From the dark cell of prison

Financial Post starts today a series of stories which is an account of the life of Sohail Fida an inmate in the Haripur jail in District Hazara. Our interest in Sohail was aroused after reading his letter in the Dawn Magzine of "books and books", which was written from the death cell. His writing skills along with his intelligent grasp of his situation and living environment made us aware of the injustice and victimization prevalent in our society. The callousness and greed prevalent, the dishonesty and corruption rampant within the system.
We felt pain and our eyes swelled up with tears as we read about Sohail Fida's tragic life, of his youth being spent in prison and than being condemned to death and being in the death cell of Haripur jail, where he courageously faced the long endless nights and completed his double master's degree in International Relations and History.
Today, Sohail's death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment. We hope that after reading his story many will be inspired to gain insight and help him to prove his innocence. Help this brilliant young man who from jail managed to secure excellent marks and a seventh position in his master's degree in International Relations from the Hazara University.
We hope his dream about writing a book materializes into reality and this young man can bring his experience insight, education and positive attitude to help other's in similar situations. -Qudsia Kadri

I was born in Mangora, Swat which is in the news for all the wrong reasons. As I remember it was a serene and tranquil area of peace loving people, where everybody kept to himself. The people where religiously inclined but without any hint of extremism. Mullahs were confined to mosques leading prayers and delivering Friday sermons. It was so peaceful that women, in case of emergency could leave their homes even in the middle of night. Even through the number of women pursuing higher education was considerably less than the male, yet most of them did receive at least primary education. "Pardah" and "Burqah" were matters of choice not compulsion and those who did not cover their faces were accorded the same respect.
Before partition swat was a princely state ruled by Wali-e-swat unlike what has been reported about the rulers of other princely states, he is still respected for taking a keen interest in the socio-economic welfare of the subjects and developing the infrastructure of the state. He took special interest in promoting education and established a whole network of schools and one very beautiful "Jehanzeb college" and it is mainly due to his efforts that swat has a very high literacy rate. I remember as a youngster I seldom met a person who could not at least read and write. People were broad-minded. I do wonder from where all these half-educated and misinformed maulvi's have cropped up from.
According to the practice of the time my father married when he was still doing his graduation. Being the brightest and most hard working of all his brothers my grandfather asked him to give up further education and join him in business as soon as he completed his graduation.
My father was the first person in the family to have studied so far. He always lamented the fact that he was deprived of the chance to study further. He would have preferred to be a professor than running the business even if it meant being poorer that he is. So he took great interest in our education. My mother was educated till 8th class/grade. She gave me religious education, taught me the Quran and namaz and the basic tenants of Islam.
When I was six years old my father got me admitted in a school near our house, where my elder sister Salma was also studying. I studied there till the second class, when my father felt the school was losing its standard and admitted me to "International Education Public School and College" where I studied till matric. My father was a regular visitor to the school and would check on my progress. At home my mother and later my elder sister would help me with my homework. Despite all the efforts of my family I remained only an average student at best. My interest was taken up more by music and video games. I started reading the children's and other magazines only after I landed in jail and had nothing else to do. The most painful event of my school life is my 7th class result. I had passed with far less marks that the expectations of my father. I then committed a blunder and tried to tamper the results and did it so clumsily that as soon my father had one look at it his face turned pale. He had never hit me in my life but the words he spoke, sometimes haunt me even now. What will the principal and your teachers think, "That Fida Hussain's son is a cheater". When I was arrested the first thought that came to my mind was what will the people say, "That Fida Hussain's son is a murderer!" It was not the police torture and humiliation but this thought which still cuts through my heart like a knife. My younger brother once on a visit to my cell confided to me that he had tried the same trick on papa a couple of times and got away with it. Some people are just plain unlucky, who never get away with mistakes and blunders. And I think I am one of them.
Having learnt a harsh lesson I wholeheartedly (or at least tried to) study for the matric exams. And it is the day when my matric result was declared which is perhaps the most cherished memory of my early life. It was the last time I would see my father so happy. I will not forget his beaming smile which lit up his face and when he took my face in his hand saying" Sohail I am proud of you" I had secured only slightly more than average marks but was ofcourse over joyed for both making my father happy and the CD player which he had promised to buy me, if I got good marks.
It was the love of my father and not wanting to disappoint him which made me study hard enough so that I never failed a single exam, quite an achievement considering my lack of intellectual capabilities and my interest in extra-curricular activities.
The biggest influence in my early life was that of my grandfather (May Allah Almighty gave him a long long and happy life) He is a self-made person and was a successful businessman of his time. He started his career as a goods transporter (used to transport goods from on place to another on mules), through his sheer determination and hard work he became a successful businessman and established Swat's first petrol pump filling station before partition. He semi retired after fulfilling his ambition of constructing a filling station for each of his four sons. Despite being retired from business, even at the ripe age of 80, he was a daily visitor to our filling station. He was honest to the core and would himself check the meters to make sure no tampering had been done with meters and pumps. I like him most because he did lay great stress on education as my father did. He often joked with my father. " Don't try to make my eldest grandson a bookworm. Let him also learn about the business." He said, it was after all due to business that we were getting education in good schools. Often my grandfather would take me along to the station and tell me how he had started the business and how the pumps were manually operated when he set up the first pump. I would help him out with his accounting registers and daily logs and read the newspaper's to him. He himself could read and despite his age had excellent eyesight, he just liked me, reading to him because I was his favorite grandson.
He narrated that once when the car of wali-e-swat's friend had come to his village for the first time, the simple villagers placed grass and water in front of it, the wali-e-swat's friend sawari must be hungry after such a distance, they thought. My grandfather was ofcourse wiser than them, he owned the first filling station established in the area.
Upto the date of my being sentenced to death he enjoyed robust health. During the trial of my case, my father and uncles kept him unaware of the date of my court hearing's, they thought he would not be able to bear the shock of seeing me handcuffed and in police custody. Still he managed to find about my days of appearance in court a couple of times and came to reassure me that my grandfather was still alive and that he may be old but was still strong enough to get his grandson and heir out of jail.
I have not seen him for the past five years. His health started falling ever since I was sentenced to death, he has lost most of his eye-sight and hearing and is almost bed-ridden.
In my death cell and now in the barrack, often late at night, I have wondered with a broken soul, how my father would have faced him that fateful day when I was sentenced to death.
I have been told my grandfather blamed my father for failing to save my life. I wonder if he has forgiven him now that my death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment.

