Ignorance and Discrimination
Here's an uplifting tale from The Sunday Times about a brave young woman fighting ignorance and discrimination in Afghanistan and Pakistan
Yes, I could die, but I will fight on for girls
As a London summit this week tackles the forced marriage of children, Haseena Syed, Pakistan’s first female public prosecutor, tells of her daily battle against tradition and the Taliban
By Nicola Smith - The Sunday Times
Haseena Syed is the family breadwinner, but still has to live with her parents (Sara Farid)
When Haseena Syed was one year old, her father threw her from a chair to the ground in a fit of rage. As her father’s firstborn but his only daughter, she felt hurt and confused when he showered affection and gifts on her five brothers while refusing to speak to or even acknowledge her.
“My father hated me because I was a girl and he believed girls would bring dishonour on their families,” she says. “I felt ashamed, like I was a sin for my family, but my mother gave me courage and told me that things will change.”
That time has come. Syed overcame the obstacles of her conservative Pashtun upbringing in Pakistan’s troubled Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province to become the region’s first female public prosecutor, and her family’s breadwinner, at the age of 24. Now 30, Syed has established her reputation on the front line of one of the world’s most dangerous places for women, challenging child marriage, so-called honour killings and domestic violence, while surviving two suicide bombings.
She knows her job, prosecuting those charged with the abuse of women, could cost her her life. “Anyone who becomes high profile is targeted by the Taliban,” she says. “The risk is there.”
Work is often terrifying. In 2012 a routine day in court was violently interrupted by a suicide bomb in the building. Believed to be a Taliban attack on a female judge, the blast left Syed unharmed but deeply shocked as she picked her way past corpses to escape.
The battle against early and forced marriage, as fought by Syed, will be discussed at the Girl Summit taking place in London on Tuesday, hosted by the international development secretary, Justine Greening, and Unicef, the UN children’s rights organisation.
“In Pakistan and across the world millions of women and girls are being robbed of the basic right to choose their own future,” said Greening last week. “The good news is that things are changing. In communities across the world, more and more people, with the help of people like Haseena, are saying no to the practice.”
The brutal realities facing Pakistani women have made Syed more sceptical about such idealistic goals. “It will take hundreds of years for mindsets to change,” she says. “While I have been practising as a prosecutor I have found that justice is impossible for women.”
Still living with her parents in their modest two-bedroom home, Syed might seem innocent compared with women her age in western countries. When she is not cooking or cleaning, she watches DVDs, particularly horror movies, as socialising on her own is limited by her strict family.
Diminutive and unassuming, Syed frequently breaks into infectious laughter, but her cheery demeanour belies the brutality she confronts daily in her professional life. One of her first cases as a trainee in 2009 was the murder of Ayman Udas, a popular Pashto singer in her early thirties, who was shot three times in the chest in her Peshawar home. Her family regarded her profession as “sinful” and resented her frequent television appearances.
On the day of her murder, Udas’s two brothers were seen entering her home by a neighbour. “Her brothers were not arrested by the police,” says Syed. “The neighbour’s statement is not enough to convict anyone.
“It is frustrating. Because she was female, there was no one who can bring justice for her. I was helpless to do anything.”
By contrast, she derives much of her strength from the support of her own brothers, who have always treated her as an equal. “They don’t think the same way as my father,” she says. It was the eldest of her brothers who persuaded their father to allow her to attend college and to work.
While justice was never done for Udas, Syed remains hopeful in the case of a girl named Rimsha, 14, who was recently found chained to a wall by her husband. The girl had been sold into marriage for about £400 by her uncle and had languished in chains secured by three locks for two months before being freed by the police.
Even with her husband facing prosecution, under child protection laws, for chaining her, Rimsha now risks the stigma of divorce, rejection by her family and a life of menial labour because she missed out on education.
Across Pakistani society a woman is still defined by her marital status. Divorce can destroy her life. Syed confesses she finds it “difficult to understand men” and has no desire to get married. But even with her flourishing career she accepts she may eventually have to bow to the inevitable.
“Our society does not allow us to live alone,” she says. “And, no, my parents won’t allow me to choose [my husband].”
Professionally she has paved the way for other young women. Since she started work in 2008, seven other female public prosecutors have joined her in Peshawar’s courts. She has also reaped personal rewards, earning the respect from her father that she craved as a child. His hostility began to lessen in 2010 when, with her salary of £220 a month, she was able to fund his umrah, or pilgrimage to Mecca.
