Under an unforgiving Karachi sun, Qari Zaeenuddin and his daughter patiently stand outside Ameen House — a hostel turned detention centre — in the Sultanabad locality. The duo is surrounded by nearly a dozen policemen and their vans guarding the building, where hundreds of Afghans from across the city have been brought of late.

The father, a petite man dressed in a shalwar kameez and white topi, clutches a file close to himself. The girl, whose face is hidden under a naqab, carries a bloated backpack, the weight of which bends her 18-year-old timid back. Both are sweating profusely, but wait silently for their turn. When the station house officer of the area makes an appearance, they rush to him. There is more waiting to do, they are told.

Zaeenuddin, an Afghan refugee, migrated to Pakistan in 1996 when he was just a boy. Initially based in the Hazara division of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, he later moved to Karachi, where he got married. Bibi Razia, who is accompanying him, too, was born and recently married in the port city. On the third day of Eid, however, her husband was arrested from a naan shop in Banaras, Orangi Town.

“He lost his POR (proof of residency) card, and so they took him,” he says. That day, Zaeenuddin made multiple visits to the area police station before he was told that Kamaluddin had been sent to Ameen House. “I have come here with all the documents,” he points to the file. Inside is Razia Bibi’s neatly stapled POR card, marriage certificate, birth certificate and vaccination cards.

“I have one request: either let him out or take my daughter in too so that they can both go to Afghanistan together … what will she do here alone?” the father cries. “I will wait all day if need be, but I won’t leave until I’m given a definitive answer.” And so Zaeenuddin continues to stand outside the hostel until one of the policemen gives him a seat.

Pakistan has in recent days witnessed hundreds of Afghans dragging their belongings across the Torkham and Chaman borders as the government began its second drive of deportations on March 31, which targeted those holding Afghan Citizen Cards — an identity document jointly issued by the Pakistani and Afghan government in 2017.

The drive is part of a larger campaign that the government began in 2023 to repatriate all illegal foreigners. Under the first phase, all undocumented Afghans were deported, those who didn’t have identity proof.

In Karachi, over the last five days, at least 307 Afghan refugees, particularly those holding an Afghan Citizen Card or ACC, have been sent back to the country their families fled from years ago, according to a provisional police statement available with Dawn.com. Separately, 11,272 Afghans have been repatriated through the Torkham border crossing since April 1.

In 2017, Pakistan, in collaboration with the Afghan government, introduced the ACCs, which were to be issued to those who could not obtain the PoR cards for some reason. The estimated number of ACC holders is around 840,000.

Many of those who crossed the border left behind not only the property, homes and lives they built over the years, but also family members. On the other hand, the ones on this side of the border have found themselves in a constant state of panic and distress.

A tug of war

At an hour’s distance from Ameen House, fear is palpable on the streets of Afghan Basti — a four-decade-old settlement located on the outskirts of Karachi. The road leading up to the camp is almost deserted, the only exception being the honking of loaded trucks.

But deeper inside the safety of the narrow and uneven lanes, the first signs of life appear; young men gathered around a foosball table, children running barefoot, a newly constructed mosque, freshly baked kulchas and the aroma of seekh kebabs.

“Here, we are safe,” says resident and tailor Ibadullah. “Most of us have not stepped outside for almost a week now for fear of being arrested.” A crackdown on the informal settlement a few days back has left him and his neighbours shaken. “Personnel of law enforcement agencies entered our homes and arrested people without even checking their IDs,” he recalls.

A similar incident also took place near the Al-Asif Square at Sohrab Goth on Thursday, a 23-minute drive from the settlement where most Afghan men come for work. Policemen conducted raids and arrests.

“They say we are living here illegally … we were born and raised here, how can we be illegal? These POR (proof of residency) cards were given to us by the government,” Ibadullah says, taking the card out of his pocket. “Why did they issue it to us if we are illegal?”

