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VI. Beatings, Mistreatment and Arbitrary Detention of Lawyers 

Human Rights Watch has gathered accounts of unlawful police violence, mistreatment and arbitrary arrests of lawyers from across Pakistan. The accounts, reproduced below, mostly gathered from Pakistan’s major cities, only provide a glimpse of the scale, scope and tenor of the crackdown against the legal community. Those interviewed are lawyers who have been released, some had been held without charge, others were charged under the ATA or MPO or are family members of lawyers still in detention.

On the night of November 3, the police and intelligence personnel arrested leaders of the lawyers’ movements publicly and in the presence of the media, wherever they happened to be. On the following two days, violent crackdowns against lawyers occurred in Lahore, Karachi, Islamabad, Peshawar, Quetta, and scores of Pakistan’s smaller cities and towns.  Those who gathered at the Lahore High Court, the Sindh High Court in Karachi, and district courts across the country were unceremoniously beaten, tear-gassed, bundled into police vans, and locked in police stations or jails. Some were placed under house arrest.

Pakistani authorities have still not provided Human Rights Watch access to jails or police stations where lawyers are still being detained. While many lawyers in Pakistan’s major urban centers have been released, scores remain in detention across the country, particularly in smaller cities. Crucially, the four central leaders of the lawyers’ movement remain under detention and many others have charges on file against them. The government has also arbitrarily amended laws to assume powers to de-license lawyers effectively depriving them of a livelihood if they continue with active protest against the Musharraf government.    

Lahore

On November 5, police and intelligence personnel violently cracked down on lawyers who had gathered at the Lahore High Court. The Lahore High Court Bar Association had urgently called for a rally that day to protest against “the imposition of emergency, unconstitutional removal of judges, issuance of the Provisional Constitutional Order (PCO), and continuation of dictatorship.” The protest was meant to start from the court premises, which the police could customarily only enter if invited by court authorities. The lawyers planned to march on The Mall, Lahore’s main thoroughfare where the court is located. The protestors began gathering at 9:30 a.m.; by 11 a.m. about 3,000 lawyers and civil society representatives had gathered at the court premises. The Lahore High Court Bar Association had asked lawyers to gather and march towards the main gate of the court.

Abid Saqi, a lawyer from Lahore, told Human Rights Watch what happened as the lawyers reached the gate:

As soon as we reached near the main gate, stones started flying around us. The policemen in plainclothes, or maybe they were Intelligence Bureau personnel, who had been swarming around the court premises since morning, took the lead. The plainclothes policemen or intelligence personnel outnumbered the ones in uniform. I think they must have been around 1,500 in plainclothes. When I reached the parking lot with other protestors, just outside the main gate of the Lahore High Court, I saw plainclothesmen gathering around the protestors. Soon the policemen deployed on the main gate started lobbing teargas shells towards protestors, who started running for cover towards the Bar Room from where they had marched.

The lawyers ran back inside the court premises expecting the police would not follow them. But as Saqi explained, the police were evidently under instructions to ignore prohibitions on entering the court without permission:

As we ran for cover thinking the police would not enter [the court premises], they followed us and started baton-charging the protestors. After that, all hell broke lose as lawyers were slapped, punched, kicked, baton-charged and dragged on the ground by the police. I went inside the Kyani Hall [of the Lahore High Court Bar Association] from where I ran towards the study downstairs. When I realized that the lawyers were still being chased, I proceeded towards the Kashmir Lounge along with 30 to 35 lawyers. The Kashmir Lounge is the place where lawyers, litigants and their guests sit and have lunch during daytime. We came and sat inside the lounge when the lawyers were still being arrested, baton-charged and tear-gassed. But all around us the police were beating, attacking and arresting lawyers. From the Bar Rooms, the library, the study and the news room—lawyers were arrested from everywhere. And no one was arrested without being beaten up and humiliated. The senior lawyers—elderly individuals—were the worst affected. They were having breathing problems because the atmosphere filled with teargas. Some of them were lying on the ground and were gasping for air. Even they were hauled up.

Saqi then described what happened when the police reached the Kashmir Lounge where he and some 35 other lawyers had sought refuge:

‘We are willing to go wherever you want to take us but don’t beat us up,’ Malik Muhammad Hussain said to police. But the policemen started hitting the lawyers with batons and told them to queue up and follow them to the vans parked outside the main gate of the High Court.

Saqi showed Human Rights Watch a deep wound on his right leg and said he was bleeding profusely after being hit by a baton-wielding policeman. He managed to evade arrest by escaping from an ambulance where he was deposited briefly to receive rudimentary first-aid.

Saqi told Human Rights Watch that he later managed to visit Kot Lakhpat Jail in Lahore to see his colleagues on the evening of November 6. He described the visit:

Some 200 lawyers were locked up in one block of the jail. There are a total of 100 cells in one block. Usually a cell is used for two prisoners but as many as five lawyers were locked up inside each cell. They were in their lawyers’ uniforms [black coats] from the day before, had not been allowed to bathe and complained that they were provided with filthy water for drinking. Everyone I spoke to also complained they were not being allowed to see their relatives and jail authorities had refused to provide the clothes and food brought by the relatives.

The authorities transferred these lawyers from Kot Lakhpat Jail and Camp Jail in Lahore to other district jails across Punjab later that day.

Saqi concluded ruefully: “I had no idea that the government would be so brutal in its treatment of lawyers. After all we are the people involved in the dispensation of justice.”⁴²

The Lahore High Court Bar Association Vice President, Firdous Butt, shared her experiences of the same day with Human Rights Watch:

When we started moving out of the High Court, I felt that visually at least, the policemen in uniform and the plainclothes personnel together outnumbered the protestors. I noticed a plainclothes officer standing behind us talking on the phone to someone. A DSP [Deputy Superintendent of Police], Mukhtar Shah, was also spotted by lawyers and was asked to leave the premises of the court immediately. He was wearing a black coat and marching towards the Mall Road among lawyers. When the police blocked us from marching outside the main gate of the high court, some lawyers proposed taking the rally out from the premises’ back gate near the mosque. Meanwhile, a policeman, who was tall and well-built, deliberately started throwing stones towards the lawyers. Soon, I saw a brick hitting Wali Muhammad Khan, an advocate, who fell down hurt and bleeding. And then the police started firing teargas shells and the protestors started running towards the Bar Room. I ran inside the Kyani Hall of the Lahore High Court Bar Association and we shut the door. But the policemen broke down the door of the Kyani Hall. They fired teargas shells inside the hall and arrested everyone indiscriminately. When they fired teargas inside the Kyani Hall, I felt as if I had been poisoned. I was not able to keep my eyes open or breathe. But I managed to run away from the hall and took refuge in the washrooms next to the Old Lounge.

