Girls as young as 5
are still being sold into marriage in Pakistan.
And no one will
stop it.
BY ADRIANA CARRANCA | JULY
12, 2013
KHYBER PAKHTUNKHWA, Pakistan —
At only 12, Nazia lives in expectation of the worst. As I step through the
doorway of the humble compound her parents share with two other families in the
Pashtun lands of northwest Pakistan, her small, fragile body trembles
unwittingly. She knew I was coming, but learned too young to trust no one.
Nazia was only 5 when her father
married her off to a much older man, a stranger, as compensation for a murder
her uncle had committed. The decision to give the little girl away as payment,
along with two goats and a piece of land, was made by a jirga --
an assembly of local elders that makes up the justice system in most of
Pakistan's and Afghanistan's tribal areas, where conventional courts are either
not trusted or nonexistent. "One night a man came and took me by the
hand," Nazia says, in a nearly inaudible moan.
Nazia was too young to understand
what was happening when that man dragged her into the darkness. But born in a
land where women are not to be seen by strangers, she knew enough to realize
something was terribly wrong. "I resisted, I cried, and tried to hold
on to the doorjamb," she remembers.
Nazia was
taken to the jirga, displayed as a commodity before the circle of men, and
examined by the husband to be, who was allowed to decide whether she was good
enough to be his wife. Nazia remembers the men starring at her deep brown eyes,
her long, black hair -- the humiliation of that scene is so utterly marked in
her memory that she can barely finish the sentence before dissolving in tears.
The men in her family argued,
unsuccessfully, that she was too young to be married off. In a rare decision,
however, the jirga did agree that the girl should not be handed over
immediately. So the demanding husband would have to wait -- and so has Nazia.
Even among the women in the house, she wears a full-length black chador, as if
a male intruder could suddenly enter that door again. I ask whether she knows
how pretty she is, but that only makes things worse. Nazia is afraid of being
beautiful, for that implies being desired by that man.
She is terrified of growing up.
Her parents have been able to postpone their daughter's fate -- but not for
much longer, certainly no later than age 14. Most child brides are pregnant by
then.
There is an aggravating factor
in the fate of girls such as Nazia. Given away as compensation to resolve
tribal disputes -- a custom known as swara in Pashtun -- the girls will always
represent the enemy for the "dishonored" family, a symbol of their
disgrace.
According to tradition, the
compensation should end the dispute and bring the two warring families together
in harmony. In practice, however, the marriage only provides cover for revenge.
Swara girls become the targets of all anger and hatred in their new home. They
are often bitten, emotionally tortured, and sometimes raped by other men in the
family. They are made to suffer for a crime they did not commit.
The swara custom is a form of
collective punishment that persists in the tribal areas. Nazia's uncle -- the
perpetrator of the crime for which she is to be punished -- killed a neighbor
in a land dispute and then ran away. He left no children, so the jirga decided
his older brother should pay in his place by sacrificing his own daughter.
Nazia's father is a poor,
uneducated farmer, and he could do nothing to contest this ruling. Having lost
his land and livestock in the dispute, he now works in temporary construction
jobs, which pay $3 a day. His wife helps by cleaning neighbors' houses for a
few more rupees.
Nazia's parents have decided
this year will be her last year at school. The family has no money to pay for
her books, and the expense seemed pointless for them anyway, given that she
will soon be married. Nazia herself has lost interest in studying. Since her
classmates found out about her fate, she runs back and forth from school,
speaking to no one. "They point at me on the streets and call me 'the
swara girl,' and they make fun of me," Nazia mumbles. Dogs bark in the
distance, making it almost impossible to hear her.
Eventually she blurts out:
"That was very painful, and I didn't understand.... It still hurts and
upsets me. I'm so fed up with this feeling! I'm so afraid all the time! I'd
rather never leave the house.... People scare me, all people. I trust no
one."
The call for prayer echoes off
the mud walls, heralding the day's end. For security reasons, we have to leave
before dusk. As we move away, Nazia remains motionless -- head huddled against
her chest, eyes on the ground, her pale face immersed in sadness. Every sunset
brings her closer to the day that the old man will come and take her away for
good.