The POR cards were introduced in collaboration with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and were issued to over 2.15 million Afghan refugees between 2006 and 2007. These cards were valid for two years, after which they would have to be renewed every two years. Under the programme, the refugees can avail benefits such as opening a bank account, getting jobs and acquiring education.

According to Advocate Moniza Kakar, the government’s deportation deadline for POR holders currently stands at June 30. Kakar is a lawyer and founder member of the Joint Action Committee for Refugees.

He claims that the arrests are money-making tactics. “If you give them (the police) money, they will spare you. If you don’t, they will pack you up and send you to the detention centre,” an angry Ibadullah alleges. “What other option do we have? It is a tug of war between hiding here and getting deported.”

For some, though, the battle is between life and death. Gul Alam, Ibadullah’s neighbour, stands subdued nearby. Lately, he finds it difficult to walk or stand for long. A kidney patient, he has to make weekly trips to the Dr Ruth Pfau Civil Hospital in the city centre for treatment, but it has been two weeks since he left his home.

“I have nine children, most of them daughters, what will they do if I am deported?” he frowns. Nearby, a young girl peeks from a stained and hastily sewn curtain draped on the main entrance of the house and brings out a tablet with water for her father. “She does not even know what or where Afghanistan is,” the 55-year-old says.

Most of the residents of the Afghan Basti hold POR cards, which means they aren’t being deported yet. But that does not ease their fear or anxiety. “When they come, they don’t ask for cards, they just use sticks and brute force.

“This has forced so many families to leave the basti and go into hiding,” Alam adds.

From bad to ‘worse’

The raids and crackdowns that Afghan refugees narrate follow a pattern similar to that of 2023, when the deportation campaign first commenced. But Saeed Husain, an anthropologist whose work focuses on Pashtun migration in Karachi, highlights that they have become aggressively worse.

“They are raiding houses and plazas past midnight, and picking up people just based on the suspicion of looking like an Afghan,” he tells Dawn.com. “And once arrested, these people aren’t taken to the magistrate as per due process; instead, they are directly taken to Ameen House and the border from there.”

Ameen House was officially designated as an Afghan detention centre in 2023. But Saeed calls it a “black hole” because neither lawyers nor activists are allowed inside. “We don’t know how many Afghans are there, what conditions they are in or how they are treated.

“We also don’t know if the people arrested hold ACC permits or POR cards,” he adds. The Afghans whose family members were taken to the hostel also expressed similar sentiments.

“My nephew is at the detention centre and sent us videos,” an aged resident of Afghan Basti, who wished not to be named, shares. “Around 50-70 people are clamped in a single room, it is extremely hot, and they are being given food only once a day. Hundreds of people are being forced to share a single washroom.”

Dawn.com also visited the tightly guarded Ameen House but was also not allowed inside. The hostel sits next to the Ranger headquarters near Haji Camp. There are hardly any signs that tell it is a detention centre, which Saeed says were there before but have been taken down lately. Only the flurry of activity, most of which takes place at night, signifies that something is happening inside.

According to Deputy Inspector General-South Asad Raza, the hostel is a “bare minimum shelter home that provides lodging and food”. Teams of the National Database and Registration Authority and the Federal Investigation Agency are present at the centre for verification.

“So if in case an Afghan with a POR card is brought, they will be handed back to the respective police station if the Nadra database confirms the same.”

DIG Raza further adds that the police did not have any instructions from the government regarding showing high-handedness towards the refugees. Rather, they were given the “task of detaining and deporting those who weren’t leaving voluntarily”.

In case of an arrest, “if any illegal Afghan is arrested, he/she may be presented before the court after being charged under the illegal foreigner act and then sent from jail to the Chaman border for deportation”, he explains.

However, the DIG admits that there were some “handling issues” where Afghan refugees holding POR cards were also detained, leading to scuffles. “But by design, our duty is to repatriate them in a respectful and dignified way.”

To Chaman and beyond

Meanwhile, at the Ameen House, the refugees undergo verification and biometric scans that are conducted by teams of Nadra and FIA. These are used in preparing lists or a “manifest document”, Raza explains. It includes the refugees’ names, IDs, picture, age, gender and the border through which they are set to enter Afghanistan.