After couple of minutes, I and other lawyers I was hiding with emerged from the washroom and went inside the Old Lounge, where a few lawyers locked up the room from inside and placed chairs in front of it. When I asked for water from the canteen, attached to the lounge, a man told me that the police had taken away the staff after beating them up. Soon we heard the policemen pounding on the door, and we opened it up—asking them not to beat us up. “Let’s go wherever you want us to go,” we said. But they still beat up lawyers before throwing them inside the vans parked outside the main gate of the high court. I also saw the police break down the door of the Women’s Lounge, where a few lady lawyers had locked themselves in, and arrested them. The way they pillaged the place, it seemed as if they were an enemy army which had just conquered a territory and gone wild.

Butt then recounted to Human Rights Watch what happened after they left the court: 

There must have been around 35 to 40 lawyers inside the van, which took us to Mughalpura Police Station. I was the only female lawyer inside the van. At around 10 p.m., a DSP ordered that I be shifted to Race Course police station, where I was sent to a lock-up. Some nine to ten female lawyers were already locked-up there. But our cell faced one with male lawyers in it so we held an impromptu meeting and advocate Muhammad Azhar acted as the secretary. We not only condemned the emergency rule but also criticized the regime for banning media channels. We also demanded holding of an inquiry into maltreatment of lawyers and bringing to book those ordering such an act.

Butt described to Human Rights Watch her experience of being charged in Anti-Terrorism Court: 

Perhaps because we were still unrepentant after all that had happened, the next day, we were taken to Anti-Terrorism Court, where we were told for the first time that a case had been registered against us. The security in and around the court was overwhelming, and it was as if we were the most dangerous terrorists. We were asked to mark attendance in the van, and a record was prepared. Only two lawyers, Rubi Hayat and Firdous Imtiaz, were given bail and I was among 35 or 40 lawyers brought back to the Kot Lakhpat Jail. I heard that the authorities were reluctant to release me. I could not understand why I could not be given bail. I had neither robbed banks nor kidnapped children for ransom. In jail, I was not allowed to meet anyone. On November 7, some lawyers were allowed brief family visits. Most of the lawyers were still in their court uniform they had put on to go to work on November 5.

Butt told Human Rights Watch that the jail authorities refused to let her leave, even after she had been granted bail. She managed to regain her freedom only after an eight-hour standoff with her jailors:

On November 8, I heard I had been granted bail. I was allowed to come out of my cell and made to sign the release register but still they stopped me from going out. Once I had signed the release register, the authorities tried to send me back to the cell, but I refused. I told them that I would not stay and to prevent me from leaving would amount to contempt of court. They told me that they were helpless and could not let me go unless their superiors told them to do so. Finally, I was released at 8 p.m. although the order for release had reached the authorities around noon. On my way out, I met Lahore High Court Bar Association secretary Sarfraz Cheema who told me that hundreds of lawyers had been shifted to other district jails without any reason. When I went to the court for the confirmation of bail on November 10, I was told I had been charged with hurling abuse in the court inside the courtroom of Justice Bilal. I had done no such thing.⁴³

Iftikhar Ali, another Lahore High Court lawyer, described his experience of arrest and subsequent treatment to Human Rights Watch: 

The personnel of the elite police force had punched and kicked me a lot all over my body before they threw me inside the prisoners’ van. Lawyers who tried to evade arrest were beaten up even more brutally—kicked, punched, and beaten with batons. Some 40 to 45 lawyers were bundled into the van I was in, which took us to Bhagwanpura police station. We were all taken to a small room which had standing space only and even then was very crowded and claustrophobic. The crowded cell smelled foul because of the smell emanating from an unventilated toilet, separated from the cell by a thin wall. Before we were locked up, the policemen frisked us and took away any mobile phones they could find.

There, Atif Mahmood Chaudhry, former member of the Punjab Bar Council, fell seriously ill. We shouted for help but no one listened. I myself asked the guard standing in front of the room to get his superior but he did not move. Finally after over an hour or so, someone phoned the Rescue 112 service, and a van arrived to give him first-aid treatment.

No one was allowed to see us in the lock-up. They [police] told us that they had strict orders from their higher-ups not to allow anyone to meet the lawyers. We were not given anything to eat or drink until late in the evening. Then it was because some of the relatives of the lawyers had connections with the policemen and managed to smuggle us some fruit. It was at 1 a.m. that a policeman informed us that an FIR [First Information Report] was lodged against the lawyers under the Anti-Terrorism Act.⁴⁴

Former Judge of the Lahore High Court and ex-president of the Lahore High Court Bar Association, Fakhr-un-Nisa Khokhar, told Human Rights Watch about her experience the same day:

On November 5, we condemned the arrest of Supreme Court Bar Association president Aitzaz Ahsan and the closure of television channels in the wake of the imposition of emergency rule in the country. The meeting of the Lahore High Court Bar Association, duly presided over by its office-bearers, had also sought release of all the detained lawyers and members of the bar association.

When I reached the main gate of the High Court I saw heavy contingents of police deployed there. They stopped lawyers from going out of the premises of the High Court. I myself saw lawyers getting baton-charged, beaten and falling to the ground. People in plainclothes were beating up the lawyers with kicks and fists. Then the policemen started firing teargas shells and many senior lawyers fell to the ground gasping for air. Then the police started hurling bricks. 

I heard policemen break into the Bar Room reserved for women lawyers and calling them whores and sluts. Another female lawyer also told me that policemen called them whores and dared them to come out of the Bar Room, which was locked by them out of the fear of arrest.

I saw policemen smash the door. One of the policemen fired a teargas shell inside the Bar Room, which made all the lawyers run outside. During the process a lawyer fell down and policemen started beating him. I fled myself because the teargas had filled the room and prevented me from breathing.

I was unable to walk properly. I leaned over a wall and started vomiting. I was semi-conscious. Some of the lawyers helped me and made me sit in a chair. They gave me a soaked handkerchief for my eyes which were burning from the teargas and gave me some salt to taste. Someone brought my shoes I had lost in my bid to run away from the Bar Room and took me to the dispensary [located within the premises of the high court at the back of the Kyani Hall]. But the police broke into the dispensary as well and started beating and hitting the lawyers with batons. They dragged the injured lawyers outside the dispensary and asked me to get out as well. ‘I will go out but let me first get first aid,’ I told the policemen. Then they called a large policewoman, who told me to get up immediately. When I repeated what I had said earlier, she started abusing me and beating me with a stick. I received two blows on my head. Then the woman ordered another policewoman to drag me out.

With the bandage wrapped around by foot, I was not able to put my foot down on the floor. I was told I had been arrested and dragged to a police van. Just when I was about to be pushed into the police van, someone told the policewoman that my condition was unstable and that I should be taken to hospital. The Rescue 112 ambulance took my blood pressure, which had been 199/90 and my blood sugar had shot up to 499. I was semi-conscious when someone took me to Mayo Hospital where I was lodged at the Intensive Care Unit (ICU).