His early rejection did not crush her spirit. Rather, Syed admits, it drove her to succeed and earn his attention. “I have gained a good reputation with my male colleagues and the police, who have met my father. He now accepts my job and considers he was wrong,” she says. “He knows that I am not a girl who can bring dishonour to my family. He now feels proud of me.”
Haseena Syed is the family breadwinner, but still has to live with her parents (Sara Farid)
When Haseena Syed was one year old, her father threw her from a chair to the ground in a fit of rage. As her father’s firstborn but his only daughter, she felt hurt and confused when he showered affection and gifts on her five brothers while refusing to speak to or even acknowledge her.
“My father hated me because I was a girl and he believed girls would bring dishonour on their families,” she says. “I felt ashamed, like I was a sin for my family, but my mother gave me courage and told me that things will change.”
That time has come. Syed overcame the obstacles of her conservative Pashtun upbringing in Pakistan’s troubled Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province to become the region’s first female public prosecutor, and her family’s breadwinner, at the age of 24. Now 30, Syed has established her reputation on the front line of one of the world’s most dangerous places for women, challenging child marriage, so-called honour killings and domestic violence, while surviving two suicide bombings.
She knows her job, prosecuting those charged with the abuse of women, could cost her her life. “Anyone who becomes high profile is targeted by the Taliban,” she says. “The risk is there.”
Work is often terrifying. In 2012 a routine day in court was violently interrupted by a suicide bomb in the building. Believed to be a Taliban attack on a female judge, the blast left Syed unharmed but deeply shocked as she picked her way past corpses to escape.
The battle against early and forced marriage, as fought by Syed, will be discussed at the Girl Summit taking place in London on Tuesday, hosted by the international development secretary, Justine Greening, and Unicef, the UN children’s rights organisation.
“In Pakistan and across the world millions of women and girls are being robbed of the basic right to choose their own future,” said Greening last week. “The good news is that things are changing. In communities across the world, more and more people, with the help of people like Haseena, are saying no to the practice.”
The brutal realities facing Pakistani women have made Syed more sceptical about such idealistic goals. “It will take hundreds of years for mindsets to change,” she says. “While I have been practising as a prosecutor I have found that justice is impossible for women.”
Still living with her parents in their modest two-bedroom home, Syed might seem innocent compared with women her age in western countries. When she is not cooking or cleaning, she watches DVDs, particularly horror movies, as socialising on her own is limited by her strict family.
Diminutive and unassuming, Syed frequently breaks into infectious laughter, but her cheery demeanour belies the brutality she confronts daily in her professional life. One of her first cases as a trainee in 2009 was the murder of Ayman Udas, a popular Pashto singer in her early thirties, who was shot three times in the chest in her Peshawar home. Her family regarded her profession as “sinful” and resented her frequent television appearances.
On the day of her murder, Udas’s two brothers were seen entering her home by a neighbour. “Her brothers were not arrested by the police,” says Syed. “The neighbour’s statement is not enough to convict anyone.
“It is frustrating. Because she was female, there was no one who can bring justice for her. I was helpless to do anything.”
By contrast, she derives much of her strength from the support of her own brothers, who have always treated her as an equal. “They don’t think the same way as my father,” she says. It was the eldest of her brothers who persuaded their father to allow her to attend college and to work.
While justice was never done for Udas, Syed remains hopeful in the case of a girl named Rimsha, 14, who was recently found chained to a wall by her husband. The girl had been sold into marriage for about £400 by her uncle and had languished in chains secured by three locks for two months before being freed by the police.
Even with her husband facing prosecution, under child protection laws, for chaining her, Rimsha now risks the stigma of divorce, rejection by her family and a life of menial labour because she missed out on education.
Across Pakistani society a woman is still defined by her marital status. Divorce can destroy her life. Syed confesses she finds it “difficult to understand men” and has no desire to get married. But even with her flourishing career she accepts she may eventually have to bow to the inevitable.
“Our society does not allow us to live alone,” she says. “And, no, my parents won’t allow me to choose [my husband].”
Professionally she has paved the way for other young women. Since she started work in 2008, seven other female public prosecutors have joined her in Peshawar’s courts. She has also reaped personal rewards, earning the respect from her father that she craved as a child. His hostility began to lessen in 2010 when, with her salary of £220 a month, she was able to fund his umrah, or pilgrimage to Mecca.
His early rejection did not crush her spirit. Rather, Syed admits, it drove her to succeed and earn his attention. “I have gained a good reputation with my male colleagues and the police, who have met my father. He now accepts my job and considers he was wrong,” she says. “He knows that I am not a girl who can bring dishonour to my family. He now feels proud of me.”
