge cleared his vision for him, and so he learned to strategize, to give us a life that he never lived.
I promised to live by this advice; to make sure I didn’t complain about problems or challenges in my work but instead devised a plan to solve them. But sometimes I still did let myself cry. Because for me, unburdening our hearts lets us see the path ahead more clearly. In 2009, I realized that I had not strategized effectively, and as a result everywhere I looked I saw failure: in people’s anger at my work, in my own tribe’s sadness, in my father’s disappointment.
The last especially tore at my heart. Aba told me that with the WAKE UP campaign and my travel to America, I had taken the issue of honor killings too far and too public. His behavior toward me started to change. Even after taking away my phone and insisting I delete my social media accounts, he shut me out. He didn’t discuss things with me anymore. Ammi kept telling me it was temporary, but I often saw her crying in the kitchen. She had never thought our father-daughter bond would be affected by anything, certainly not at the level where the whole house suffered. To this day, I am amazed by how little I understood the pain I caused my family by pushing things too far too soon.
People suddenly thought ill of my father because of the rumors about me, even in our own villages. People who had respected him for his bold decisions were shocked. And those who had told him that educating his daughters was a bad idea now shook their heads in dismay, saying, I told you so. His nonprofit projects in the local communities suffered as a result of his connection to me and my character. I had made a mistake somewhere, but at first I didn’t realize where, or how, or even what. I certainly had no idea how to fix it.
According to Aba, my outrage at the customs in Pakistani society at the time of the WAKE UP campaign had been too blatant. I had let anger lead me and dominate discussions with young people. By launching the WAKE UP campaign, I felt I had been given permission to speak my mind and turn my rage against my culture, my people. I had not been diplomatic enough.
The more I thought about it, the clearer it became to me. I had challenged people’s—my people’s—beliefs. I had disrespected and accused people of being criminals. I had led with my emotions, and as a result, chaos ensued.
I was sad that I couldn’t speak to Aba about it; he had fallen silent. His obvious disappointment in me seemed to grow. Pain now seemed to live in my heart all the time. I wondered if he wanted me and my ideas to stay small: Is he afraid of my doing things that will really stir the air and kick-start real change?
This prospect confused and troubled me, because this was the father who loved and adored me. This was the father who had put me on his shoulders and declared his pride for me in the village when no other fathers did such things for their daughters. He held my little hand and told me I would be an important leader someday. He had seen the strong woman in me and helped me to become her. How could he be afraid of my campaign against honor killings? Hadn’t he been waiting for me to do something like this? I was his revenge for all the injustices he had witnessed and endured. I was his voice, his strength, and his little girl….
That was
it—I was his little girl. Like any father in this world, he wanted to keep me from harm, but my recent actions had proved that I wasn’t afraid to jump right into harm’s way. Acknowledging this soothed my heart and empowered me further. As the days passed in Karachi, I decided that Aba did not want me to stop doing my work, but that I needed a new strategy.
Although I had no access to my phone, I did have access to the single shared computer in our house. So when nobody was using it, I would sit at the wooden desk for hours, immersed in PDF documents, slide decks, and reports—from respectable organizations in Pakistan that had been working for women’s rights for years, and from international organizations like UN Women that were advocating for the very changes I wanted to bring about. So many of these organizations are fighting honor killings, I noticed. Why is so little change happening in Pakistan? These global documents filled me with new kinds of knowledge, very different from my indigenous knowledge. I was inspired. I soon discovered what had gone wrong with our campaign. All those Google searches helped clarify the issue in my mind, but the real insight came from my own personal experiences.
One of them happened during a visit to our extended family in Kotri for Eid, on a morning when the haveli was full of the chaos of a big family. Some kids were still sleeping on the cot. Infants were crying, kids were playing in the courtyard, and women were picking up the beds they’d spread out the night before and sweeping. Some of the men had left to tend to their small shops and fruit carts, while others were home sipping chai and talking.
I Should Have Honor Page 8