All the time I was in the ICU, policewomen stood guard outside but they left when someone told them not to arrest me. The police had arrested lawyers indiscriminately. Even lawyers, who had nothing do to with the protest were beaten up and thrown inside jails. ⁴⁵

Most lawyers detained in Lahore have been released. However scores remain in prison and releases are still taking place at the time of writing. However, charges under the Anti-Terrorism Act remain on file against hundreds of lawyers, leaving open the possibility of re-arrest. Protest demonstrations by lawyers against the arrest and firing of judges, and Musharraf’s arbitrary changes to the constitution continue in the city. Lawyers are still boycotting court proceedings as part of their protest campaign.

Karachi

Police and paramilitary troops beat and arbitrarily detained lawyers at the Sindh High Court in Karachi on November 4, 2007, as they congregated for work and attempted to welcome judges deposed by the Musharraf government the day before.   

Kashif Paracha, a Sindh High Court lawyer, told Human Rights Watch what happened when he arrived at the court on the morning of November 4:

On Monday morning we went to the courts at the normal time, around 8:15 a.m. By 8:30 a.m. more lawyers were walking in one by one. There was heavy checking at the gates, with police demanding our Bar Council or Bar Association cards as proof of identity. Police and Rangers [paramilitary troops] were present in heavy contingents outside, and some five-six vans were inside the High Court building.

When about 100-150 lawyers had gathered, the Rangers got out of their vehicles and closed the gate, barring the entry of lawyers still coming in. A long queue of cars started building up. We asked them to open the gate and let the lawyers in and they did. Suddenly some police pounced on a lawyer who was inside –he must have been on their ‘wanted’ list– and started taking him to the van outside. Some lawyers tried to rescue him and were baton-charged.

They then closed the gate again. We tried to talk to the main person in charge of the Rangers, a colonel. We asked him to open the gates to let the lawyers in, and he flatly refused. He told us in clear terms that he would not allow any procession or protest. Then he said he would go and ‘talk to someone.’

Some 20-25 lawyers were standing around and waiting for him to come back, when suddenly a big police force attacked us without provocation. They were armed with batons and some had guns. The Rangers had gone, and the police came in, about 100-150 of them. They started herding lawyers one by one into the vans and beat those who resisted.

We were the first ones to be taken, and about 35-40 of us were loaded into one van. It was hot and crowded and there was little ventilation. They took us to Artillery Maidan police station, and we had to stay in the van for about 15-20 minutes before they took us inside. They kept bringing in groups of lawyers, rounding up anyone who was outside.

Some lawyers had gone into the Bar Room and locked it. They held a General Body meeting and retired Justice, Rasheed Rizvi, gave a speech. Police were picking up lawyers from everywhere, the library, the canteen, without provocation, anyone with a black coat [i.e., a lawyer]. They picked up lawyers as they came out of the Bar Room.

They got about 55 lawyers into the Artillery Maidan police station. A few (five-six) were released that day. The police kept telling us that we would be released that day, by late evening, perhaps 10:30 p.m., except four-five who would be detained under the MPO.

However, most of us were then told that we were detained for 90 days under the MPO and taken to Central Jail. This was a very painful period. They stuffed us into vehicles, and again kept us waiting for 15-20 minutes. By 11:30 p.m. we had reached Central Jail. However, the jail rules don’t allow them to take custody after 6 p.m. The MPO orders had not reached the jail, and the superintendent refused to take custody of us. We were kept standing in the car outside the jail premises. It was suffocating. There were 35-40 of us and they wouldn’t even open the vehicle doors. This caused serious problems for the older counsels, some of whom have kidney or diabetes problems.

Finally, at around 2:15 a.m., the jail gate was opened to let the vehicles in. However, we were kept in the vans until someone came with the MPO. We finally checked into the jail at 4 a.m.

Throughout this time (since leaving the police station), we were given no food or water. We were taken to two wards. The senior counsels, including the retired judges, had a very difficult time, like Rasheed Rizvi, who has a frozen shoulder and is diabetic, and Shafi Mohammadi. The experience really affected their health. There were only one or two beds. Everyone slept on the bare floor, with no mattresses, blankets or sheets. No one was allowed to meet us without the Home Secretary’s written permission.

I was released on the third night, at around midnight. The senior people and the bar association office bearers were kept back. Those with ‘fresh faces’ or those who had been randomly picked up were being released in groups of two-three. A batch of eight-ten was released on November 8. A review board met every day to decide who gets to go and the MPO orders are withdrawn against those people.⁴⁶

Rafiq Ahmed, a Sindh High Court lawyer described what happened when he arrived at the court on November 4:

I arrived at the High Court at around 8:15 in the morning. The police blocked our entry to the court and were checking our ID cards. At about 8:45 or 9 a.m. the police closed the door to the court and stopped the lawyers from entering. We went to the main gate to ask the police and Rangers on that side to let us in. They opened the gate halfway and let a few cars in but the lawyers were still stuck outside. They started chanting slogans against the emergency and in support of the deposed judges. The police charged at them, grabbed two lawyers ruthlessly and put them in the van. They cordoned off the area between the main gate and the High Court. We were inside the gate but couldn’t enter the court. Salahuddin Ahmed, Kashif Kashmiri and one other lawyer were with me. A number of lawyers were standing near the gate where the judges enter from. The police were preventing the judges who had not signed the PCO from entering. The police attacked the protesting lawyers, grabbed the four of us and shoved us in the van as well.

They took us to the Artillery Maidan police station along with 50 or 60 other lawyers. We had no idea why we were being detained. At around 9:30 or 10 a.m. the SHO [Station House Officer] called us outside and told us we were being taken somewhere else. Mr. Rashid Rizvi, who is still in detention, said we were professionals and we deserved to know where we were being taken. The SHO then said we were being transported to the Central Jail. They stuffed 27 or 28 lawyers into the police van and drove us to the jail where they made us wait in the van, packed like sardines, for close to an hour. It was hot, stuffy and unbearable. There were a few old and ailing people with us. Some were diabetic and had heart disease and none of us were given any water. We guessed that the reason for this delay could have been that they didn’t have our detention orders. So they had gone to get them from the Interior Ministry. Our detention orders were very vague stating that they had apprehensions that we were involved in anti-state activities. We were provided with no grounds for detention beyond that.

After that we were shifted to our respective barracks. I am very lucky that I was kept in a privileged barrack with some senior lawyers. My friends were less lucky. They were given no facilities, no bedding, proper water facilities etc. The police let our families give us food and other essential supplies like cutlery, bedding and medicines for some of the inmates. I was released later that day at around 9:30 p.m., Saturday, November 10.⁴⁷

Zahid F. Ebrahim, a Sindh High Court lawyer recounted his experience of the following day to Human Rights Watch:

At about 8:15 a.m. on the morning of November 5, several lawyers were standing in the Sindh High Court parking lot. More were coming in. There were heavy contingents of police outside and a Rangers jeep and two mobiles [police cars] inside the premises, patrolling the area.

