KARACHI: On a cool Sunday afternoon, well before the arrival of the leaders of a political party and its workers, a heavy police contingent was lined up along main M. A. Jinnah Road. The men were armed with assault rifles for the security of this much-publicised rally, but the women carried just sticks.

It is not unusual to see policewomen ‘armed’ like this, an arrangement I decided to investigate. Why aren’t they properly equipped? And why don’t we see women in active policing roles, even though the PPP government that has been in power in Sindh for nearly a decade now makes so many claims about women’s empowerment? Conversations with some policewomen revealed that the bias against women extends far beyond the difference between a firearm and a piece of wood.

“You’re talking about a gun, I have not been promoted for the last 15 years,” smiled Constable Naila. She requested that I mention only her first name in this write-up, lest her candidness annoyed her bosses and landed her in hot water.

Why didn’t she get promoted, I wondered. Yet the fact is, Naila is not alone: some 1,100 Sindh policewomen have been waiting for promotion since 2000, and by now most of them have given up hope.

The regular promotion system in the Sindh police has not only ignored these women but also offered no promise for the future.

“In 1994, legislation about a women’s police force was brought in, and a women’s police station was established, inspired by the vision of the then prime minister Benazir Bhutto,” said Assistant Sub-Inspector Azra. Constable Naila had referred me to her when she found she could not answer my questions about the policy. We were sitting at a ‘police reporting camp’ just outside the Quaid’s mausoleum, set up for the security of the rally.

“When those laws came into place, a women’s police station was established and policewomen ranking from constable to sub-inspector were recruited,” ASI Azra explained. “I joined the force the same year. Unfortunately, that move was never accepted by the hierarchy. Some of them even approached the court to render the legislation null and void. The court ordered in their favour, but one of our colleagues challenged that verdict and got the law reinstated through a service tribunal.”

“Last year, the Sindh police force witnessed promotions at all levels on a very large scale,” said another policewoman at the camp who did not want to share her name. “Isn’t it ironic? What I’m saying is sensible, I’m arguing for justice. But I’m nevertheless afraid to share my name since I could get into trouble if the bosses get angry. We have spent half our lives in the police force, working more than 10 hours a day, standing by our duty through thick and thin. But all to earn nothing: neither respect nor promotion.”

Fear of their superiors’ ire, combined with cultural and social constraints, prevent these women from fighting their case at legal forums. Those that are politically aware say they saw some hope arise in 2008 when the PPP formed governments both at the centre and in Sindh. They dreamed that the vision of slain party leader Benazir Bhutto would be revived by the PPP. But that hope has died, too.

“None of those 1,100 women had any political association or history with the PPP,” says ASI Azra. “But you know, PPP always gives hope to women as it’s a party of working women and also because its leader was a woman. We felt something was going to change – but it was just an illusion.”

Constable Naila, with whom I had interacted first, shared an interesting thought. “I think the political parties or leaders only take notice of women’s plight when it comes to point-scoring,” she said. “Look what happened in the Sindh Assembly.” She was referring to an unseemly verbal duel in the provincial assembly last month between Nusrat Seher Abbasi, a female member belonging to the PML-F, and a male PPP minister, Imdad Pitafi. It was so inappropriate that it attracted the attention of party chairman Bilawal Bhutto-Zardari and his sister Assefa Bhutto-Zardari, forcing the provincial cabinet member to extend an apology.

“We often joke amongst ourselves that we need to persuade just one of our 1,100 colleagues to attempt self-immolation in order to draw our leaders’ attention. Only then the other 1,099 will get promotions,” said Constable Naila.

“It’s not a bad deal. Her sacrifice will be remembered for ever.”

Her words made her colleagues, including men, burst into laughter.

But it made me think, as the policewoman who did not wish to be named had said minutes earlier, wasn’t it ironic?

Published in Dawn, February 3rd, 2017