Once the document is prepared, the refugees are all filled in buses and taken to the Chaman border via Jacobabad. In the wee hours of Sunday, a convoy of six buses, each with a security in charge on board, departed from Ameen House and headed to the Malir Expressway onto the Karachi-Hyderabad Motorway.

Escorted by eight police mobiles, these buses make a stop at a similar detention centre in Jacobabad, from where they head to Chaman, which is at a distance of six hours.

At the border, the “manifest document” is shared with officials from the UNHCR and the Afghan government. For the refugees, those moments are their last in Pakistan, before they enter a country they or their parents were forced to escape.

According to Saeed, who is also a member of the Joint Action Committee for Refugees, once the border is crossed, it is very difficult to maintain contact with those back at home. “Because these people are now looked at with suspicion from authorities on both sides of the border.”

The Taliban government, he continues, has even said that they can’t take in all the refugees. “Where does that leave these people then? You have forced them out of one country and sent them to a place that doesn’t want them.”

UNHCR spokesperson Qaiser Khan also expresses similar concerns in a chat with Dawn.com. “It is imperative that the return of Afghan refugees is voluntary and dignified so that their reintegration in Afghanistan is sustainable,” he says, highlighting that the body is urging Pakistan to look at their situation through a humanitarian lens and calling for engagement between Islamabad and Kabul.

He adds that the agency is also in talks with the government regarding the arrests of Afghan refugees, and lawyers are working on the release of those seeking asylum and POR holders.

Fight till the end

Hundreds of miles from the Chaman border, the residents of Afghan Basti hide their fears, apprehensions, anger and disdain under a veneer of hope. One of them is Ziaul Haq, who runs a general store in the area, atop which the flag of Pakistan is hoisted. The walls of his shop are painted with ‘welcome’ in Urdu.

“My father came to Karachi during the 1980s and he named me after the military dictator at the time,” he gleams with pride. “I named my son Ejazul Haq to continue the tradition.”

He recalls how his father set up the business here at the Afghan Basti and passed away after living a long life. “I was born and raised here … my kids were born and raised here … my parents and grandparents are buried here … my country is Pakistan and none else,” Haq says.

“Jaan jaan Pakistan, dil dil Pakistan,” he chants. “We hope and pray that the government will see our love for this country and give us an identity here.” Soon after, he reaches out to an activist standing nearby and asks: “Sab theek hojayega naa? (Will everything be fine?)”

Haq hasn’t been able to go to the market to restock his supplies since Eid. The reason? Fear, again. “What if they arrest me or demand a bribe?”

The same is the case with several other shopkeepers in the area, who are keeping a trip outside Afghan Basti the last on their list, despite depleting stocks.

But while the men fear, it is 65-year-old Ziabah, who is prepared for everything. She was just 25 when she came to Karachi with her husband and a breast-fed son. “I have spent 40 years of my life here, how can I leave now? And where will I go?” she says, seated cross-legged in her one-room house.

Across from her is a crib where her grandchild coos, an embroidered blanket draped over him. “I don’t remember the name of my village or the people I lived with there … who is waiting for me there?” Ziabah laughs. “Even my language is different now.”

She is soon joined by her son, Muhammad Rasool, who drives for a livelihood. “I recently visited Afghanistan,” he tells Dawn.com. “Do you know they have a left-hand drive, how will I work there? Even if I lose my job here, I know I will find another. But I don’t know anyone there.”

He takes out his POR card. “This is my identity card, no matter what anyone says,” Rasool asserts. Ziabah, on the other hand, is adamant. “I won’t leave until they forcefully put me in a bus or something,” she says.

Outside her house, children continue to play, almost oblivious to the tense environment around them. One of them wears a green and white cap, adorned with a star.

Header image: Two young Afghan boys walk at the Afghan Basti near Karachi’s Sohrab Goth as a deportation drive is underway in the city. — All photos by author