Part 2

Financial Post continues with the series of stories which is an account of the life of Sohail Fida an inmate in the Haripur jail in District Hazara. Our interest in Sohail was aroused after reading his letter in the Dawn Magzine of "books and books", which was written from the death cell. His writing skills along with his intelligent grasp of his situation and living environment made us aware of the injustice and victimization prevalent in our society. The callousness and greed prevalent, the dishonesty and corruption rampant within the system.
We felt pain and our eyes swelled up with tears as we read about Sohail Fida's tragic life, of his youth being spent in prison and than being condemned to death and being in the death cell of Haripur jail, where he courageously faced the long endless nights and completed his double master's degree in International Relations and History.
Today, Sohail's death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment. We hope that after reading his story many will be inspired to gain insight and help him to prove his innocence. Help this brilliant young man who from jail managed to secure excellent marks and a seventh position in his master's degree in International Relations from the Hazara University.
We hope his dream about writing a book materializes into reality and this young man can bring his experience insight, education and positive attitude to help other's in similar situations. -Qudsia Kadri

When it was time for admission in college my father wanted me to join Islamia College, Peshawar, where he himself had studied. One of the most distinguished institution and college of N W F P. But my mother opposed the idea saying i was too young and would be unable to adjust in a big city away from home, hence my father left the choice to me. I decided on Jehanzeb college swat. It has a most beautiful building and is named after the waali-i-Swat, who constructed it in 1953. It is said that the design of the building and architecture is based on the style of an English college.
Like every body else college brought a welcome change and greatly altered my life-style. No longer was it compulsory to attend each and every class.I had a lot more freedom and instead of just playing video games and listening to music, other extra- cirricular activities entered my life. Notable amongst these was the first and last love/crush on a girl who was studing in Matric. After a considerable long waiting and exchange of look's i managed to get my first letter across to her requesting for the phone number of her house. I recieved her reply the next day. Making a call to her was another problem, calling from my home was out of the question, so my friends introduced me to the owner of a PCO, who charged double the rate for the call and asked no questions. Over the next few weeks I would often spend hours on the phone with her. My whole life revolved around waiting for the appointed time of our phone conversations. I gifted her cassettes of Indian movies, Dil wale dulhaniya laay jaain gay, Hum dil day chukky sanam, Dil say, and Pardes.
I also gave her my picture and she promised to give me her picture too but before that promise could materialize I landed in jail. I am sure she would have been relieved that her picture did not fall into the hands of a criminal.
My romantic life had a span of four months, the thought of these four months would surely haunt her as a nightmare as she is happily married now, but for me these are all like the memories of many blissful years when I knew no worries and every thing appeared to be rose-coloured.
My father owned a filing station near Bahrain, the most scenic valley of Swat. One of my most strange memories is associated with a grave of a woman right next to our filing station. When she was pregnant she was murdered by her husband and her body dumped. When her body was found no one knew about her family at that time and my father along with other people arranged her funeral arrangements and buried her next to the filling station. I was very touched by her story and often spent hours along her grave and regularly visited her grave, especially on Eid days. I also started seeing her in my dreams, and for some strange reason other people also started visiting her grave, and would offer fatiha and pray for the fulfillment of their wishes, as they would at the shrine of a saint. The strangest thing is that often in my dreams she would tell me about some of the future events in advance. I am not a superstitious person and don't believe in things like magic and jins or extra-terrestrial objects and have never been inclined towards mysticism or Sufism, but this is a mystery of my life which I have not been able to solve. I wonder if it is a figment of my imagination or just another example of how the benificiant hands of Almighty Allah moves in strangest ways. The mysterious and strange aspect is that when her family learnt about her death and visited the grave (they were not from Swat) they told us that her name was Sohaila and this name is inscribed on her tomb stone.
One day when I was returning from college I saw a bird seller selling beautiful coloured small birds, I bought three pairs and brought them home. My grandfather admonished me saying how I would feel if god forbid I was imprisoned. I replied that I shall give them food and water and shelter and they are better off with me, where they have all the food they want and are safe from preying birds. Sensing that I would not change my mind, my grandfather just shook his head saying "Allah created birds to fly in the free air, who are we to cage them, but you will never understand these things".
The second of April 2000, is the most fateful day of my life when my world turned upside down. Early in the morning I learnt the shocking news of the murder of my friend (and cousin) Zubair. He had been murdered by some unknown person/persons in mysterious circumstances (the fact of it being a blind murder is also mentioned in the FIR).
His younger brother embraced me crying Sohail Lala my Zubair bhaijan is dead, he was weeping uncontrollably and instead of consoling him I broke down into tears myself.
The dead body had been taken to the hospital for post mortem. How painful it must be for a father to have an adult son murdered for no fault or reason and then have his body cut-up by the doctors (at that time I did not ofcourse know what post mortem meant) but then his body had a big stitch which ran from the neck to the abdomen, after doing the post mortem the doctor had stiched up the cut.
I kept on thinking who would commit such a heinous crime and murder an innocent boy who was friendly with every body he met, even strangers. May Allah Almighty rest his soul in peace and shower his grave with blessings. He certainly did not deserve to die especially at such a young age.
During the funeral ceremony I came to know that six people had been arrested on suspicion for involvement in the murder.
Later in the evening, I along with my cousin Rafiq were called to the Mingora Police Station. The police officials who sent for us said we were not being called due to any suspicion or as being suspects, but being friends of deceased they wanted to record our statements and perhaps we could shed some light on any possible motive a person may have for murdering our friend.
When I was going to the police station little did I know what fate had in store for me and that my college days and the dream of my teenage days was soon to be turned into a nightmare when I would wake to the harsh realities of the world.

