Imagine being confined in a space meant for three people, only to find yourself packed with fifteen others. You sleep in shifts, waiting for years, stuck behind bars without trial, forced to work for pennies—or nothing at all. All for a crime you didn’t even commit.
What may seem like a dystopian scenario is the lived reality of tens of thousands of inmates in Pakistan’s prison system. Consider this: a network of overcrowded jails, forced labour that saves the state money, and rampant institutional neglect forcing the poorest citizens to pay the highest price for a justice system defined by corruption, delay, and deep-rooted inequality.
According to the 2024 Prison Data Report, 102,026 people are crammed into 128 jails across Pakistan’s four provinces—facilities designed to accommodate just 65,811. That’s 155% over capacity, with some prisons exceeding 300%. Toilets meant for ten are used by a hundred, and cells meant for three now hold fifteen. These aren’t just overcrowded buildings—they are breeding grounds for disease, abuse, and psychological breakdown.
What’s worse? Nearly three-quarters—73.41%—of these prisoners have not been convicted yet. 74,918 people are waiting for a trial that may never come. Some have already spent more time behind bars than they would have if they were ever actually convicted.
They kept us for one month in the [police] station. There were about twenty-five to thirty people in the lockup. When there were more, we couldn’t lie down. Whenever it rained, water used to seep in from the roof. There were no windows. I was beaten all over my body, and the investigating officer demanded Rs. 50,000 [$980] to release me.
— Taher Hussain, aged 15
This system is not only overcrowded—it’s unjust. The Constitution of Pakistan promises that every person must be presented before a magistrate within 24 hours of arrest (Article 10). In reality, many wait weeks, even months. One child interviewed by Human Rights Watch had spent three months in lockups without being produced before a magistrate. The true number of such cases remains unknown, as police frequently manipulate arrest dates, and underage detainees are often held illegally and without due process.
Even within this broken system, the burden is not equally shared. If you’re rich, you might avoid prison altogether—or spend your sentence in a hospital ward. If you’re poor, you’re stuck. Many inmates have no legal aid. Some don’t even know the charges against them. Others are arrested simply to shield the powerful. This disparity turns the prison system into an extension of caste and class inequalities.
“I saw four people carrying a dead body, which they wanted to throw into our house. They followed me, but I quickly ran into someone else’s house. The next day, my father was arrested by the police on murder charges. On the third day after the occurrence, I went to meet my father at the Sihala police station. The police officials there told me I was also involved in the murder and arrested me. I was told I was named in the FIR. I stayed at the Sihala station for eleven days. The police used to make me stand the whole night and beat me and ask me to confess. After eleven days, I was taken to the magistrate; then I was sent here [to Rawalpindi Central Prison].”
— Qadir Hameed, age 13, from Kirpa Chira, near Islamabad
These are not isolated incidents. They expose a system where poverty is criminalised and innocence is irrelevant if you cannot afford to defend it. Without support, even those who are innocent struggle to prove it. This is not justice delayed—it is justice denied. Or worse, inverted.
The Labour Behind Bars
Prisoners across Pakistan produce goods for government use or local sale: carpets, boots, furniture, and clothes. The law permits forced labour under Rule 810 for those with rigorous imprisonment, but in practice, even those awaiting trial or convicted of minor offences are coerced into work—without training, safety, or pay. In juvenile jails, children do carpentry and tailoring all day. The money goes to the institution.
This isn’t rehabilitation—it’s exploitation. It violates international standards and traps vulnerable people in cycles of poverty and trauma. In theory, prison labour is meant to “reform” and “rehabilitate”. In practice, it saves the state money, lines the pockets of those in charge, and subjects inmates to unpaid, unhealthy, and involuntary labour.
Torture, Coercion, and Silence
Torture is widespread. Police use beatings, sleep deprivation, and threats to extract confessions. One of the most haunting stories is that of Ghulam Jilani, a 13-year-old boy arrested in Mansehra over a petty theft accusation. Police claimed he committed suicide in custody.
