THE ‘UNDESIRABLES’
One Friday night in January, Neeli Rana received a phone call from a fellow transgender Muskan who sounded anxious and edgy. “I have this feeling of dread creeping up my skin,” she said to Neeli. “Should I come over to where you are?” Neeli gave her the address but only a minute later Muskan backed out, saying she’d be alright.
A day later, Muskan was found stuffed in a washing tub, her legs crossed like a bow, her arms splayed outside. Her throat had been slit with a 3-inch broad knife, and blood splattered on the walls and floor of her cramped mosaic bathroom. There had been no forcible entry so the suspect was in all probability an acquaintance.
The murder has still not been completely solved.
Yet when Neeli Rana went to the police with information, instead of helping her, they turned the tables on her and blamed the lifestyle of the ‘khwajasiras’ for attracting trouble. “Abuse and harassment by the police in any form is no secret for us,” says Neeli Rana, who is sitting in her Lahore office of the Khwajasira Society (KSS) that works for spreading awareness among the transgender and intersex community about health issues like HIV and hepatitis. The office is a decrepit building of rough red bricks, situated off a very busy main road. Every time heavy traffic passes by, it vibrates and resounds as if an earthquake is imminent.
The KSS office is a bare bones type of place – faded blue paint on the walls, some of it peeling in places where seepage has invaded and very little furniture. A dusty computer sits on a small desk in one of the rooms. There are a couple of posters plastered on the wall for HIV programs and other health campaigns by the UN and the Punjab government. On top of a steel cupboard are two huge cartons full of contraceptives sent by the UN. But mostly there is the rough, ad hoc manner in which everything has been kept, as if things must be accessible at all times for everyone.
The scenes capture the forsaken state that the transgender find themselves in: orphaned, ignored, and cast adrift.
Pummelled by the police
For old-time khawaja sirahs (or transgender as they call themselves), it would have sounded like a pipedream at one time to have their very own organisation addressing their health issues. Yet this is exactly what KSS does. For the workers at KSS, their work is integral in protecting their people because “no one else will.” The protection they seek is often from those who ought to protect them in the first place: the police.
Neeli, who is the field supervisor, is tall and well-built. She sits in her office dressed simply, her hair tied back, not a trace of make-up on her face. She is also busy answering phones and maintaining liaison with community members. Some people call her for help, others call to show their concern.
Protesting for justice in the case of Muskan’s murder, a group of transgender had stood for some time at the busy Charing Cross intersection on February 13, 2017. Right after they left, a suicide bomb ripped through the area, leaving over 13 dead, including some high-ranking police officials.
They are still shattered from the incident, shocked at having left unscathed. Not knowing all the facts, they even believe that they may have been the intended target.
“Who knows? Anything can happen to us,” says Jannat Ali who has just entered the room to search for something. Among her comrades, Jannat stands out as the most educated: a gold medallist MBA, who came out of the closet only after finishing her education and was eventually accepted by her parents. Unlike most transpersons, she lives happily with her family.
Because of the blast the subject inevitably turns towards the violence they face.
Along with Muskan, the khwajasira community was also protesting the murder of Imli. They allege that Imli was killed by her boyfriend whom she was living with. A few days later, they discovered that Imli’s parents had forgiven the boy, probably in exchange for blood-money. “Most families prefer to keep these cases hidden,” explains Neeli, citing the fear of their reputation being tarnished. “They believe it is simply more convenient to take the money and move on, instead of pressing for justice.”
It is our Gurus who raise us and protect us, yet CNICs want to see the father’s name who has thrown us out on to the streets — why? And when we ourselves are telling them our sex, who is anyone to ask for a medical certificate?”
But where the police is concerned, hate crimes against khwajasiras are simply not properly investigated and no investigation officer is assigned to crimes committed against them. In fact there aren’t even proper records of how many murders or other violent crimes have taken place because the police tend to note the sex of the victim or survivor as that of a man and not a khwajasira.
“We have always faced disrespect and even abuse from the police, particularly from junior officers,” says Jannat. “It is rare for us to be treated like humans by them. In this instance, we had issues with how the investigation was proceeding in both cases of murder.”
Instead of helping them out by collecting clues and evidence, the police put pressure on the community by telling them to bring forward the suspects themselves. “It is also common that whatever the crime is, we are told that it is because of our ‘immoral lifestyle’ that we are the targets. Just imagine, whatever crimes that a woman faces, we probably face more.”
Bijli who lives in a dera (community) with others in a squalid area near Model Town says that the police are their very first aggressors. “With the police we feel even more scared than we do with regular citizens.” Bijli says that recently, she witnessed a transgender being beaten up by a cop with a baton. “It was all happening in broad daylight,” she says, recounting how the cop had told the transgender beggar to ‘move away’ from the traffic signal and stop bothering the public. But at the same time, the women at the same spot were ‘allowed’ to beg.
“It is normal for the police to just call us one day — frequent visits to the station has led to the police knowing our numbers — and summon us to the station on the pretext of having ‘something important to discuss’,” explains Bijli. “And when we do go there, it ends up in physical or sexual violence at the most, but most times, it is an excuse for extorting money from us.”
Her friend Laila, a 34-year-old transgender, says she was picked up by the police once and taken to the station. The policemen were drunk (it was late night) and she was gang-raped. Her money was taken away too. Then they decided to leave her on the roadside, only to be rescued later by two men on a bike.