Part 3

Financial Post continues with the series of stories which is an account of the life of Sohail Fida an inmate in the Haripur jail in District Hazara. Our interest in Sohail was aroused after reading his letter in the Dawn Magzine of "books and books", which was written from the death cell. His writing skills along with his intelligent grasp of his situation and living environment made us aware of the injustice and victimization prevalent in our society. The callousness and greed prevalent, the dishonesty and corruption rampant within the system.
We felt pain and our eyes welled up with tears as we read about Sohail Fida's tragic life, of his youth being spent in prison and then being condemned to death and being in the death cell of Haripur jail, where he courageously faced the long endless nights and completed his double master's degree in International Relations and History.
Today, Sohail's death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment. We hope that after reading his story many will be inspired to gain insight and help him to prove his innocence. Help this brilliant young man who from jail managed to secure excellent marks and a seventh position in his master's degree in International Relations from the Hazara University.
We hope his dream about writing a book materializes into reality and this young man can bring his experience insight, education and positive attitude to help other's in similar situations.-Qudsia Kadri

My father took me (along with my best friend, cousin, co-accused Rafiq) to the police station. When we entered the police station the officer incharge of the police station (SHO) was very courteous and called us son's and my father brother. He apologized to my father for the inconvenience and said he wanted to inquire from us whether we had any knowledge of the deceased's enmity with anyone, he said that six persons were already under investigation as possible culprits. Then he took my father aside and when the SHO came back his face was red with rage and he shouted to us "you are sitting on the chairs like you are the sons of the Prime Minister, get up you criminals". He told his subordinates to throw us into the lock-up.
Later, I learnt that the SHO had demanded Rs. 2 Lakh as gratification to set us free as we were according to him prime suspects, being the best friends of the deceased. My father being unaware of how the justice system works in our country, was outraged and an exchange of hot words took place between them. I wonder if my father feels his greed for 2 Lakh rupees is responsible for all the hardships me and my family subsequently faced. But I know it is not a matter of money, my father being a man of principles was infact infuriated by the allegation that I could commit such a heinous crime.
This complete turn of events had simply devastated me. My mind went so numb, I did not even feel afraid, I was simply dumfounded. After an hour or so gradually my mind started working and I started to feel the cold cemented floor of the lock-up. Evening turned into the night and I began thinking that after recording my statement they'll let me go. I was emotionally so exhausted that I went to sleep on the bare floor, less then an hour later I was rudely woken up by a constable who told me that the SHO and the DSP had come to take our statements.
One of them tapped his stick on my chest and said "you are under suspicion like the rest. All the emotional turmoil I had gone through in the last 10-12 hours took its toll. "It is easy to suspect the innocent while the criminals"… The slap from the powerfully built SHO cut short my sentence. Let me finish with the others I'll see you at the end. I spent a total of three days in this police station before the case was handed over to the CIA famous for "Cracking" difficult cases. I was taken to the "Saidu Sharif" CIA police station.
My hands were handcuffed and then tied with a hook at the wall, my toes just barely touched the floor. I had not slept for quite sometime and I would frequently doze off for a few minutes then awaken due to the jerk from the hand cuffs.
Early in the morning the inspector of CIA came and said to me "make it easy for yourself and tell it all before we have to extract it out of you". Seeing a blank expression on my face (I think I had lost the power to speak) he started kicking and slapping me and after a couple of minutes he was out of breath and left saying "This is CIA where even the hardenened criminals break down. He ordered the other policemen to beat me till I confessed. These beatings continued for three days but I refused to confess the crime I hadn't committed.
One of the ways of torture used by the police is hitting the soles of the feet with a stick it does not leave any marks and is extremely painful. I do not know where I got the strength from to withstand this torture, but all this was nothing as compared to what was next. When these beatings did not produce the desired results, they took me to the special interrogation room. My hands were tied behind my back and then with another rope my body was suspended from the hook in the ceiling upside down. My hands were below my head and all the body weight shifted to my shoulders and arms. The pain was most unbearable and I was crying out with pain. They would losen the rope after every fifteen minutes and bring me down, the constables would then ask me why I was intent on getting my bones broken, even if I was innocent I would not be spared of the agony, unless I confessed. After sometime I lost conciousness and was carried back to the lock-up. The next day they took me before the magistrate (In Swat magistrates and session judges are called Qazis, the courts function in the same manner like the rest of the country and the judges have the same qualifications but names of the court are changed, magistrate are called (Ilaqa Qazi and Session Judge Zilla Qazi) for recording my confessional statement, after my refusal I was remanded back to the police station I was produced before a doctor for the mandatory medical examinations, without even taking a look at me he pronounced me fit for remand and did not find any marks of torture.
