Illustration by Amara Sikander
The year ends; winter begins, shadows cast themselves early, birds stop singing as dusk falls around us, ushering in a long night of respite from all that one has strived for, failure ringing the promising rim of possibility. I stare into the pale light of a fading day, wondering if the fact of winter and its barren evenings has anything to do with the crimes that scar this land, the jagged blade of violence puncturing the thin veil of propriety that covers us, draping us in the subterfuge of silence.
So what are these voices that break through this empty space where light fades and corners merge with walls, ceiling descending to the floor, crushing all that breathes between the Earth and the sky? Why do I hear one particular voice, a young girl's voice, persistent, urgent, desperate to be heard? Why does my mind's eye keep going back to the lanes and alleyways of Kasur where this voice was last heard, perhaps gasping for breath as she, too, was crushed under the weight of the psychosis that possessed the young man who had abducted, assaulted and then murdered her.
Zainab Amin Ansari was not yet seven at the time she was taken away, raped, brutalised, then strangled to death, her lifeless body laid out in a garbage dump not more than 400 metres from her home. The frenzy over her disappearance whipped up by the media was matched by the fury of the people of her hometown who gathered in the hundreds and ransacked government installations, expressing their anger and venting their frustration. Zainab was the ninth girl to go missing in the space of two years, from within a two-and-a-half kilometre radius. Nothing seemed to have been done about the other missing girls, all of them except one found dead after having been raped and brutalised.
Then, suddenly, the volcano of resentment blew up and the people of Kasur made sure that the outrage in their hearts became known to their fellow citizens across the country. Posters of young Zainab, a beautiful little girl with limpid, grey eyes, were immediately printed and put up across the city walls. Two bloody hand prints, one on each side of Zainab's photograph, signified the terrible crime that had taken her away from those who loved her, knew her, watched her come and go, living the life of a six-year-old with her future stretching before her like a rice field, lush and bountiful.
It is almost a year since that fateful evening when Zainab disappeared. I have thought often of those cold, blustery evenings last January when I sat with her family or spent time with District Police Officer Zahid Nawaz Marwat and his staff, unravelling hundreds of hours of footage where Zainab could be seen traversing the narrow lanes of her hometown, never to return to her home except as a mutilated, desecrated, lifeless, limp corpse.
Through the piecing together of her story, through the diligent efforts made by her family and law enforcement agencies, as well as through the technical skills of the scientists at the Punjab Forensic Science Agency who studied the chilling evidence of sexual assault and murder provided by a young medical officer at Kasur's public sector hospital, Zainab's abductor and killer was identified and arrested within three weeks of her disappearance. He was convicted on four counts of assault and murder on February 12, 2018, and hanged to death eight months later, after the President of Pakistan rejected his clemency plea. Zainab's father, Amin Ansari, requested that the perpetrator be hanged publicly, citing Section 22 of the Anti-Terrorism Act of 1997 which empowers the government to hang a convict in public. This request was turned down by the Lahore High Court.
Amin Ansari, arriving at Kot Lakhpat jail early on the morning of October 17 last year, watched the execution of his daughter's killer and reported that he was satisfied that justice had been done, that this execution will deter others from committing such crimes. That is what has always been underscored when capital punishment is meted out to convicted criminals: that the state's decision to execute convicts leads to deterrence and a reduction in crime.
Perhaps Amin Ansari, still grieving from his young daughter's brutal death, did not know that the incidence of such crimes had actually risen since that dark January evening when Zainab had gone missing. According to the statistics provided by Sahil, a non-governmental organisation, more than 2,322 cases of child sexual abuse have been reported in the first six months of 2018, indicating a 32 per cent increase compared to the data for the same period of time in 2017. These cases increased from nine per day in 2017 to 12 per day between the start of January and the end of June in 2018. The data shows that, out of the total reported cases, 1,298 (56 per cent) of the victims were girls and 1,024 (44 per cent) were boys. The data also reveals that children in the age brackets of 6-10 and 11-15 have been most vulnerable to abuse. Zainab was just six; she was amongst the most vulnerable of all children who are often abused by those familiar to them or their families.