Someone said that the new judges were in court. There were at least six police mobiles standing at the entrance where the judges come into the Sindh High Court. There were lots of police at the gate where the lawyers enter. I arrived early, and my car has a High Court sticker and there were High Court protocol officers at the gate to identify people, so I was allowed in without any further checking.

Then we heard that the other judges (non-PCO) were coming to the High Court and went to receive them at the main gate. Some lawyers raised a few slogans about 15 yards from the gate, for about five minutes. Someone said the judges (Faisal Arab, Sajjad Ali Shah, Sarmad Osmany, Maqbool Baqar) had gone back. We started walking back. People were just ambling about. Then we heard that they (the judges) were coming in from the lawyers’ entrance, so we started going there. People were still coming in, parking their cars, just walking about. The more active lawyers were in the front (of the group going to the lawyers’ entrance), we were behind.

As lawyers got to the gate, the police started beating them with batons. The police caught some people and some people stepped back.

One lawyer personally knew the colonel in charge of the Rangers and went to talk to him, tell him we’re not doing anything. There were not more than a hundred lawyers milling around. So this lawyer was talking to the colonel, about 20 yards from the main gate. The colonel told him that he would go talk to someone and be right back. We were just standing there, inside the High Court, so we had no concerns about being attacked or anything.

Many people think it was the colonel who went and told the police to attack us. Suddenly we saw them running towards us. We were in shock, because we were just standing there. ‘Ham ne kiya kiya hai?’  [What have we done?] I asked the man running at me. He launched into me saying, ‘Kiya kiya hai, mein batata hoon!” [What have you done, I’ll just tell you!] I had no clue what was happening. Two other people, whom I didn’t see, grabbed me from behind. My immediate reaction was to try and pull away, although these guys were big and there was no way I could escape them. I was just stunned by the absurdity of it all, the shock of being attacked like that.

They started dragging us into the van. All around, they were doing that. Everyone was running, desperately trying to get away, hiding in bathrooms or wherever they could. One of my associates stuck to me, wanting to go in the same van as me. It was only then that we realized we were being ‘arrested.’

They took us to the police station (Artillery Maidan). More and more lawyers were being brought in. One lawyer came in with a Swiss photographer, got a picture taken of himself among the arrested lawyers, then left. We thought they would let us know. Someone told us that three to four people would be released.

It was getting dark. There were lots of family and friends outside and occasionally the police would call out to one of us to meet a visitor.  The people outside sent lunch and dinner in for us. Benazir Bhutto’s lawyer Farooq Naik and PPP senator Safdar Abbasi came to meet us.

I was getting worried about my associate Furqan Ali, who had only recently been married. Around 9:30 or 10 p.m. the police started calling out names from different lists and we heard that a meeting was underway at Governor House to discuss our situation. The SHO started calling out names and making us stand in a line. Some people were made to stand aside – Ishrat Alvi, who had only just parked his car and put on his coat when he was picked up, Furqan, Salahuddin, and some others.

The rest of us were put into two prison vans. It was only when we got into the prison vans that it hit the families waiting outside that we were being sent to jail. We were very cramped inside the van, but had our cell phones and could talk to the media. It was suffocating.

One-and-a-half hours later, they let two people out. Someone called for me to get out, and I thought I was being released. Instead, I was made to sit in another police mobile with four police sepoys [low-ranking policemen], for some two-three hours. The police were [verbally] abusing one person, and that was Musharraf. They were unhappy at having to carry out these orders and saying that the protestors should remain united.

The same person who had told me to get out of the first van then came to say that we’re releasing you. I started to call home, but he told me to wait, and handed me over to another man in civilian clothes who had a file. He made me sit in another police mobile. He said the release orders for me had come. After some time they took me back to the Artillery Maidan police station, saying that they would make me sign an undertaking. However, at 4:30 a.m., they released me without making me sign anything.⁴⁸

Emad Hasan, the son of Abrar Hasan, president of the Sindh High Court Bar Association (SHCBA) described his family’s experience to Human Rights Watch:

On Saturday, November 3, police came to our house at around 11 p.m. to arrest my father Abrar Hasan. When they did not find him, they took away my brother-in-law Masroor Alvi without any warrant. He was detained, threatened and harassed and finally dropped back at around 2 a.m. when his condition started deteriorating. [He has high blood pressure and hypertension.] At 9 a.m. they picked him up again without warrant to pressurize my father. On November 4, my father came home at around 10:30 a.m. half an hour later, police came and took him to Mobina Town Police Station without any warrant. We followed them and waited at the police station for around four hours until someone brought a copy of the MPO being served on him.

The police then took my father to Central Jail, Karachi. We had prepared a bag of essentials –medicines, toothpaste/brush, a shalwar suit [traditional attire] and books. The jail staff allowed the other items but not the books.

Once he was in prison, we could not contact my father. I talked to Khawaja Naveed, Attorney General of Sindh, that evening. [By that time he had taken oath as a judge of High Court under PCO.] He was astonished at my father’s arrest and promised to ensure he was given proper class.⁴⁹ We had possession of my father’s mobile phone, fearing that it would be taken by jail staff. We kept informing callers of the situation. My father had asked me to give a copy of the MPO to the Bar Committee. That night a member of Sindh Bar Council called me and asked how he could help. Late at night an old family friend and a very senior lawyer, who had gone through all these ordeals in General Zia-ul-Haq’s era called from the US and guided me to file application for provision of proper class, meetings and food from home. A formal application was necessary.

On the morning of November 5, I called a member of the Sindh Bar Council at around 9 a.m. He said he was in the Bar Room, and police had cordoned off the whole area and were not allowing lawyers to enter. Also, because of the strike, no application could be moved in High Court. He suggested I approach the Home Department. I reached the office, and got the paperwork together, including my father’s NTN (National Tax Number) Certificate, application etc., and went to the Home Department to submit the application. I printed the application on plain paper instead of our company’s letterhead, so they wouldn’t become apprehensive and refuse to take the application.  I submitted the application with the dispatch department.

Later, I along with my father’s clerk and driver went to our office and removed items like laptops, printers, papers, letterheads etc. We closed the office and came home. This was because police had baton-charged lawyers at the High Court and District Court, and had taken many lawyers into custody, and were still looking for other lawyers. From the sweep at the District Court, they also arrested a lawyer who works at my father’s law firm. We heard that Mustafa Lakhani, Iftikhar Qazi, Rasheed Rizvi, and others had also been arrested.