The same beatings and torture, which had been going on for the last couple of days were repeated with even greater ferocity. The only moments of respite were when I was given breakfast (half a cup of tea), lunch some boiled daal (mixed with water and half roti) and dinner. These were given just to keep me alive. I tried to take as long as possible to eat as the momentary relief was nothing short of luxury. As my hands had been continuously tied above my head and due to the other torture I started losing feeling in my arms and was unable to even grip the cup of tea. (I was quite well built at the time of my arrest and had a muscular and atheletic body as I did regular exercises and loved climbing mountains) seeing the cup fall out of my hand the constable who was gurding the lock-up brought another cup of tea and helped me drink it. After my experience in the police lock-up and in jail I can safely say that the semi-literate and lower level policemen and jail wardens are far more sympathetic and kind-hearted than their educated officers. Perhaps their own poverty related sufferings make them aware of the -plight and feelings of their fellow humans.
Just when I had taken a few sips the Inspector entered the lock-up and was furious with the constable saying in Pushtoo "is he the husband of your mother that you have put the cup of tea to his lips".
"Sir his hands are not functioning the constable replied. This worried the inspector a little and he ordered one of the constables to call the massager (Malashi) and left. The constable said to me "Foolish boy do not act like Sanjay Dutt and Akshay Kumar this is real life, do as the Sahib says and spare yourself of the torture" I did not have the energy and words for a reply, I just gave a broken and battered smile.
During the initial days of my arrest I saw the father of the deceased a couple of times, he spent some time with the Inspector and when he came out of his room he gave me a ferocious look. The third time he came I called him saying "Uncle please at least listen to me". He came to me and said "The Inspector is convinced that you have murdered my son". I replied "you know me since childhood, why would I kill Zubair who was a dear friend and more like a brother". "My mind is paralyzed and I am just too confused to know what I should believe" he said and left. After having reflected innumerable times on his attitude especially in the solitude of the death cell, I do not blame him now, even though I was initially outraged. The shocking murder of his innocent young son had simply devastated him and it will surely haunt him for the rest of his life. After all he loved his son just like my father loves me, the attitude of my father would not have been much different if the roles were reversed.
After I had spent 11 days in police custody, in the morning of 13 April, 2000 he came to my cell again by now I had faced all the possible forms of mental and physical torture and humiliations. Every inch of my body ached with agony (pain does not accurately define what I was experiencing). My feet were swollen and it was impossible to even stand on my own.
He came to the lock-up and said in a most gentle voice "Sohail, son now I am convinced that you are innocent and if you today make a confession before the Qazi where the Inspector is taking you, I will write a compromise deed and get you out, there is not other way out believe me" I was 17 years old then and considered the brightest among my peers. I do not know why I fell for the trap perhaps because I was mentally exhausted and emotionally devastated and my body was all bruised and battered, this offer took all the fight out of me and I decided to confess the crime I did not commit ( In jail I was told that night and morning before an accused it taken to court for confession, they are given drugged tea, I am not sure if that was the case with me) Then he left the police station. Shortly afterwards I was taken to the court where I sat in a room adjacent to the court room while the Inspector went into the Qazi's court room. After an hour or so when I was being taken before the Qazi the deceased's father met me outside the room and showed me some paper saying that they were the papers of the compromise deed and everything was ready, I should do just as the Inspector had tole me to.
The Qazi just simply read out from the document in front of him and asked me if that was correct after my "no" or "yes" he took my thumb impression and signature at the bottom of the document. Later I learnt that before recording the confession the magistrate should also ask the accused if he was tortured by the police and he should also be made aware that he is not bound to make a confession and that he will not be handed back to police custody. There are good magistrates who follow this procedure and there are others who don't. I was led out of the court room with two policemen helping me walk and to the some procedure as before was repeated before the doctor and the to the big black gate of District Jail Swat, constructed by Waali-e-Sawat, who had built the Jahanzeb College of which technically, I was still a student.

Part 4

Financial Post continues with the series of stories which is an account of the life of Sohail Fida an inmate in the Haripur jail in District Hazara. Our interest in Sohail was aroused after reading his letter in the Dawn Magzine of "books and books", which was written from the death cell. His writing skills along with his intelligent grasp of his situation and living environment made us aware of the injustice and victimization prevalent in our society. The callousness and greed prevalent, the dishonesty and corruption rampant within the system.
We felt pain and our eyes welled up with tears as we read about Sohail Fida's tragic life, of his youth being spent in prison and then being condemned to death and being in the death cell of Haripur jail, where he courageously faced the long endless nights and completed his double master's degree in International Relations and History.
Today, Sohail's death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment. We hope that after reading his story many will be inspired to gain insight and help him to prove his innocence. Help this brilliant young man who from jail managed to secure excellent marks and a seventh position in his master's degree in International Relations from the Hazara University.
We hope his dream about writing a book materializes into reality and this young man can bring his experience insight, education and positive attitude to help other's in similar situations.-Qudsia Kadri

