A woman who spent years demanding justice for Pakistan’s forcibly disappeared is now staring at a life sentence. The state has charged her with sedition. The UK has called for a fair trial. But in Pakistan, the courts often serve the powerful.
Her name is Sana. That is not her real name. Her family would not let me use it. They are afraid. They have reason to be. She led protests outside the High Court in Lahore. She stood with mothers who had not seen their sons in years. She held photos of men who vanished into thin air. The security forces say they know nothing. The families say they know better.
Two weeks ago, she was arrested. The charge: acts against the state. The penalty: life in prison. The evidence: none. Sources close to the case tell me the state’s case rests on a speech she gave. In that speech, she said the disappeared are a stain on Pakistan’s honour. That is sedition now.
The British Foreign Office has issued a statement. It expresses concern. It calls for due process. It is careful. It says nothing about sanctions. It says nothing about consequences. The women in the protest camps know what that means. It means nothing.
I have been covering forced disappearances in Pakistan for years. I have seen the files. I have interviewed the mothers. The pattern repeats. The security forces pick up a man. He is held without charge. He is tortured. He is killed. The state denies everything. The courts do nothing. The UK tuts. The US stays silent.
Sana’s case is different. She is not a mother. She is not a brother. She is an activist. She used social media. She organised. She became a symbol. And symbols must be crushed.
The trial begins next week. The judge is a known loyalist. He once called a human rights lawyer a traitor. The prosecution has no witnesses. It has no documents. It has only a speech. And the speech is not a crime.
But the law in Pakistan is elastic. It can stretch to fit any purpose. The purpose here is clear. Send a message. Silence the voices. Make the mothers afraid again.
The UK’s call for a fair trial is a fig leaf. It allows the government to say it has international backing. It allows the Foreign Office to say it acted. But fairness in Pakistan is not a right. It is a commodity. It is bought and sold. And Sana cannot afford it.
I spoke to her lawyer yesterday. He is a man who works for free. He has taken on cases like this before. He expects to lose. He expects an appeal. He expects years of legal battles. He expects nothing from the international community.
“They will say they are watching,” he told me. “They are always watching. But they never see.”
Sana’s family has not been allowed to visit her. The jail says she is in isolation. They fear for her health. They fear for her life. In Pakistan, activists have a way of dying in custody. Heart attacks. Suicides. Falls from balconies.
Her followers have started a hashtag. It trends in Karachi and Islamabad. The government calls it a foreign conspiracy. The state TV calls her a traitor. The same TV once praised her work.
This is how the machine works. It consumes its critics. It grinds them into nothing. And the world watches. And the world does nothing.
Tomorrow, there will be a hearing. I will be there. I will watch the judge. I will watch the prosecutor. I will watch the empty seats where the international monitors should sit. And I will write what I see. That is all I can do.
