LIFE AFTER PRISON

365 days left, 120, 78, 55, 36, 12, 5, 2, 1, the day has come, the day of her release. She made it to the end of her two-year sentence and no one shows up. Stuck. She can’t be released until someone comes to sign the papers. What if all your “someones” aren’t yours anymore? Your family disowned you long ago and your friends are ashamed to be associated. Your husband married someone else, a new someone in your place. Who is left to rescue you?

A sharp U-turn wakes us up as our heads hit on to the side of the door. We are headed to the Central Jail, again. This time it's not to “rescue” children, that we know of yet, but to rescue a female inmate whose fate was left in the hands of the authorities. An NGO staff member receives a call from someone at the jail, so to there, we go. Sitting. Waiting. Paperwork. Twenty minutes pass by, and a woman with a baby emerges. We scoot over to make room in the car, unaware that she’d hop out no more than 20 meters later. Theatrics? The driver drops her off on the side of the road from where she gets on a bus and disappears to the horizon. 

We later learnt that this woman was convicted of polygamy, and judging by the tiny baby thats she was holding, she most likely gave birth while in prison. The NGO staff member commented that often times, women are unaware of the fact that they might be the second wife. [1]

What happens to those who are unable to reach someone to sign the papers is still a mystery to us. The answers we gathered didn’t give us any more clarity, a former prisoner shares, “the police take them somewhere but I don’t know what happens afterwards.” [2]

An even less glamorous solution to the “someones” who aren’t yours anymore -problem many women in prison face, is what is most accurately described as selling one’s self. Unfortunately, we’re told of a system, a system not too far from slavery, that’s been established among prisoners and the people who “save” them from their extended imprisonment. Outsiders offer to pay the fine they know the prisoners wouldn’t be able to pay to shorten their sentence; this gift doesn’t come for free however. In exchange for their money, released prisoners are expected to work indefinitely as housemaids for their “gift of freedom” from their donor.

Is a system wherein prisoners’ fate lays in the hands of strangers just? 

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[1] Anonymous (NGO staff), April 27, 2019.
[2] Reshma (former female prisoner), April 13, 2019.

SCARS

Bouncing around in a fully packed car, our hands instinctively grasp for the stability of the handles above. As our grip tightens, we glance to our right, only imagining the difficulty the woman sitting next to us must be having. Sitting with her son on her lap and a bag full of newly purchased baby supplies, we instead find her gazing out the window through the corner of her outreached arm as the car flies through the hills of the Terrai region. Underneath her sleeve, the sun bounces just a little differently off the skin on her forearm, and only then did we notice the story that might reside in the faded pigments of her skin. From that moment on, her story was stuck with us. 

Seven years. Dhriti [1] spent seven years behind bars for a crime so far from the truth it hurts. After many long months of uncertainty and confusion behind bars while the evidence of her innocence slowly healed, Dhriti received her legal sentence of seven years for “attempt to murder”. On Dhriti’s skin, however, exists an acid-etched image of innocence and self-defence. 

We learn that one day, the man who left their marriage and child to start again, to marry another woman who would soon have his baby, returned after a year of silence demanding sex. [2] Infuriated by Dhriti’s refusal to comply, her ex-husband threw flesh-eating acid at her face. Quick to react, Dhriti’s crossed arms acted as her shield and her unintended weapon, as some of the acid bounced back to her assaultant’s neck. 

In a country where the infrastructure for justice is so weak, her husband’s prompt, yet fictitious, report of her “attempt to murder” was trusted. Despite her legal right to a lawyer, the lived reality of the Nepali criminal justice system is that these government-provided lawyers are understaffed and poor quality. [3] Dhriti wasn’t even given the chance to defend her innocence. 

Finally freed from prison a year ago, after seven long years apart from her child, Dhriti’s faded scar continues to haunt her. It is a vast understatement to say that finding employment with a criminal record is difficult. Despite her clear competence and qualifications from her previous career working as a nurse, it was nearly impossible for Dhriti to find a job. Now working at a daycare for female prisoners’ children, the baby supplies on her lap seem to be her new armour of choice in the battle against injustice. 

Things we still don’t have an answer to:

The final verdict on Dhriti’s lawsuit for multi-marriage against her ex-husband

The story behind Dhriti’s son’s scar on his face, of which he supposedly received around the same time as his mother and father’s incident 

How many other women are in prison due to self defense?

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[1]  A pseudonym, meaning “one who has courage and patience” in Nepali.
[2]  The Himalayan Times, "Laws Related to Polygamy Contradictory," July 1, 2018,   https://thehimalayantimes.com/kathmandu/laws-related-to-polygamy-contradictory/.
“Section 175 of the Muluki Criminal Code Act, 2017,  clearly outlaws polygamy whereas Section 74 of the Muluki  Civil (Code) Act, 2017, says that a couple would be deemed married if their  physical relations result in child birth.”
[3] Indira Ranamagar, April 25, 2019.