As I sat in the police mobile my mind was numb and it slowly and gradually downed on me what had happened and what lay in store for me. As soon as the threat of further torture had lifted, I was overcome with a sense of guilt for having shown weakness and confessed a crime I had not committed.
I had only a vague idea of what jail would be like. Maybe there would be prisoners breaking stones and a long mustached prisoner bossing the other, as in the Indian movies.
Entering the first gate of the jail I was rather impressed by what I saw. There were small offices of the officers and everything was neat and clean. The policeman took-off my handcuffs and handed me over to a jail warden. I was given a thorough body search, a couple of slaps and kicks and pushed through yet another small gate into a big imposing black gate into the jail. This initial welcome of kicks and slaps did not have any effect whatsoever as I had grown accustomed to far worse treatment during the 11 days police custody. Seven and half years back it was a mandatory practice to beat-up new inmates in jail, first to put fear of jail authorities into them (things are much better now as beating and humiliation of prisoners for minor things/offences has almost entirely ceased).
Inside the black gate I was rather surprised and again impressed by what I saw. The inner premises of the prison appeared somewhat similar to those of a Govt High School I had seen, the walls were taller and instead of a door and windows there were iron bars and grills. There a numberdar (they are convicted prisoners who are assigned to help jail authorities and wear red caps and carry sticks) gave another thorough search and then helped me walk towards the juvenile barrack as my feet were swollen and I couldn't walk on my own. When I entered the barrack, the boys who were all roughly my age and some slightly older stood up to greet me. It is customary for inmates ( especially among the juvenile prisoners) to greet fresh arrivals and make them comfortable. I enquired about my cousin, and co-accused Rafiq who had broken down earlier and made the confession a couple of days before me and was already in jail. I was taken to him, he was sitting with three other inmates roughly our own age Usman, Alam and Haji Gul. They remained our friends and shared in cooking and preparation of food, cleaning the bunks and washing clothes. Everybody share's what he has with other "Haandi Waals". As soon as we had settled down, Haji Gul announced lunch was ready, it was potatoes and green peas. I was most impressed by the food provided in jail, later I was told it was not provided by jail authorities but was arranged and cooked by my "Haandi Waals".
My right hand was numb and I had to eat with the left hand and even though I had great difficulty in eating, It was one of the most delicious food I have ever tasted.
After the meal Haji Gul massaged my shoulders and arms which relived the pain a little. I was told that I should act like a man and try to walk on my own no matter how painful it was, so that the people didn't consider me weak and I should not let my pain show.
At about four O'clock the barrack's were locked-up after counting the inmates in every barrack. In jail terminology it is called (gintiband). The barracks in jail are closed after "Asr" prayers and then opened in the morning half an hour after "Fajr" prayers. In the daytime they are again closed from 11 in the morning to 1 in the afternoon.
The other inmates had also suffered the same form of torture but were taken back when I told them what had happened to me, none of them had received the same savage treatment as I had and were therefore most sympathetic. After the evening meal I lay down and a couple of other inmates including Haji Gul warmed some oil and massaged my shoulders, arms and feet. A piece of brick was warmed and then wrapped in a cloth and then placed on various parts of the body which were blue and black with beatings. My feet after being thoroughly rubbed with warm oil were wrapped with bandages made of torn piece of cloth. As the barrack was over-crowded so I was given a space only two and half feet wide but it was still a luxury after the 11 night's in police look-up. Haji Gul brought a blanket and put it over me. Someone sent a glass of warm "milkpack" which soothed my nerves and I dozed off oblivious to everything. That first night, for me jail was nothing short of a luxurious rest house or a five-star hotel.
The next day a person came and gave me a small chit saying you have a visitor ( mulaqat in jail terminology) once a person is convicted and sentenced he has to perform different duties which are assigned to him according to his education or qualifications, strength and build of his body(The strong and well built are mostly made "Numberdar's") social status and whether or not he has any particular skill like electrician, plumber, barber etc. Those who can read and write properly are often made "munshis" It was one such "munshi" who brought the slip to me. When I reached the "visitors rooms" I saw my grandfather and younger uncle standing across the iron grills and iron meshing.
The first words my grandfather spoke were " why have you committed the blunder of confessing a crime you did not commit". He took one look at my face and said "Don't worry everything will turnout for the better, Inshallah". We had a brief chat and I asked why papa had not come, he said he too will come within the next few days.
