THE humidity hangs heavily in the air but doesn’t deter the quiet protest by a small group of women. They sit silently, their heads bowed, a small splash of colour against the grey concrete. With their old-fashioned hand fans, they occupy a sheet of plastic in the middle of the road.
The nearby green areas, which once allowed Pakistan to bring its problems to Islamabad by holding protests there, is closed to these women. The earth and grass are far too comfortable for them to be allowed there. They have to sit on the road, close to a busy commercial area, but away from the business in the area, as traffic barriers create a boundary, separating them from life in the capital. They have been here for a month but have not managed to disturb the life of the city or the government. How can they when even the doors of the washrooms of the press club close by are closed to them? Those who should be the flag-bearers of freedom of information are now a part of a system which bears down on citizens rather than standing up for the oppressed.
So it’s not just the washrooms but also coverage which is denied. These protesters are ignored, blacked out. There was a time, when such a gathering would have galvanised enough opinion to put any government on the back foot. Not anymore. The women’s steadfastness in this heat and in these circumstances moves no one. Perhaps partly because most people do not even know they are here and partly because this government has no space to even pretend to care about human rights.
The protest has been rendered invisible.
But then the political suffering of women has been normalised in the abnormal times we live in — the women in Islamabad who are not even allowed to sit on grass lest it prove too comfortable, or Mahrang Baloch who has been imprisoned with little chance of any relief in the near future. In Lahore, Yasmin Rashid has been behind bars for two years, with little concern for anyone outside of her party (which can barely do more than pay lip service to the matter). Her age moves no one; neither do the elderly women sitting on the road in this heat in a corner of Islamabad, carrying pictures of their missing loved ones in their heavily wrinkled hands. Their endless wait is for closure as well as some compassion from those in charge.
Ask the government about anything untoward and they simply shrug it off.
But suffering and lack of compassion have been normalised in the abnormal times we live in. As has been the indifference of political parties, which can no longer even pretend to care. Not even those who continue to bask in the glory of a woman who was once the lone symbol of suffering and the target of the powerful ones.
This is not all that has been normalised.
Consider journalism. Arrests, FIRs, disappearances — temporary and permanent — were part of what journalists signed up for. What it meant was that only the brave ones would continue down certain paths (most opened the door and walked through to the compound where awards adorn one’s resumé). But despite this, we have seen a fair share of brave souls who continued to face the dangers. Here too, though, there is an effort to remind them that this may not prove enough.
In recent times, at least two journalists have spoken about how the bank accounts of family and even acquaintances have been blocked. Parents, siblings and even vendors who made the mistake of selling to pesky journalists have been affected. The only recourse left to them were the courts, which, too, are now enveloping themselves in the mantle of indifference. But the message is that collective punishment is the fate of those who will not heed more specific messages about falling in line. Or that the element of surprise will always be their fate. When blocked bank accounts did not prove enough, one of them was stopped from flying out of the country recently. Since then, a PTI politician’s daughter has also found her way to the list. Her father is neither in power nor in parliament and is perhaps not in a position to make any decision but still had to be sent a message. And for this, a university student was stopped from leaving the country, putting her education at risk.
In all of these random, seemingly disconnected incidents, there is a commonality — no one can be asked about them or even shamed. The government has moved beyond this — ask them about anything untoward and they simply shrug it off. There must be a reason, a valid reason, is the only answer. If it’s a journalist, he or she must have done something wrong to attract the ‘long arm of the law’. And if there is a story involving a politician from the opposition, the easiest response is to either hint at the former’s non-patriotic credentials or feign ignorance and move on.
Indifference has been normalised in these abnormal times.
And while some of us do express horror, grief and shock, it amounts to little; the second such incident is taken in its stride. It has already happened to others and if the previous incident was accepted, so should the new one. The shock and horror turns into acceptance.
But then, these are abnormal times, we tell ourselves. And they might not last and neither will these stories. However, this provides little comfort for I can remember when we first began to hear of ‘missing people’; when stories about the missing were read avidly because it was so new. Or when suicide bombings first happened in Pakistan. Then the times changed, leaders changed but we learnt to live with the missing and the suicide bombers. Times don’t last necessarily but the abnormal soon becomes normal.
The writer is a journalist.
Published in Dawn, August 19th, 2025