With every kick against the door, it felt as though a dagger was tearing a piece of our hearts. The sound, like an explosion, reverberated through the silent house, sending shivers down our bodies. Panicked and silent, we huddled against the walls, where even our shadows dared not appear. Each blow to the door landed not only on the rotting wood but also on our bones. In the brief pauses between the strikes, trembling breaths escaped our throats, as if those fleeting moments of silence were our only chance to feel alive. But as soon as the sound of fists and kicks resumed, our breath caught, our throats dried, and fear surged through our veins.
This nightmare lasted nearly half an hour. In those moments, we clung to each other, silent, with eyes full of tears, hearts heavy with the pain of helplessness, and souls praying for a miracle—that they might not come, that they might pass by. But what came was neither a miracle nor mercy; it was raw terror. Finally, they broke down the door and entered the house with cold, relentless violence. Four men with stern, emotionless faces stormed in and headed straight for the bathroom. They had kicked so hard that sweat dripped from their foreheads and necks. They washed their faces. With chilling indifference, they poured water over their hands, as if they hadn’t just terrified human beings, broken into a home, wounded hearts, or trampled human dignity. And then, the interrogation began—abrupt, merciless, heedless of the fact that we were still reeling from the grip of death.
They recount that we weren’t just hiding from the police in that house, but from humanity itself. We weren’t crying; we were crumbling, slowly, piece by piece, silently. In the darkness of a house that was no longer a home, no longer a refuge. A place where fear seeped from the walls, and with the breaking of the door, our muffled sobs grew louder; our silent screams turned into a roar within the heart of the silence.
These two sisters, who have felt the agony of displacement, the pain of exile, and the sorrow of helplessness in every fiber of their being, had set out on a journey hoping for a better tomorrow. But now, in a house that was supposed to be their sanctuary, their only refuge is each other’s embrace. Tamana weeps uncontrollably, her eyes red with fear. Khatira, the younger sister, holds her tightly, trying to comfort her, perhaps to ease the overwhelming dread that fills the air.
Plainclothes police officers entered the house without warning. Their cold faces, emotionless gazes, and heavy steps suffocated the space with fear and anxiety. With every step they took, it seemed the walls trembled, and safety fled the house forever.
Seeing the terrifying impact their presence had on the two girls, they showed no compassion and demanded their residency documents. Tamana and Khatira, whose visas had lapsed due to delays in the renewal process, handed over their passports and other documents to the police. With trembling voices, they explained that their father was hospitalized, and out of fear and anxiety, they hadn’t dared to open the door.
But even this explanation, amid an atmosphere of fear and tears, did not soften the police’s resolve. The officers, colder than stone, decided to arrest the two girls on the spot. Tamana wept incessantly, her voice shaking, her breath faltering. Khatira, still holding her, struggled to conceal her fear.
Tamana, with a trembling voice and tear-filled eyes, says: “I was so terrified, crying uncontrollably and screaming. I wanted to throw myself out the window. The terror was so intense it felt like they were launching a military operation to arrest the world’s most dangerous terrorists. Each time they kicked the door, I thought the blow was landing directly on my heart. I pressed myself against the wall, trembling. Khatira held me and told me to stay calm, but she was shaking too.”
Khatira, who was also frightened, adds that in that moment, she felt utterly helpless and alienated. Without committing any crime, the police turned off the hallway’s security camera and began kicking the door. She says, “I was scared too, but Tamana was crying so much. I tried to comfort her. When they entered the house, they went straight to the bathroom to wash their hands and faces because they were sweating so much. They searched everywhere. It was terrifying; this will remain the most bitter and painful memory.”
In Islamabad these days, Tamana and Khatira are not the only ones facing such a bitter fate. Dozens of other children, women, and girls are experiencing similar ordeals. In the early mornings, when men, instead of going for a walk, hold their children and flee to abandoned areas to avoid police arrests, they count themselves fortunate for any day they escape detention and search for temporary refuge for the next.
You can read the Persian version of this report here:
ضربه بر در، لرزه بر استخوان؛ روایت دو دختر پناهجو از یورش پولیس پاکستان
