My life as the widow of a slain police officer

It was the night of Independence Day in 2008. My husband, Sub Inspector Jaffar Baloch, was on duty near Lahore’s Moon Market. His police station was already on high alert. In the past few days they had arrested several militants from the area and were now receiving death threats.

Yet that day Jaffar was out in the open, policing the streets with 40 other men. Back at home, me and my three sons were celebrating. Then, the news spread. A suicide bomber had struck the Moon Market. The first TV reports stated that my husband had been injured. We immediately rushed out. But by the time we reached the hospital, Jaffar had already left us.

He was only 45-years-old.

At first no one would tell us. No one would give us a clear answer. No one knew how to tell three young boys that their father was no more.

On hearing about Jaffar’s death, one of my sons slipped out from the gathering and ran up to the roof. If his friends hadn’t pulled him back in time, that day I would have lost a son too.

The police say that when they found my husband at the blast site, breathing his last, a string of prayers beads was wrapped tightly around his right palm. On his lips was the Kalma.

It’s been nine years now. My sons have grown into young men. Yet, a part of us does not except that he is gone. The pain is still unbearable. I still wake up in the middle of the night hoping to see him home.

Life without him has not been easy. Jaffar earned Rs 16,000 per month, when he was alive. After he was martyred, the police service continued to send us his salary as well as paid for my sons’ tuition. If they had not helped I would have had to pull my children out of school.

Since Jaffar died, we have moved in and out of several rented homes. People often refuse to rent to widows of police officers. I have been asked, “How will you pay the monthly expense?” and “What if someone attacks our house?”

We are seen as a security risk and a financial liability.

Another widow I know is finding it extremely difficult to get her daughter married since she does not have a place of her own.

I am also going to take this opportunity to voice a complaint. My complaint is with the public, who label all police officers as “Gullu Butts.” It hurts our sentiments. Our husbands, sons and fathers lay their lives for this country. They work backbreaking hours to keep us safe. Please do not insult their memories. Please do not insult their sacrifice.

All I have left of Jaffar now are his shoes. We took home his bloodstained boots from the hospital, which my son’s have placed at the front door. Those shoes, they say, remind us that we are proud sons of a martyr.

As narrated to Natasha Mohammad Zai.