He did come after two days and anguish was written all over his face and he looked exhausted, the expression on his face almost brought tears to my eye's it was with some difficulty that I stopped myself from crying. We talked for less than half and hour, he was visibly devastated by what had happened. He had come to reassure and console me, but he himself needed it more than me, before leaving he asked me if there was anything he could bring for me. More than from my own need and desires, it was out of his love that I asked him to bring my first-year course books and note books. This had the desired effect on him, as a faint smile appeared on his face and he left in slightly better spirits.
Gradually the pain in the body eased, the emotional scars would take longer to heal but I was already becoming a part of the jail routine.
The structure of the barrack and cemented bunks varies from jail to jail. ( In swat jail the barrack was 38 (L)X 14(W) ft at one end of the barrack there was a small roofless toilet and a small bathroom next to it, where one could bathe with a bucket. In front of each barrack there was a small open space to take a walk. Swat jail being only a district jail and not central jail did not have any proper walking ground.
Early in the morning I would wake up and offer the "Fajr" prayers with the rest. Then the preparations for the breakfast would start. Cooking in jail is done in small stoves made from empty cooking oil and "ghee" tins which are clayed from inside, coals made from burn-wood are used. Five kilo packet's of coal cost Rs 35 at that time it cost Rs. 110 now. The jail authorities provide one third part of "Roti" (called ticket in jail terminology) for breakfast and a small bucket of tea for every barrack. Normally we made our own tea and prepared breakfast, if we had a recent visit from home it consisted of eggs and bread or we would simply warm the ticket and swallow it with the tea.
After breakfast we attended the compulsory religious classes where basic kalmas and reading of Quran is taught by those convicted prisoners who have religious knowledge. Since I already knew these basic things so I just read one" Siparah" chapter of the Quran. After that I would busy myself with my course books, they provided me with a mental escape and I for once started enjoying the studies which uptil now I had considered nothing more then a boring burden. After studying for 3 hours from 8 to 11 I would take a walk in the verandah and the very small court yard of the juvenile sector. At this time my "haandi waals" would be busy in preparing the lunch. If none of us had a visit in the recent days we would simply take the boiled "pulses" daal sent by the jail and fry it with tomatoes and onions and then have a hearty meal.
The memories of 11 days in police custody were still a fresh so I rather enjoyed my early days in jail but I also suffered from bouts of depression when I would remember my family and how they would be suffering. It was to find an escape from such thoughts that I busied myself with my studies.
In the evenings we would watch a black and white Russian TV. In the juvenile barrack there was an old "Baba" prisoner to keep an eye on the juvenile prisoners. The one in our barrack was a lovely old fellow Ahmed Jan Baba, who would relate to me stories of his days in Bangladesh, where he was employed in a Bank.
After the Magrib prayers we would have dinner and after the Isha prayers I would again study till 11:00 p.m. My father and other family members would regularly come for visits and father said only one thing, that I should forget everything and just concentrate on my studies. After a lot of efforts he had managed to secure permission for me taking the exam in the examination hall from the I.G prisons. My father did not think it proper to bring my mother to meet me in jail, but he said she would come during my papers to the examination center. Then the exams started and I experienced a different sort of emotional stress. A head constable and two constables came to take me to the examination center. The three of them were most friendly and encouraged and praised me for my courage to have carried on studying even in the jail but the attitude of superintendent of the examination hall was completely different, he gave me a glare filled with hate and said the most heart breaking words "so a murderer has come from jail to take exams" and gave a thorough body search having experienced much wrose things I told him " If I have knowledge in my mind, I don't need to keep it in my pocked and socks". The boy sitting at the back of my chair was my college friend but he refused to shake my extended hand.
After I had taken the paper which went quite well despite my apprehensions, my father asked the head constable to allow me to have a meeting with my mother and family members in the Suzuki, the kind man that he was the head constable readily assented. It was for the first time since my arrest that I met my mother. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and all of a sudden broke down in tears. She wouldn't let go of my handcuffed hands and kisssed them. The exams also became a sort of family reunion as after every paper I would have a chance of meeting face to face my family, most importantly my mother.