I then asked a friend and an uncle to meet me outside the jail. The meeting time at the jail is from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., for which one must enter between 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. On Friday, the meeting time is from 8 to 11:30 a.m. for prisoners in B class only. You have to submit a written application along with a copy of your ID card. Because my father was detained under the Maintenance of Public Order Ordinance, there was no provision to meet him. However in the morning the jail doctor had met him (as we learnt through a government doctor in our family) and provided water and biscuits to him. Later we learned that my father had been kept in a room with the president of the Malir Bar Association and a Tehrik-e-Insaf activist.⁵⁰

On November 5, we submitted an application to the Home Department to allow the family to meet my father. We were finally allowed to meet him on November 8. Emergency was proclaimed by the government to combat terrorism, but rather than cracking down on terrorists, the government has arrested these law-abiding citizens.⁵¹

Abrar Hasan was released from Karachi Central Jail on November 19, 2007.

Mahrouf Sultan, a paralegal and human rights activist with the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan in Karachi described his experience to Human Rights Watch:

In the early hours of the morning of November 5, around 1 a.m., 10-12 policemen surrounded my house and started banging on the main door asking for me. My sons were very brave and they refused to let these men into the house and told them I will come outside to meet them. They hurled abuses at us. The men said they were taking me to meet the SHO [Station House Officer] of the Gulbahar, Abbotabad police station for only 15-20 minutes. When I walked out of the house there were a number of policemen as well as five or six men in plainclothes. The men in plainclothes did most of the talking. When I stepped out of the house they grabbed me, put me in the police van and drove me to the Gulbahar police station where I was immediately locked up with two other men. We were given no food for the next 24 hours. No breakfast, lunch or dinner. I stayed at the police station for one day and two nights.

On the morning of November 6, I was taken to the Karachi Central Jail. This experience was very painful. I along with 300 other people was made to squat on my feet for approximately ten hours while we were filling out forms as a form of punishment. We had to sit like this in the hot sun with no shade anywhere. At the Central Jail we were given letters and my letter stated that I will be held in custody from November 5, 2007 until February 2, 2008. Roughly 50 people out of the 300 were arrested for protesting against the emergency while the others were simple laborers, small motel owners, and workers. 

They kept around 150 of us in one barrack which is meant to accommodate no more than 60 people. There was barely any room to spread ourselves properly to sleep. There were four toilets in the barrack, six or seven taps but there was no water. The stench and lack of hygiene was terrible. We didn’t even have water to wash ourselves before saying our prayers. We were only allowed to leave the barrack for our early and mid-afternoon prayers (Zohr and Asr) which we would offer at the mosque in the jail. There was no water there either. When we asked them for water facilities they took money from us telling us that they needed the money to fix the water motor. There was no clean water to drink. There were drums placed for us outside the cell and other imprisoned people would carry water to us in plastic bottles that were cut up and used as bowls. Other inmates in the prison would soak their hands in the drums of water while filling the cups cut of plastic Pepsi bottles and the drum was kept open the entire day. The food, such as was on occasional offer, was inedible.

My children sent me 3,500 rupees but the policemen stole most of it. My son brought a small pillow for me but the policemen didn’t let me have it. I was not allowed to meet anyone in my family for the entire duration of my stay in prison…not even my children.

While the police didn’t lay a hand on me, they beat the other inmates in a terrible manner, with sticks, and by punching and kicking, with belts –any way you can imagine. Many of these inmates were bruised and black-eyed. I was finally released on November 10. They were calling out people’s names and my name was not on the list. I was mistaken for someone else called Sultan. So I returned home. ⁵²

Most lawyers detained in Karachi have been released. The releases began on November 20 and are still taking place at the time of writing. However charges under the Anti-Terrorism Act remain on file against hundreds of people including lawyers. Sedition charges also remain on file against at least eleven lawyers. All those with charges pending against them face the prospect of re-arrest. However, demonstrations by lawyers against the arrest and firing of judges and Musharraf’s arbitrary changes to the constitution continue in Karachi. Lawyers continue to boycott court proceedings as part of their protest campaign.  

Other cities

Hassan Tariq, a prominent member of executive committee of the District Bar Association in Nawabshah, Sindh province, described to Human Rights Watch his torture in detention after being arrested on November 8. He is currently at the National Medical College Hospital in Nawabshah. According to Tariq:

I was arrested on November 8 by [name withheld], a Station House Officer (SHO) [at the] police station in Nawabshah. I was arrested because of my opposition to the November 3 action by the government and because I support judicial independence.

At the police station, the SHO started beating me and telling me to shout slogans in support of Musharraf. I refused. So he punched me and kicked me and beat me with a stick and something else. Other police officers present also joined in at the SHO’s urging. They kept taunting me and telling me to call [Chief Justice] Iftikhar Chaudhry for help and ordering me to shout slogans in support of Musharraf. They kept beating me like this until I passed out.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in the lockup where I had severe breathing problems and was in terrible pain. I kept asking them to take me to the hospital but they only laughed and ignored me. I passed out again. Once they took me to some doctor who gave some medicine but it had no effect. At some point I was brought to hospital.

The police took Tariq to the Nawabshah Medical College Hospital on November 13, five days after he was beaten, in critical condition. Doctors found he had fractured ribs and internal bleeding to his lungs. On November 13, the hospital informed local journalists that he had been admitted as a general patient without any documentation by the police. Police stood guard outside his room regardless. After an operation to clear his lungs on November 14, the police suddenly disappeared from outside Tariq’s hospital room.⁵³ Said Tariq of his experiences, “I think my own case should tell you why judicial independence is the only way Pakistan can be saved.”⁵⁴

Chaudhry Mohammad Ikram, former vice president of the Supreme Court Bar Association, was arrested by police as he was speaking to journalists at a protest outside the Marriott Hotel in the capital Islamabad on November 4, 2007. Ikram told Human Rights Watch how he came to be arrested and what ensued:

There was a protest at 4 p.m. called by civil society, lawyers, and students. I had just spoken on Al Jazeera [international television news channel] on the emergency, condemning it. At the protest, I held an impromptu press conference reiterating that Iftikhar Chaudhry was still the chief justice and the emergency was basically a declaration of martial law. I insisted that until the judiciary was restored, the lawyers would continue their movement. And that the army must go back to the barracks. During this time, a police officer came up to me and started pulling me. I told him to let me finish talking. But he tried to drag me. He was a person of the rank of Superintendent of Police (SP). There were about 40 policeman right in front of us and another 40 at a distance. There must have been about an equal number of protestors. When they tried to drag me, I told them, ‘I’m here and not running away. You can arrest me if you like.’ They pushed me to the car regardless. They then took me to the Secretariat police station at Constitution Avenue. I asked them what charges they were holding me under but they laughed and failed to respond. At the station, there were NGO activists already being held there. We were made to sit for about two hours then an SHO (Station House Officer) arrived and said ‘Come with me.’ So I said, ‘Present me before a magistrate before you take me to jail.’ He said we have got the magistrate to sign the orders and we have judicial remand of you –you are going to Adiala jail. I repeatedly asked what provision of the law, what charge we were being held under. It later turned out to be section 188 of the PPC which is bailable at the police station if you follow the law.

