The attack occurred at precisely 1:35 a.m. on the night of November 25. Every night, 50 men from the families took turns patrolling around the tents in Argentina Park, Islamabad, to protect the girls, the widows, and all the families sleeping inside. Suddenly, we heard shouting: “Wake up! We are surrounded by the police!”
The situation was so terrifying that even remembering it brings me to tears. Suddenly, without warning, the police entered the park and stormed our sleeping places, beating and arresting us. Everyone was screaming. A seven-year-old child was kicked so violently that blood was pouring from his head and mouth. A one-year-old baby was trampled under a police officer’s feet; they took that child from Haji Camp to the hospital, and he remained in a coma for two days.
I do not speak Urdu. They grabbed me tightly. At that very moment, I couldn’t find my children. I was screaming, “Let me go for one moment — my sons are lost!” But they held me like a criminal, and were striking the back of my head and neck so hard that even now my body feels shattered and I can barely move. My children were beaten the same way. They stripped us of our dignity. My name is Mansori and I am 29 years old. My husband died five years ago in Afghanistan because of kidney failure after an unsuccessful transplant. I have four young sons. After my husband’s death, his family tried to force me to marry his brother. I refused, but was also afraid they would take my children away from me. So when one of the women activists announced that she could secure visas for 250 vulnerable women — widows, protesters, and journalists to move to Pakistan — I secretly left Afghanistan without my in-laws’ permission and entered Pakistan. That was three years ago.
I have been living in hiding. I never give interviews or appear in protest videos so that no one would recognize me. My time in Pakistan has been some of the hardest days of my life. I do not have a refugee case, nor a financial sponsor. To feed my four underage children, I clean houses and do whatever work I can find. A friend told me to register with UNHCR. I registered, and I call them two or three times a week to explain my problems, but they only say, “Your case is blocked,” without explaining why. I am a single mother with four young children — what more hardship must I endure? But no one seems to understand our situation.
Around five months ago, when the Pakistani government announced that landlords should no longer rent to migrants, my landlord began harassing me because I had neither a valid visa nor proper documents. On friends’ advice, I took refuge in Argentina Park. I repeatedly applied for housing, but they refused every time, saying, “We cannot rent to Afghans; the government will fine us.” I had no choice but to stay in Argentina Park, joining 400 other families also forced from their accommodation. These 400 families — including widows, protesters, civil activists, journalists, girls fleeing forced marriages, and even cancer patients — lived in tents through the summer heat, the heavy rains, biting insects, and dangerous mosquitoes. My sons fell sick with fever many times. Despite our poverty and loneliness, I endured all of it.
The night of the police attack, Diba Farahmand, who coordinated the camp, was also severely beaten. The police forced all of us into vehicles for Haji Camp. Those without visas were deported. Thankfully, my visa had arrived just four days earlier. I was allowed to leave Haji Camp with my children.
Since being released, I can barely move from the pain in my body. My children also suffer. My eldest son, who is 12, keeps saying, “Mother, my throat hurts so much,” because they dragged him and threw him into the vehicle. All our belongings — our carpet, our blankets, everything — were looted. Now I have nothing. I do not know what to do. My children are deeply traumatized, and we are in a desperate situation on every level.
For now, we are staying at a friend’s house. Her husband sells chips on the street, and they give the leftover chips as food.. When I ask for help in activists’ groups, their male staff mock me, saying: “Go back to Afghanistan, put on a chadari, and live your life.”
I am terrified: terrified of being deported; terrified my husband’s family will find me. I fear what will become of us if we are forced back. Among my in-laws, relatives, and community, I am known as “the runaway.”
Afghanistan has become a slaughterhouse and graveyard. Everyone is fleeing. We abandoned our homes and our lives and came to Pakistan out of desperation, believing this neighbouring and “friendly” country would shelter us. But instead, they humiliated us.
Names have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees and writer.
