At the age of nine, I first became conscious of Asma Jahangir’s existence. My father had made two liberal friends—a few, actually—while he was employed in the government’s human rights department. The husband worked as a journalist, and the wife was an activist. We were regular visitors to their home. Asma amazed my father and the two liberals. Although she was not yet well-known, she was recognized both domestically and abroad as a human rights attorney. All around us, we heard tales of her bravery, neutrality, and dedication.
This was before to her becoming the star of every political talk program in the nation’s prime time.
In the 2000s, my admiration for her grew significantly. This was because I had already experienced all of the social constraints that young women in Pakistan suffer, such as being told not to talk to males, being prohibited from leaving the house, and having to dress a specific way. I was well aware of the prejudice I was now subjected to.
Second, the proliferation of private news networks during the Musharraf dictatorship in the 2000s provided a platform for voices such as Asma.
I still recall her conversation with prominent lawyer and presenter Naeem Bokhari. The majority of males and newscasters were really tense about Asma, but it seemed that Bokhari knew her well. He asked her direct questions, such as “do women lawyers get stared at in the courts?” and Asma happily answered, providing him with all the information.
Two hours outside Lahore, in the traditional town of Gujranwala, a group of female activists organized a marathon one day in 2005.
Policewomen tore Asma’s clothes during the marathon. “We have been asked to tear your clothes,” they added, referring to her as their primary objective. Perhaps this was due to the fact that Asma was an outspoken opponent of Musharraf’s martial law, and what could be more effective than “shaming” a female opponent?
Newspapers the following day featured pictures of Asma’s bare back while she was incarcerated. I foolishly thought this was the end after seeing those pictures; who could make it through a public stripping in Pakistan?
However, she recalled how Asma sat there with her shirt secured with safety pins, yelling loud slogans, when her daughter, Munizae Jahangir, was sent to prison. She remained unfazed.
In Pakistan, human rights defenders (HRDs) face harsh treatment. They frequently receive violent threats and are the targets of acid attacks. Asma was no different. Threats were made against her. Additionally, some of those threats came to pass. Once, gunmen took her brother’s family hostage. To avoid kidnapping, her daughter was taken to a boarding school. A bullet just missed Asma’s sister. She came out to the public in 2012 and claimed that she was the target of a conspiracy by intelligence services to have her killed. She made enough publicity to deter the threat while she was confined to her home for a few days.
However, some of my pals were perplexed by my admiration for Asma. “Woh toh cigarette aur sharab peeti hai” (she smokes and drinks) is what others would say. Others at school, however, made an effort to persuade me that Asma was involved in a prostitution network. I stopped expressing my admiration for her to my pals.
She was now a regular televised opponent of Musharraf. Later, when I began working professionally with NGOs, I discovered that the first accusations made against us are always related to prostitution, human trafficking, and sexual exploitation.
Since Asma was the original member of the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, which assisted numerous eloped couples in avoiding honor killings, the attacks were particularly vicious in her case. In addition, she oversaw a “Dar-ul-Amaan” (destitute shelter) for women fleeing abusive homes.
Even more concerning than the threats is the fact that, in Pakistan, activists are treated with significantly less respect than charities or social trusts. Our culture tends to honor those who provide charitable assistance to women while disparaging those who seek to provide them rights, particularly the freedom to choose their spouse and partner.
With her strong presence and reasoned arguments, Asma was frequently the sole woman in a sea of men, including male journalists, attorneys, politicians, and hosts.
Asma has a reputation for correcting others. But she was seldom angry. However, because men in Pakistan frequently try to intimidate women, she had a hostile attitude. Because of this, women are more assertive than usual in the workplace, especially in industries like law that are dominated by men.
Asma and I crossed paths multiple times, but I was too enamored to speak. The majority of these interactions happened during the Lahore Literary Festival. She was always happy, smiling as she entered each event and was welcomed with much enthusiasm. She continued to smile throughout the argument.
The phrase “mard ne kaha talaq talaq talaq aur bas ab ghar baith” (a man says divorce three times and sends you packing home) was used in a television advertisement in the late 1990s. Asma was the outspoken spokesperson for Pakistan’s women’s movement. A lady who was a clear feminist, armed with legal arguments, and unafraid of hatred, she was also every religious fanatic’s worst nightmare.
While the advertisement was playing, one of my aunts grinned and said, “This is what they always say.” My aunt had a romanticized view of the world at the time and was getting married.
The same aunt who had once chastised Asma stated, many years later, following a tumultuous married life: “Women should be like Asma Jahangir, keep everyone in their place and not let anyone walk all over you.”
Asma’s opponents frequently looked to her for assistance. Asma became their legal agent after they lost it, but she did not hold them responsible for the hate they had directed at her while they were in power.
Because Asma would stand up for everyone’s fundamental human rights, including those who opposed and denigrated her.