Once we got to jail, we again tried to find out what the charges were. But we were not told. Then they shifted us at around 10 p.m. to a seven-room block of the jail. It was a C class block. Within two days, there were at least 50 people – about five-seven per room. It filled up with lawyers … many with political affiliations and others who had not.

We were allowed no communication with the outside world –no family visits. Nothing. The ISI kept visiting and checking up on us. We were given thin threadbare blankets, no pillows, just the freezing floor. Many of us were not young and developed severe health complications. We were given no facilities whatsoever. The ISI were not interested in talking to us or interrogating us. They wanted to spy on us and sneer at us. Their purpose was to keep us isolated and demoralize us. They did call some of us individually and suggest that if we sign an affidavit saying we will not engage in politics, they would let us go. The lawyers refused. Zero communication with families. Personal effects delivered by our families were simply stolen by the jail authorities.

Our bail applications were filed with the Secretariat judicial magistrate on November 6 but he simply did not come to office until November 15. But most of us were illegally detained for at least 24 hours after the bail order was received. I was released on 15 November. ⁵⁵

Leaders of the Lawyers’ Movement

The lawyers’ movement that began on March 9, 2007 with the ouster of Chief Justice Chaudhry has been led at the central level by four Supreme Court lawyers – Munir Malik, Tariq Mehmood, Aitzaz Ahsan, and Ali Ahmed Kurd. Malik and Mehmood are former presidents of the Supreme Court Bar Association and Ahsan is the incumbent president.  Kurd is a prominent lawyer and vocal critic of Musharraf from Balochistan. Human Rights Watch has been unable to speak with Kurd, who is currently under house arrest in Quetta, the capital of Balochistan. Earlier, he was held at Adiala Jail in the city of Rawalpindi in Punjab province and for several weeks at an undisclosed location in military custody.  However, Malik, Mehmood and Ahsan spoke with Human Rights Watch describing their treatment and experiences since November 3, 2007.

Ali Ahmed Kurd, a senior Pakistani lawyer and leading figure in the lawyers' movement for constitutional rule. © 2007 AP/Anjum Naveed

Muneer A. Malik

Muneer A. Malik, former president of the Supreme Court Bar Association (SCBA), is well known for his role in the lawyers’ movement. The police arrested him on November 3 in Islamabad and sent him to Adiala Jail and then Attock Jail, a harsher facility. Within a week he developed a medical condition that worsened due to inadequate medical care. He suffered from renal failure. When finally transferred to the Pakistan Institute of Medical Sciences, Islamabad, on November 23, his condition was precarious. His treatment and care was prejudiced further as the detention orders were not lifted even at the hospital and a heavy police contingent of more than 40 persons including members of the Anti-Terrorist Squad were posted outside his hospital room and within the hospital premises. His detention orders were only effectively withdrawn on November 25. Since then he has undergone dialyses four times. He is still weak but recovering and currently in a hospital located in Karachi, where he spoke with Human Rights Watch.

The police arrested Malik in his hotel room in Islamabad on the night of November 3. He had flown there from Karachi that afternoon for a television interview. On landing he heard rumors about the emergency and called his colleague, retired Justice Tariq Mahmood. The latter had not heard the news until then. Mahmoood went to the Supreme Court and got the order of the seven-member bench of the court against the PCO and brought it to Malik. Both then visited the Geo TV office [private Pakistani television channel] where the news of the emergency was confirmed through the satellite channel.

I returned to my hotel by about 9 p.m. The receptionist said that plainclothesmen had been there asking about me, Tariq Mahmood and Ali Ahmed Kurd. He had told them that Kurd had left, and that Tariq Mahmood was with me. I told the others to leave and went to wait for them in my room, leaving the door open. We are lawyers not fugitives. What could I hope to achieve by running away?

They came at about 10:30 p.m. –the SHO, Kohsar Police Station, three policemen and a magistrate. One policeman stood outside the door. I offered them tea but they said I would be their guest. They showed me three warrants – one for myself, one for Tariq, and one for Kurd. I went into the bathroom and called Tariq Mahmood to warn him. I also called Kurd’s wife and told her that he should get off the train at Multan. He didn’t get the message and was arrested from Rahimyar Khan.

They were pretty civil. I packed, settled my bill and went with them. The warrant had said Adiala Jail, but the vehicle turned right and went through a forested area. I demanded to know where I was being taken, and they told me Kohsar Police Station, where Aitzaz Ahsan had been taken.

We got to Kohsar Police Station. The date and the time of the detention order was recorded as 11:40 p.m. I had to deposit my cell phone with them. They opened up a room and gave me tea. After about 30 minutes, I was taken in a car, escorted by two jeeps, to Adiala Jail. We arrived at about 3 a.m. I noticed some plainclothes men. Surprisingly, the prison authorities didn’t search me. Someone made a phone call asking where to keep me. I heard him repeat the answer, ‘A Class, with Aitzaz Ahsan.’

I was taken to a quadrangle, shaped like a square U, a barracks with individual rooms. They were quite spacious, with attached baths. There was a common eating area and a kitchen. Someone woke up Aitzaz, who had arrived half an hour before. We talked for about 45 minutes. There were a lot of people in that barrack.

That night one of the prisoners who had brought in a cell phone and SIM card tried to send a text message. The jamming device in the quadrangle probably blocked it and revealed the attempt. The next morning, prison authorities installed another jamming device. The Superintendent came and convinced the prisoners to give up the SIM card. He also told me that I was being transferred to a ‘better class,’ by which he meant B Class. Aitzaz threatened to bang his head against the wall until it bleeds if I was transferred. They left.

The superintendent was transferred that day. He must have lost the trust of the ISI because of the SIM card incident. The new superintendent had a Taliban-style beard and shaved upper lip… That night, I was woken up at 2 a.m., and told that he wanted to see me. We woke up Aitzaz Ahsan and he went with me. The superintendent said I was being transferred to Attock District Jail. He wanted to again create a fuss, but I told him that it was better not to resist. They would have taken me by force there even if I had refused.

At 3 a.m., I was put on a police mobile. With me was Siddique-ul-Farooque, [Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz leader], who was being taken to Bahawalpur Jail –via Attock. He had to ride with me for four hours to Attock, and then several more hours to Bahawalpur. It was a bumpy ride and bitterly cold. I borrowed a shalwar kameez from another prisoner, and some money from Aitzaz.

At Attock Jail, five or six plainclothes policemen took me in through a side gate rather than the main entrance. They took me to a room. Inside was a mean-looking fellow, weighing about 200 pounds, with a shawl over his shoulders. He thumped his chest and said, ‘You know who I am? I am the person against whom the first suo moto action was taken’ [by deposed Chief Justice Chaudhry]. He wanted to know where Hamid Khan (another former SCBA president) was. …

They offered me tea. The mean-looking fellow with shawl told the uniformed policemen to do their karawai – job. This meant such a thorough check that if they had been looking for a needle in a haystack they would have found it. They even checked the drawstring hole of my shalwar. They took my fingerprints, photograph, asked for my father’s name, took my weight and other details, like a criminal.