(Part - V)

Financial Post continues with the series of stories which is an account of the life of Sohail Fida an inmate in the Haripur jail in District Hazara. Our interest in Sohail was aroused after reading his letter in the Dawn Magzine of "books and books", which was written from the death cell. His writing skills along with his intelligent grasp of his situation and living environment made us aware of the injustice and victimization prevalent in our society. The callousness and greed prevalent, the dishonesty and corruption rampant within the system.
We felt pain and our eyes welled up with tears as we read about Sohail Fida's tragic life, of his youth being spent in prison and then being condemned to death and being in the death cell of Haripur jail, where he courageously faced the long endless nights and completed his double master's degree in International Relations and History.
Today, Sohail's death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment. We hope that after reading his story many will be inspired to gain insight and help him to prove his innocence. Help this brilliant young man who from jail managed to secure excellent marks and a seventh position in his master's degree in International Relations from the Hazara University.
We hope his dream about writing a book materializes into reality and this young man can bring his experience insight, education and positive attitude to help other's in similar situations.-Qudsia Kadri

After the end of the exams I started feeling bored and jail started to take its toll mentally. Before and during the exams I used to spend my time studying for exams, now I felt a sort of vacuum in my life, therefore I asked my father to bring me some reading material. He would bring me different magazine's and digests which also included children's magazines (It was not untill after my conviction that I took interest in English books, novels and mostly digests) after reading them I also felt an urge to write and started contributing short stories for these magazines and digests (one of my stories also won a prize).
It was 30th of August 2001, one of the happiest and most memorable days of my life, when my first year F.A result was declared. The warden of our sector had become a friend of mine ad he admired me for pursuing education even from the jail. He himself was doing B.A as a private student, which is very rare for a jail warden. After the exams he had taken my roll-number and told me that he would let me know about the result when it was declared. That day he came literally running to my barrack (which too is quite rare for jail wardens except in cases of emergency) and said "Sohail give me a hundred rupee note and I'll tell you a wonderful news" I knew instantly that the results had been announced and that I had passed with atleast reasonably good marks. I gave him the hundred rupees and he said that I had passed with good marks. I felt like I had conquered the world and embraced the warden, I also did a little dance.
The inmates of the barrack were well aware of my anticipation and anxiety about the results and seeing me so happy they all came and started congratulating me, especially my co-accused Rafiq and other "Handiwaals" embraced and hugged me, since then I have passed many exams and securing 7th position in M.A "International Relations", but I did not experience the same euphoric happiness again, I felt myself to be on top of the world, I had proven that I was down but most certainly not out. I did not let my academic year be wasted and at least education wise was at par with my class-fellows and most importantly had not let my father down, despite the circumstances. I put on my best clothes and sat in anticipation, waiting with great joy for the visit from my father. I started imagining how he would be beaming with happiness and having a big smile, which I had last seen so long ago. I imagined him in different poses, with a box of mithai in one hand, perhaps he would make some "special arrangement" with the Superintendent or deputy Superintendent and come inside the grilled and meshed visiting room to embrace me and give a kiss to me on the forehead. I waited for him all day long taking a walk in the courtyard of the sector, merely seeing the slip of paper containing my marks and roll number gave me great satisfaction. As time went by I started to wonder what was keeping him so long, I thought he must have decided to break the news first to my mother. I imagined him buying sweets/mithai on the way home, my mother and grandmother would have raised their hands in a prayer to Allah on hearing the result and how happily my grandfather would have taken a piece of sweet.
I waited for him well after the closing time of visits. Finally it hit me that he had not come to congratulate me, what could have prevented him from coming, did he consider me guilty like others and had not forgiven me for bringing a bad name. I walked back to the barrack dejectedly and lay on my bunk. I did not eat dinner. All night different thoughts crossed my mind.
Next day Rafiq's brother came for a visit and brought a letter from father. He had stated "Sohail son, there are certain strange moments in life when one is not sure to be either happy or sorrowful. After seeing the results I wanted to rush to you and congratulate you, but I could not bear the thought of congratulating you and breaking such great news to you from across the iron bars. I did not have the courage to break such wonderful news to you in such painful circumstances. Your mother is also most happy. She did cry a little both out of joy and sorrow. Salma and Laila are overjoyed and Daaji (my grandfather) is the happiest of all. I have now recovered enough and will come along with Daaji tomorrow. Your mother will prepare food for the whole of your barrack. Sohail keep it up may Allah give you strength and courage".
In 2001 our case was put up for trial in the court of sessions judge (called Zilla Qazi in Swat, he is a session judge and all the proceeding are the same like the rest of the country, only the court documents are in urdu).
In order to strengthen the case police had also introduced a motive for murdering the deceased. We had allegedly committed theft in his house and then murdered him in order to hide the crime. The police had also claimed recovering certain stolen articles which included one set of binoculars, four shalwar kameez suits, twelve under vests, twelve pairs of socks etc. The CD player my father had gifted me on passing my matric exams was worth more than these items. The most vital aspect of the case was our confessional statements and they were the most damning evidence and the whole prosecution case was based on them. The magistrate who had recorded our confessional statements stated on oath that he had observed all the legal formalities including giving me the assurance that I was not to be handed back to the police even if I refused to confess.
As I have stated in the previous article, the judge had not observed most of these formalities and handed me back to the police on two previous occasions when I had refused to record a confessional statement.
The day of court appearance happens to be the most important in the life of an under-trial prisoner. I keenly looked forward to the days of appearance in the court as I could breath in the free air of the court lock-up. The days were rather like picnics as we helped ourselves to tea, biscuit's, cakes, Pepsi and rice.
All these things which were once an ordinary part of life now seemed a luxury. It was also lot easier to talk face to face with father across the bars of the lock-up than the iron meshing of the jail's visiting room. Our lawyer had assured us that it was a matter of time only and I will be free once the decision of the case was announced. This had greatly relaxed my father.
In the meantime I was also preparing for the F.A 2nd year exams. Passing the first year exam with reasonably good marks had given me confidence and I knew despite all the difficulties, I would be able to pass the second year exams too. The second year exams started in may 2002. The policemen who came to take me to the examination hall were most friendly and gave me a lot of encouragement and praised me a lot for showing courage and continuing my education even from the jail. The superintendent of the examination hall this time around was also a friendly person and wished me well. I had secured better marks than most of my college mates who had rudely ignored me when I took the first year exam. I asked the superintendent I did not want to sit next to them so he put a separate seat for me at the front, away from them. As soon as the policemen took me in the examination hall, he told them to leave the hall saying "Take the handcuffs off, he is my responsibility" And told them to leave the hall and wait outside.

Like the first year exams the second year exams too provided an opportunity for a sort of family reunion. I met my mother again after one year. The policemen who brought me to the examination hall even allowed us to take pictures. My father and mother both seemed to be in better spirits. However when I took my last paper my mother clutched my hands tightly and started crying and asked my father "Please don't let him go, stop him, don't let him go back to jail "This brought tears to the eyes of even the policemen who were anxious to get me back to the jail. My father assured her that not only will he take her to visit me in jail but also that I will be back home in a couple of months at the most as the trial of the case was near completion. He did bring her to meet me in the death cell.
The trial of our case completed with the argument of the lawyers on 22nd July 2002. The judge fixed the next day 23rd July for announcing the decision. I had a completely sleepless night. The next day I took a shower and put on my best clothes and took only a couple of sips of tea. I can not describe in words the anxiety I was feeling. Our lawyer had repeatedly assured us that there was nothing to worry about as we were sure to get acquitted (his predictions and assurance as it turned out were as flawed as his capabilities as a lawyer) I kept on trying to reassure myself that I was sure to get acquitted as I had done no wrong.