One girl every three seconds
Despite being illegal, the
custom of forcibly marrying girls off to resolve family and tribal disputes
happens on an alarming scale across all provinces of Pakistan. It goes by
different names -- swara in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province (formerly the
North-West Frontier Province) and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, vani
in Punjab, lajai in Baluchistan, and sang chati in Sindh -- but all its
forms are equally cruel.
In Pakistan, at least 180
cases of swara were reported last year -- every other day -- thanks to the work
of local journalists and activists. But there are hundreds, perhaps thousands,
of undocumented cases. Worldwide, an estimated 51 million girls below age 18
are married, according to the International Center for Research
on Women (ICRW).
A further 10 million underage
girls marry every year -- one every three seconds, according to ICRW. The legal
age to marry in Pakistan is 18 for boys but 16 for girls, though they
can't drive, vote, or open a bank account until adulthood. According to UNICEF,
70 percent of girls in Pakistan are married before then.
Mohammad Ayub, a
British-trained psychiatrist from Lahore, has worked with child soldiers
in Sudan and young Taliban recruits in Afghanistan and Pakistan.
He now manages the Saidu Sharif Teaching Hospital in the Swat Valley,
an area that came under the spotlight when terrorists attempted to kill
15-year-old Malala Yousafzai because of her struggle to promote girls'
education. "I saw small children holding guns bigger than
themselves," he says. "But these girls.... It's just as tragic."
Many child brides come to Ayub
with severe pain, sometimes blinded or paralyzed -- the effects of a
psychiatric condition known as "conversion disorder." Practically
unknown in the West since the beginning of the 20th century, it has reached
epidemic proportions in the tribal areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan,
according to Ayub. It is a sort of psychological stress that manifests in
physical ailments, including convulsions, paralysis, or fits.
"Here women don't have a
voice, particularly girls," Ayub says. "She can't say, 'No, I don't
want this marriage' ... so she keeps it all inside, and eventually it will come
out in the form of some physical distress. We receive loads of women here,
three to four cases with the same symptoms every day only in my clinic, and I
mean daily! Thirteen-, 14-year-old girls, all married."
The average age of swara girls is
between 5 and 9 years old, according to registered cases and local accounts.
The reason provides an insight into the immense challenge in changing
deep-rooted traditions in Pakistan: In the tribal areas, a girl older than
this is probably already promised to somebody else.
Mahnun was 8 when a jirga
decided she should be given as a swara; her older sister, then 10, had already
been promised to a cousin. The stories are disturbingly repetitive: a land dispute,
yet another crime, a family seeking revenge, another men-only jirga of powerful
local leaders, and an innocent girl's future taken from her. Mahnun's case was
unusual because her father, both the perpetrator of the crime and a caring
parent, would not accept the sentence.
He pleaded with the jirga,
offering to give all he owned in exchange for his daughter. Her mother vowed
she would not live to see her little girl be taken away by a stranger.
"They can behead me, but they won't take my daughter. I won't let them to
take my daughter," she screamed when she heard the news. But the offended
family said they would only accept the girl, so the jirga consented, recounted
Mahnun's mother.
With no other option available
to them, Mahnun's family gathered up some clothes, whatever utensils they could
carry, and escaped in the darkness. They left everything else behind and went
into hiding.
The four now live in a single
shabby room of a dilapidated compound that they share with other families. They
have no electricity. The toilet is a walled-off hole in the ground outside; a
few buckets are used to bring water for bathing. Cooking is done in the single
pan they brought from home, placed over wood in the courtyard.
Mahnun's father found a
temporary job as a driver, but his contract came to an end and now he is
unemployed. "We are borrowing money from others so we can feed the
children. We have no choice," he says. "Nothing matters more to us
than our two girls and their lives."
One window of the room frames
the snow-covered mountains in the distance; in the other corner rest heavy
blankets, gifts from compassionate neighbors. But Mahnun's family is still wary
of those around them: "In this new village we haven't told anyone that she
is a swara. If people know about this they won't leave us here alive,"
says Mahnun's mother. Disobeying a jirga's decision and escaping would be
considered an act of betrayal for which the family would not be forgiven.