The mean-looking fellow and two other plainclothes men then took me to the old part of the jail. After some 50-60 steps we turned right, and came to a part marked in Urdu as the Mautyafta Qaidityon Ke Liye – for condemned prisoners. There was no one else there. They opened a cell and pushed me in.

The cell was bare, with a high ceiling and a concrete slab for a bed. I asked for a blanket, a durrie [rug] and pillow. After some time a bardashti [convict sentenced to hard labor who does menial chores for other prisoners] came with a pillow without a pillowcase, a threadbare rug, and a flimsy blanket. He pushed the items through the bars, and stood there. 

Former president of the Supreme Court Bar Association, Munir Malik. © 2007 Tanveer Shahzad

He was due to be released in December and offered to take a message for me when his brother came to visit. I had nothing to write with, as they had confiscated my pen, paper and books. He broke off a rose flower and squeezed the petals to extract a red juice. I found a white handkerchief and wrote the number on that.

At 8:30 a.m., the jail staff came with a bucket of tea and raw nan [bread] which I refused to eat. I told them I’m on hunger strike. I said I’m not a criminal; I’ve been brought here under preventive detention, not charged with any offense.

On November 7, while I was still on hunger strike, the superintendent of the jail came. I asked him if I was in solitary confinement. He said no. I asked him if I was being punished for something by being put in this cell, and he said there was no other accommodation. I asked if I could have something to read, and he said that the orders for that would have to ‘come from above.’

At around 6 p.m. on November 7, Malik’s solitary confinement ended. He was taken another 500 meters, to the new portion of the jail. There were four sets of four cells each, about eight by four feet, with a concrete slab (six by two and a half feet) for a “bed”.

This was called the kasuri cell –meant for prisoners who had violated a jail rule or committed some offense in jail. They would be shackled if they were considered dangerous. The cells could accommodate one person, and even that was suffocating.

Malik went to sleep. Someone came and checked the area every hour. At around 3 a.m., seven people were brought in, four from Multan and three from Jalanpur district (near Multan) – all these lawyers were arrested from the courts.

One lawyer who came in was from Sahiwal. He was among the 41 who had been injured during a torch lit procession when the lawyers were protesting to restore the chief justice. The police threw acid at them and his face was still disfigured. The Sahiwal bar has given the greatest sacrifices. The police filed an anti-terrorism case against them. The lawyers filed a direct complaint against the police brutality. The chief justice of the Lahore High Court froze their file to protect the police.

By Friday, November 9, Malik started to feel the need to urinate every hour. He was worried because he had suffered from urethritis and prostitis in the past.

I went to the jail doctor. He was a nice guy but very overworked, looking after 1,400 prisoners in the jail which has a capacity of 340. Often the medicines were not available in Attock, so someone had to go to Rawalpindi to buy them. I was given antibiotics for two days but they didn’t work. No one tested my urine. On the third day they changed my medicine after I complained of fissure in my rectum, which bled when I passed stools and was very painful. They kept changing my medicine.

When I had visitors, I had to say I was fine. There was always someone from the ISI standing behind me and I feared repercussions if I said anything else. By the next Friday (November 16) I could feel the fluid shifting from one side to the other in my stomach. Specialists from outside hospitals came to see me and said that I should be transferred to hospital.

One specialist extracted water from Malik’s stomach with a syringe. But, contrary to the impression given to his family and friends, he was never transferred to the jail hospital.

By the following Thursday I was in severe pain. But they said I was faking. By the third Friday (November 23) I was completely incoherent, unable to even get up. That was when they finally shifted me to PIMS [Pakistan Institute of Medical Sciences in Islamabad], but I don’t remember much of that.⁵⁶

Malik had been seriously ill for nearly two weeks before the authorities finally decided to shift him to hospital. He was transferred from PIMS, Islamabad to the Sindh Institute of Urology and Transplant (SIUT) in Karachi, on November 29. The doctors are still investigating whether any permanent damage has been inflicted on his kidneys.

Many imprisoned lawyers around the country were released after they signed undertakings promising not to take part in politics again. However, Malik received no such offer. In any case, as he told Human Rights Watch, “I would have died rather than sign such an undertaking.”

Malik remains critically ill in a hospital in Karachi.

Tariq Mehmood

Tariq Mehmood is a former judge of the Balochistan High Court and a former president of the Supreme Court Bar Association. Mehmood has been a high-profile figure in the lawyers’ movement since March 9, 2007. He spoke to Human Rights Watch from the Services Hospital in Lahore where he was shifted briefly for medical treatment while under arrest.

I was in Islamabad on November 3. At perhaps 6:30 p.m., I received a call from Aitzaz Ahsan telling me that he has been arrested. The Supreme Court also called me to let me know that the court has passed an order against the emergency. I called the media to let them know. Aitzaz called a little later to say that he had reached Kohsar police station. I went to Kohsar police station, but was told by Aitzaz Ahsan to leave as there was an arrest warrant issued against me as well. I went to De Pape hotel, where Munir Malik was staying.

Munir and I went to the press club, found no one there and so went to the Supreme Court. The court had been sealed by the military so we went to Geo TV which had already gone off the air, stayed there for a while and then came back to De Pape hotel.

The receptionist at the hotel informed me that the police had come looking for Munir Malik, Ali Ahmed Kurd and I. The receptionist told them that Munir and I had stepped out and Kurd had taken the train to Quetta. Munir told me to leave and go home (to my house in Islamabad). I reached home at about 11:30 p.m. and got a call from Munir Malik, saying that he has been arrested. Geo called me and told me to leave the country, they would arrange for me to go to Dubai [in the United Arab Emirates] to take part in talk shows. I was preparing to leave the next day when the police came for me at 12:15 a.m. (November 4).

I was taken to the airport police station. I was arrested under MPO and the order was given by the district magistrate, Islamabad. But since I was arrested from Rawalpindi, they kept me at the airport police station and meanwhile got fresh orders from the home secretary of Punjab, Khurshid Pervaiz Khan, for a 90-day detention. I was kept at the Airport police station until November 5. On that day I was taken to Sahiwal jail in the Punjab town of Sahiwal. In Sahiwal I was kept at Gora Ward, a prison cell built during the British era. It has not been refurbished since. While all other prisoners were kept in the comparatively newly built cells, I was purposely kept in a dilapidated one.

I was kept in solitary confinement during my entire incarceration in Sahiwal.

My two sons aged 14 and 16-years-old were allowed to see me for a couple of minutes, but my relatives who had brought them to Sahiwal were not allowed to see me.

The cell was infested with cats, rats and mosquitoes. Due to the noise I could not sleep at night. It was cold, damp and dark. The rats would try and bite and protecting oneself was not easy and prevented sleep or any peace. I was given a thin dirty stinky blanket and no bedding. I slept on the floor. The toilet was a squat toilet and I have trouble with my knees and my back, so I had problems going to the toilet.