(Part - VI)

Financial Post continues with the series of stories which is an account of the life of Sohail Fida an inmate in the Haripur jail in District Hazara. Our interest in Sohail was aroused after reading his letter in the Dawn Magzine of "books and books", which was written from the death cell. His writing skills along with his intelligent grasp of his situation and living environment made us aware of the injustice and victimization prevalent in our society. The callousness and greed prevalent, the dishonesty and corruption rampant within the system.
We felt pain and our eyes welled up with tears as we read about Sohail Fida's tragic life, of his youth being spent in prison and then being condemned to death and being in the death cell of Haripur jail, where he courageously faced the long endless nights and completed his double master's degree in International Relations and History.
Today, Sohail's death sentence has been commuted to life imprisonment. We hope that after reading his story many will be inspired to gain insight and help him to prove his innocence. Help this brilliant young man who from jail managed to secure excellent marks and a seventh position in his master's degree in International Relations from the Hazara University.
We hope his dream about writing a book materializes into reality and this young man can bring his experience insight, education and positive attitude to help other's in similar situations.-Qudsia Kadri

Before leaving the barrack the fellow inmate's wished me well and sent me off with prayers of acquittal. Haji Gul my best friend embraced me and told me not to forget bringing the sweets (mithai) after being acquitted.
I met my father in the lock-up and he was even more tense than me he did not have the energy to say more than a few words, he ordered tea for us which remained untouched and sat all alone an a bench away from the lock-up all lost in his own thoughts. My uncles and Rafiq's father and brother had also come they were also under great stress.
It was after one o'clock that we were summoned to the courtroom. My father did not come with us, Rafiq's father and brother and my younger uncle accompanied us. Upon entering the court room, the reader of the court took our thumb impression and then the judge announced with a straight face and expression less voice "The charges leveled against you are proved on the basis of your confessional statements, and recoveries made on your pointation there by, I sentence you to death" by the time I had entered the courtroom I was completely exhausted by the anxiety and lock of sleep, I did not feet anything, my mind had just got blank it was when I left the courtroom that it slowly downed on me. I felt as if the sky had fallen on me and I felt as if a heavy stone had been placed on my head.
Once an accused is convicted the policeman try to rush him back to the jail to avoid any untoward incident. As we had been sentenced to death, the policemen were in a greater hurry. We were literally pushed into the prisoner's bus by the normally friendly policeman.
As the bus was being reversed I saw from the small opening in the bus, Rafiq's brother telling my father about the decision. I saw his head jerk towards the sky and as the bus left the court I saw he was still staring at the sky. That is too date my last vision of my father in the free air.
Once a prisoner's sentenced to death he is not kept with other prisoners in the barrack. The chief warden along with a guard of "Numbardars" and warden's took us to our cell and after giving us a thorough body search locked us in it along with an old prisoner. There is a rule in jail according to which only odd number of prisoners are kept in a cell that is either one, three, or five. So we shared the cell with this fellow who was put there especially for us to make the number odd. I took an instant dislike to him, he had a long beard and the first words he spoke were like poison to me "Boys ask forgiveness from Allah for whatever great sin you have committed and for which you got this punishment at such a young age". Having himself been convicted for "whatever great sin" he had committed, it was impossible for him to imagine that a person could be sentenced to death if he was not guilty.
As the news of our being sentenced to death spread our friends and other jail inmates rushed to our cell. They tried to calm and relax us and I tried to put on a brave face and tried to pretend as if nothing had happened, but all my internal feelings must have been apparent on my face. During my time on the death row called "Phaansi Ghaat" I have seen many people arrive after being sentenced to death and most of them try to pretend as if nothing has happened and all fail miserably. If nothing else the new environment of a cell is enough to make one nervous.
The next day my father, uncles and Rafiq's family members and my grandfather paid us a visit. The feelings of that meeting cannot be expressed in words. I desperately tried to put on a calm face and my father did not say much and it was my last meeting with him. After being sentenced to death the prisoner not allowed to go out of the confines of the small courtyard where the cells are located even for a visit. So the visitors are brought to the cell and our small cell was crammed with family members, seeing the small and dirty cell would have depressed them a lot also.
On the 27th of July three days after my conviction the chief warden came to our cell early in the morning and told us to get ready as we were being challaned to the central prison. We gathered what little possessions we had, and were not given a chance to say farewell to our friends, many of them did visit me in Haripur after their release.
A head constable and three constables had come with a police mobile to shift us to Haripur jail. They were rather surprised to find that they were taking boys of our age and not some hardened criminals, this relaxed them and they were rather nice to us. When I stepped out of the jail gate to sit in the police mobile I thought momentarily if they were the last steps I would ever take outside the premises of a jail.
As the police mobile started its journey I knew it would pass by one of my father's two filling stations. I desperately prayed that they would stop at it to get the tank filled with diesel and I would see my father and grandfather. But the mobile simply rushed by the filling station and I did not see either my father or grandfather at the filling station. I did not know it then that my grandfather had stopped visiting the filling station ever since the time of my arrest.
While seeing the beautiful scenery from the mobile I kept on wondering if it would be the last time I was seeing the beautiful trees and fields and small paths along these fields. This beautiful scenery which once held no particular beauty and looked ordinary seemed much more beautiful now. After travelling for about five hours the mobile stopped at a small roadside hotel. Judging from our age and appearance the police were convinced that we were incapable of causing any trouble and had therefore decided to have breakfast. They also let us out of the mobile to share the tea and "parathas" with them. I glanced at the hotel's signboard it stated "Insaf Hotel, Attock" (Justice Hotel).
Despite everything I did try to enjoy the breakfast, as it was the first I was taking in the open air sitting on a proper cot after two years and I thought possibly the last. The owner of the hotel was an acquaintance of the driver of the police mobile and learning that we were condemned prisoners, refused to charge any money. I have often day dreamed that when I am released, on the way home we'll stop at the same hotel for lunch, and I would introduce my self to the owner.
It was them minutes past noon when the mobile stopped in front of a big gate of an imposing building of the central prison Haripur. I checked the time on the watch my father had gifted me for passing my first year exams..............