"Each and every day we
live in fear. What if they find us?" says Mahnun's mother. She accompanies
both daughters to school and waits there until they leave. At age 10, Mahnun is
in seventh grade and dreams of becoming a judge. "I will ban the custom of
swara, and I will put men who do it in jail," she says hopefully.
"She is getting naughty
because she knows she is loved so much," her father explains, giving
Mahnun a warm smile.
No man's land
Both Nazia's and Mahnun's
stories pose a fundamental question to Pakistan: Why didn't the families
seek justice in traditional courts in the first place? Part of the answer is
tradition -- specifically an unwritten, pre-Islamic set of rules that forms a
code of honor in Pashtun societies.
Nazia's father committed no
crime, but he did not report his brother, the jirga, or the family that
demanded his daughter. In "normal" circumstances, Mahnun's father, an
educated man, could have gone to the courts when his neighbor tried to steal
parts of his land. Instead, he killed the man.
"There is something about
the Pashtuns to be considered, and that is the burden of honor," says
Fazal Khaliq, a Pakistani journalist and activist who is working to disclose
swara cases and denounce the perpetrators. "They kill each other over
petty issues for the sake of honor!"
Mahnun's father was a farmer
until a newcomer built a barbed-wire fence inside his property. They argued. A
few days later, the man advanced a little further into the land. "I told
him so many times.... But he'd keep moving in, few meters at a time," says
Mahnun's father. He quietly erected heavy cement blocks to mark the boundaries
of his 2 acres. The next day, the man removed them.
"But the worst was that
the villagers would come and harass me," he said, his voice shaking.
"They said I was not brave enough, insinuated that if I didn't seek
revenge he might even take my wife, and suggested I should bury his body in my
land for what he was doing.... So, next time that man invaded my land, I shot
him."
The power of the Pashtun honor
code, however, is only part of the story. During the days of the British
Empire, the region's colonial rulers granted titles of nobility to powerful
tribal leaders known as maliks in exchange for their loyalty; all local matters
were devolved to the jirgas. To counter any rebellion of the wild Pashtuns, the
British instituted a set of laws -- the Frontier Crimes Regulations -- that
deprived residents of legal representation in the traditional justice system.
At the least sign of rebellion, the British could arrest suspects without trial
and sometimes arrested whole tribes.
It was only in 2011 that
President Asif Ali Zardari signed amendments to the regulations that now give
citizens of the tribal areas the right to appeal decisions made by local
political agents. The amendments also prohibit collective punishment and the
arrest of children under 16 for crimes committed by others. Despite such
reforms, however, little change has been seen on the ground. A century after
the set of laws was established, minors continue to be jailed or suffer for the
crimes of others, according to human rights organizations such as Amnesty
International and Human Rights Watch.
Flaws in Pakistan's judicial
system also lead residents to rely on the jirgas. "Traditional courts in Pakistan have
very bad records. There are unsolved cases going back more than 30 years, still
in process, and the whole justice system is seen as highly corrupt," says
Khaliq. "It is also very expensive. Courts charge for each and every
service, so the poor can't afford it, whereas the Islamic courts [jirgas] are
free and speedy."
The rise of Islamic militancy
in Pakistan could only make things worse. As extremists grow more
powerful, they have started imposing their own draconian rules on society --
including even more discrimination against women.
No women's land
In December 2012, I crossed
from Islamabad into the heart of Pashtun lands. In the scenic Swat Valley,
where the Pakistani Army now strictly controls journalists' access, Khaliq and
I tried to visit the family of an 8-year-old girl who had just been given away
as a swara. Her mother, however, was too afraid to speak. We made other
attempts, but Taliban militiamen were still around, locals said, and an
informal code of silence remains in force despite the heavy presence of the
military.
Once a tourist destination for
the Pakistani bourgeoisie and even British monarchs, the Swat Valley was
under the sway of a faction of the Pakistani Taliban from 2007 to 2009.
Radicals bombed schools, banned girls' education, and held public executions.