 

I was not allowed any access to information (newspapers, radio, TV). I asked for newspapers, but was told that they were under strict instructions not to give me any newspapers. Other prisoners were allowed to watch TV, get newspapers, etc.

Retired Justice Tariq Mehmood, former president of the Supreme Court Bar Association. © 2007 Tanveer Shahzad

On November 15, the jail superintendent came to see me and asked me how I was. I told him he could see for himself, that is when I was given a mattress. I informed him that my knee and back pain had grown worse since I had been imprisoned. So an orthopedic surgeon was allowed to examine me. The surgeon told me that sleeping on the floor and using a squat toilet had exacerbated my ailments. He recommended I get an X-ray done but the home secretary declined the prison superintendant’s request for me to get an X-ray.

On November 26, orders were given to shift me to Kotlakpat jail in Lahore. I was brought for a routine medical examination to Services Hospital before being moved to Kotlakpat jail.

But here the doctor said I had developed complications while in prison and the doctors may have to operate on my knee. I am waiting for all tests. But the police are very keen to take me back to prison, it is only on the insistence of the doctors that I am still here. My wife and children came to see me once. Otherwise I am not allowed any relatives.

Afzal Haider (Musharraf’s law minister) came to see me and told me to play my role in reining in younger lawyers. Of course I refused. I told him: ‘I am your prisoner and am still wondering why I have been imprisoned. I am alone in my hospital room. It seems I am likely to remain here.’

When I was growing up, Pakistan was under martial law. When I began my career as a lawyer, Pakistan was under martial law. And now I’m an old man and Pakistan is still under martial law. This has to end. ⁵⁷

Tariq Mehmood was shifted to Islamabad on December 5 and placed under house arrest after his home was declared a sub-jail.

Aitzaz Ahsan

Aitzaz Ahsan is the incumbent president of the Supreme Court Bar Association and a former law minister of Pakistan. He was arrested early in the evening on November 3, 2007.  At the time of his arrest, he was addressing a press conference denouncing the declaration of emergency. The police surrounded his office, and arrested him in the presence of the gathered media.  After his arrest, he was initially moved to a local police station, and then shifted to Adiala jail in the nearby garrison town of Rawalpindi. At Adiala jail, he was placed under solitary confinement overseen by members of Pakistan’s military, and was denied even basic needs such as medicines, a change of clothes or bedding and blankets. His family was not provided any information as to his whereabouts or condition of detention for several days. During this period his wife was forced to go into hiding herself as the government issued warrants for her arrest and raided the couple’s homes in Lahore and Islamabad to arrest her.

On November 6, 32 members of the United States Senate wrote to Musharraf stating:

...It is simply not right that Mr. Ahsan is being jailed for doing his job as an attorney by defending rights of his client… We ask you to immediately look into this mater and urge you to release Mr. Ahsan from prison immediately.⁵⁸

The Pakistani government ignored the request.

About five days into his detention, Ahsan’s sister-in-law was permitted a 20-minute visit.  From November 3 until November 25, Ahsan was kept confined in Adiala jail, Rawalpindi. He was not allowed access to counsel and not charged with any crime nor brought before any tribunal or court.

On November 25, the authorities transferred him to Lahore in police custody to file his nomination papers as a candidate for upcoming parliamentary elections. He was then moved to house arrest at his home in Lahore, where he has remained ever since. His house has been declared a sub-jail, and approximately 40 policemen have been deployed there. He is not allowed to meet with anyone. The only person allowed access to him is his mother since she lives in the same house.

On December 2, one hour before Ahsan's 30-day detention orders were set to expire, the government issued new orders arresting him for an additional 30 days.

On December 3, Anne W Patterson, the U.S. Ambassador to Islamabad attempted to visit Ahsan. She was denied permission.⁵⁹

Ahsan spoke briefly with Human Rights Watch from house-arrest about his arrest and treatment in custody:

On November 3 at about 6 p.m., I was addressing a press conference at my house in Islamabad announcing to the press the judgment of seven judges of the Supreme Court setting aside the imposition of the emergency and the suspension of the constitution. This order had been issued on an application I had moved the previous day. The judgment had been faxed to me by the court. The police surrounded my house around 6:30 p.m., and in the presence of the press they arrested me and drove me in a police van to Kohsar police station in Islamabad. There were 35-40 officers. I asked them what the charge was. They had a detention order detaining me under MPO–preventive detention–without trial for 30 days. The law itself accepts that no crime has been committed but enables the magistrate to pass an order on the assumption that you may commit a crime.

At Kohsar police station, they kept me detained for about four hours sitting in the officer-in-charge’s office. At around 10:30 p.m., they drove me to Adiala jail about 20 miles from the station, outside Rawalpindi. I think we got there just before midnight. I didn’t have any bedding with me. It was a coldish November night. Jail authorities were respectful and the jail superintendent was polite, even deferential. He told me, ‘You are not a criminal, you are a political prisoner. We respect you and within the jail rules I will do my best to keep you comfortable.’

 

Aitzaz Ahsan, president of the Supreme Court Bar Association. © 2007 Aamir Qureshi/AFP/Getty Images

I think it was reported by spies in the prison system that the superintendent, a Mr. Beg, and his deputy had been kind because both were transferred the following morning and the superintendent was sent to the worst possible posting in the Punjab –Bawhawalpur jail. Munir Malik was in the next cell. [Retired general] Hameed Gul also came later. The attitude of the jail staff became very intimidating and humiliating after [the new superintendant’s] arrival. So, for example, if one asked for food, they delayed it by many hours. On November 5, my sister-in-law obtained an order from the deputy commissioner of Islamabad, who was the detaining authority, and she came with food for me – but they kept her and my nephew sitting on the floor the whole day – on the road – but did not let them in.

They would not allow us to move or give us rations and no newspapers were allowed. They particularly intimidated and threatened us with physical violence when they wanted to remove Munir Malik elsewhere. The jail staff was ready to beat us up but they were stopped at the last second. I was alone in my cell – but in the compound there were other people.

Things eased a little on November 7. It could be because of the letter sent by US senators seeking my release. I remained in Adiala jail until November 24. Then they brought me to Lahore to file my nominations for elections. On November 25 they shifted me to house arrest. My detention order has been extended until January 2.

It’s been hard but I am hesitant to talk about it because my colleagues in the legal fraternity have had a much harder time. People have been beaten badly, they have criminal cases to face. Right now, we must face what comes our way and restore the judiciary no matter what. ⁶⁰

On December 12, Pakistan’s Interior Minister, Hamid Nawaz, said that Ahsan would only be released “if he stops talking about running the ‘Judicial Bus’–a reference to Ahsan’s proposal that lawyers run a country-wide mass-contact campaign seeking the restoration of the judiciary ousted on November 3.⁶¹

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