Sajid, another child detained alongside him, offered a chilling account:
We were both kept in the same room at the police station. After some time, Ghulam Jilani was taken away from that room. When he was brought back, he was bleeding from the nose and mouth. The bleeding was so horrifying that I became afraid, and I covered my face with a piece of cloth. Soon after this, I was released from the police station.
An autopsy confirmed head injuries.
Illegal detentions in unofficial locations are also routine. Some children are arrested not for their own actions, but to pressure adult relatives. Others are quietly transferred to prisons without ever seeing a magistrate. One such case involved an eight-year-old boy, Tariq Masih, arrested during a sweep targeting Christians in Lahore, suspected of participating in protests against Pakistan’s blasphemy law.
Release Means Little When Reform Is Missing
Even if you survive prison, you may never truly leave it. Pakistan’s parole and probation systems are woefully underused. In 2024, Punjab released only seven prisoners on parole. Sindh released none. Most provinces have a handful of officers overseeing thousands of cases. Punjab has 53 officers for 36,015 probationers, Sindh has 19 for 590, and KPK has 37 for 7,183. These numbers are too small to reduce overcrowding or support reintegration.
There’s also no proper system for community service as an alternative to jail time, leaving few options to keep people out of prison for minor offences.
And what if you want to report abuse? There’s no independent complaint mechanism. You’re expected to report mistreatment to the very people who inflicted it. Accountability is virtually nonexistent.
The Forgotten Within the Forgotten: Women
Women in Pakistan’s prisons carry a different kind of burden. Abandoned by families, judged by society, and often caught in cycles of poverty or domestic violence, they enter a system where they’re not just neglected—they’re invisible.
Only four women-specific prisons exist in the entire country. Most female inmates are housed in segregated wings of male jails. Resources are sparse. There are only 24 female health workers for the entire incarcerated female population. Most jails don’t even have a single female doctor on staff.
Prison Rule 317 mentions combs, soap, and mirrors—but not sanitary pads.
“Throughout my stay in prison, I suffered from acute migraines and hormonal issues causing pain and irregular menstruation cycles. I was not allowed to meet a specialist even once and was only given a painkiller. It is extremely difficult for us to speak about menstruation to a male prison official due to social taboos and embarrassment. Women prisoners are treated the worst because in Pakistan they are abandoned by their families, and no one comes to visit them, and hence the prison authorities know that no one is willing to pay any [bribe] money for their better treatment.”
Another woman said sanitary pads were rarely available, so inmates tore cloth from their shawls. Mothers breastfed in shared spaces and were harassed by staff. Children lived in the same overcrowded, unsanitary cells. One mother pleaded for support for her disabled child for six years. Nothing came.
Sexual violence is rampant, and reporting it is futile. A Justice Project Pakistan report found that 82 out of 134 female prisoners in Faisalabad jail had been sexually violated. Complaints go nowhere.
They protected each other, said one survivor. I was laughed at.
Invisible Illness: Mental Health in Prison
Prisoners with mental illnesses and disabilities suffer even more. There are no formal diagnoses, no care plans. These individuals are often misidentified, neglected, or punished simply for not behaving “normally”.
Khizar Hayat, a mentally ill prisoner, spent 16 years on death row. In 2019, his family went to visit him in prison for the final meeting after his last death warrant was issued. He was unaware of his impending execution due to his mental state and instead thought that his family was there to take him home. Chained to a hospital bed even in his last moments, he passed away a few days later, a victim of neglect who died awaiting justice.
A Colonial Legacy
All of this exists under the shadow of colonial laws. Pakistan’s prisons are still governed by British-era frameworks designed not to rehabilitate but to punish and control. There has been little legislative reform to meet modern human rights standards.
Pakistan’s prisons are not designed for healing. They are not even designed for fairness. And those who are already vulnerable—children, women, the poor, and the mentally ill—pay the highest price.
As the saying goes:
“The degree of civilisation in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.”
And clearly, the prisons in Pakistan serve as a mirror.