After an offensive that left
thousands dead and caused a massive exodus, the Army eventually regained
control of the region. But terrorists continue to carry out attacks, such as
the shooting of Malala and the bombing of four schools in the northwestern
tribal belt this past February.
In the valley, we hardly saw
any women on the streets. The few outside wore burqas and were always
accompanied by men. In Mingora, the capital of Swat district, women are only
allowed in the markets for a few hours each day, and even then most husbands
don't let their wives go. Those women who can go to the markets buy enough to
sell to others in improvised bazaars at home.
During the evenings, as we sat
around the fire in my host family's home, the women would describe episodes of
violence against them as nighttime fairy tales. The stories were retold to me
by one of the men, as none of the women spoke English. Although these men were
the perpetrators of the acts being described, they showed no shame in
translating them.
City of men
On my way back from Swat, I
stopped in Peshawar to meet Samar Minallah, an anthropologist and
award-winning filmmaker who has worked with Pashtun women for years.
Peshawar is the nerve
center of the tribal belt. It was the headquarters of the Afghan insurgency
against the Soviets in the 1980s, and the Taliban rushed back in after the 2001
U.S.-led invasion of Afghanistan. Partnering with local extremist
movements, the group has been tightening its grip on the city. In 2012 alone,
rockets fell on the local airport, police stations and checkpoints were bombed,
vehicles transporting government officials were targeted, and senior public
figures were gunned down in daylight. Bombings have continued this year, and
sectarian violence in on the rise.
Today, Peshawar is
under siege. Vestiges of the old city are now hidden behind sandbags and
spirals of barbed wire, while heavily armed soldiers in bulletproof vests guard
its ancient, tree-lined avenues. We were stopped three times and interrogated
while officers checked the car for bombs. Eventually, they cleared the way
ahead toward Edwardes College, which was founded in 1900 by Christian
missionaries and has survived in recent years thanks to a heavy security
presence.
To my surprise, a teenage
female student in a green uniform and white chador came to guide me inside. Up
until 2007, Edwardes College did not admit women. Today 305
girls are enrolled alongside more than 2,000 boys. Although still a minority in
the classroom, these are the privileged -- two-thirds of girls from Khyber
Pakhtunkhwa are illiterate.
I entered a crowded gymnasium,
where about a hundred teenagers, boys and girls, were awaiting a lecture by
Minallah about swara.
"Education alone can't
stop violence against women, for there are many educated parliamentarians who
sit in the tribal jirgas and they are the ones who decide these little girls
should be given.... To stop that we have to change the mindset, and you are the
ones who can do it," Minallah began.
She turned suddenly to the
boys: "And especially you." A loud murmur filled the room; the boys
looked confused. "How?" called out one Justin Bieber look-alike.
"When you consider this your problem, I assure you that you will also be
part of the change," Minallah answered.
Born to a Pashtun clan in Peshawar,
Minallah was lucky to have a liberal, pro-women father. He was a government
official and father to three girls and three boys, whom he treated equally. As
Minallah told her story to the audience, a boy in the crowd interrupted:
"Sorry, but men and women ... we are different. Look at us; we are
different."
Minallah didn't hesitate:
"Yes, you are right," she responded. "We may be different, but
we are not unequal in our rights."
Her statement encouraged the
other girls. A 14-year-old girl, only her eyes uncovered by her veil, turned to
the boys: "Don't you realize you are the ones who sit in the jirga? Go,
stop talking, and do something!" Even the boys applauded. The girl went on
to tell the audience about her daily struggle to come to school, defying her
father's and brothers' will.
"These are very brave
girls," Minallah murmured to me. "Just attending school and wearing
uniform in the streets is very dangerous for them."
Minallah only learned about
swara in 2003, when she traveled to the scenic villageof Matta, at
the top of the Swat Valley's mountain range. There, she met a mother
about to give her 11-year-old away in a forced marriage. "That really hit
me," Minallah said. "I just felt very angry and ashamed that such
things were happening in Pakistan and we didn't know about them
because they happen in the tribal areas."
So she became determined that Pakistan should
know everything. Minallah's first award-winning documentary, "Swara: A
Bridge Over Troubled Water," portrayed the mother and daughter from Matta.
The film made its way to the highest echelons of the political system: In 2004,
the Pakistani parliament passed an amendment toPakistan's penal code making
swara a crime punishable by up to 10 years in prison. Since then, around 60
decisions made by jirgas involving swara girls have been prevented by local
courts, though in most tribal areas the law still does not apply.
Minallah relies on a network of
local journalists and activists, like Khaliq, to inform her about swara cases.
She also depends on a few local policemen to block upcoming cases.
Abid Ali was one of the few
whom Minallah trusted. "When I was informed about a jirga involving swara,
I'd just give him a call and he would come!" she says.
Ali, a police officer from Lahore who
was married to a Pashtun woman, became known for his bravery in fighting for
girls' rights in areas other officials refused to go. He received threats for
interfering in swara cases. One night in 2006, he was driving on the
Peshawar-Kohat highway when he was shot dead. His murderer was never brought to
justice.
Ali's last post was in Mardan,
on the outskirts of Peshawar Valley. Naturally irrigated by the Swat River's
many tributaries, Mardan is a highly fertile agricultural area. Land disputes
are frequent -- and so is swara.
Rafaqat, a tiny woman with
sun-cracked skin, has dedicated her life to eliminating swara in the area.
"I'm an old lady. If they kill me, so what? I'll die eventually," she
says, laughing loudly.
In 1998, Rafaqat's teenage
nephew fell for a girl already promised to somebody else. He knew his love was
prohibited, so he ran away with the girl. To compensate the family's loss, the
jirga decided the boy's younger sister, Rafaqat's niece, should be given away
as a swara. She was 11.
Rafaqat never saw her again.
She managed to stay informed about the niece's movements, so she knew when the
girl became pregnant. When the time came, her new family refused to take her to
the hospital. At age 14, the swara girl gave birth to a son, but died in labor.
"They never came to her funeral. They never paid condolences to our
family," Rafaqat tells me. "All they said was: We had our badal
[revenge]."
As an old woman, Rafaqat can
walk freely on the streets, her torn veil barely covering her long, gray hair.
Well known in the village, mothers secretly contact her to report about swara
cases. When she gets a call, she immediately brings in Minallah.
In one such case, Minallah
reached the jirga before it had begun. Appropriately veiled, she stepped into
the circle of men holding a copy of the Quran. "I am sure you know that
the Quran says it is anti-Islamic to give girls as compensation," she
lectured them.
One hour and a half later, the
jirga announced it would not take the girl. "That was such a happy day for
me! Some tribal elders, they don't know.... They are illiterate," Minallah
says. "If you tell them and if they see people are being jailed for that,
they think again."
We are edging along between the
cracked concrete walls and rusty iron doors of Mardan's narrow streets when the
driver stops abruptly. Lying in the middle of a road of petrified mud is a baby
girl, so young she cannot even crawl, dressed in ragged clothes. Her eyes
widened with the proximity of the vehicle -- her eyelids blackened with kohl.
Minallah and Rafaqat rush to
pick up the baby. We spot a woman in the distance, hair covered, only her eyes
visible as she stands in the doorway. Laughing nervously, she says she is the
baby's mother. Her older children took their little sister to play outside, but
left her behind. The mother could not set foot outside the house without her
husband's permission and he was not at home, so she has been standing there,
waiting for someone to come and rescue her baby daughter.
We leave Rafaqat at home and
head back to Islamabad. Nowshera Mardan Road is packed with
traditional, colorful Pakistani trucks, while a few women walk in monochrome
burqas on the roadside; others wear full chador. I find it curious that some
have red stains on the fabric. "They represent the blood of women in their
families killed in honor killing. A silent protest," Minallah explains.
Mardan may be known as the city
of brave men, but it's also a place of courageous women. I ask whether Minallah
has received any threats: "Oh, so many!" she replies.
Minutes later, Minallah picks
up a call. The line is cutting out, but she can hear enough to understand that
a Pakistani expat is calling from Prague to inform her about a jirga
due to meet in his home village in a few days, to decide about swara girls.
Another case for Minallah to
fight. "It's still a tradition," she says, "but I think people
are starting to realize it's nothing but a crime."
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