Every day before dawn, 38‑year‑old Latifa Bibi slips out of her tent. Her three daughters follow. First, she joins the line for water. Next, she moves to the food distribution point. By midday, she scrubs tents for a few rupees.
Latifa lives in Chagai, the westernmost district of Pakistan’s insurgency-wracked Balochistan province. The district borders both Iran and Afghanistan.
She once lived in Kandahar, Afghanistan, but fled to Pakistan in 1987 after her husband’s death. “We had a home in Kandahar,” she whispered over a generator’s hum. “Now look at us, no home, no papers, no future.”
In October 2023, the Pakistani government announced the “Illegal Foreigners’ Repatriation Plan,” which targeted unregistered Afghans, those with Afghan Citizen Cards (ACC), and finally those holding Proof of Registration (PoR) cards, for deportation. On June 30, PoR cards, the only shield for Afghan refugees living in Pakistan, expired. And with that, Pakistan is deporting PoR holders.
Latifa’s future, like hundreds of thousands of other PoR holders in Pakistan, has been rendered uncertain as a result.
1.3 million Afghans hold PoR cards; 65 percent of them are under the age of 24. Another 813,000 have ACCs, while 700,000 more people live undocumented. Most are women and children. Since the cards expired, aid workers report a 60 percent cut in food, water, and health services. Patrols and raids continue, despite an interim order halting “harassment or adverse action” against PoR holders, until extensions are decided.
When Latifa first learned that the Pakistani government might send her back, a cold panic gripped her.
“Where will we go? We have no house, no work, no safety in Afghanistan. We built our lives here,” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. That fear stalks her every moment. She hasn’t slept peacefully since the cards expired. “I lie awake, wondering what tomorrow brings. If they send us away, where will my children go? That thought steals my sleep.”
On July 31, the Ministry of Interior approved the third phase of its “Illegal Foreigners’ Repatriation Plan,” instructing authorities to begin deporting undocumented Afghans and PoR-card holders immediately.
The UNHCR, the United Nations’ refugee agency, has voiced “deep concern and regret” over the move, warning that without clear safeguards or sustainable reintegration support, returns cannot meet basic standards of voluntariness or dignity. The UNHCR says it is in active dialogue with Islamabad to secure protective measures for affected families.
Meanwhile, in late July, Pakistan’s human‐rights watchdog in Quetta formally warned that law enforcement agencies had summoned camp elders from Gardi Jungle, Laji Karez, and Posti, and ordered them to evacuate by July 31, or forfeit their rights, despite refugees asking for six- to twelve-month grace periods to wind down homes and livelihoods.
Latifa fears most for her daughters’ future. “If they force us back, their education stops. Their dignity vanishes. No mother can bear that,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. She paused, then added quietly: “Sometimes I feel the world has forgotten us. Nobody hears our voice or sees our suffering. But a small hope remains that someone will show mercy.”
Latifa’s 17‑year‑old daughter should be in secondary school. Instead, she sits on a battered bench in a school that goes only up to grade three. Books lie untouched.
At dusk, police patrols thread through tent alleys. Their jeep headlights slice the gloom. They drag families away for not holding the necessary documents.
“My daughters tremble when those jeeps approach,” Latifa said, adding that “they wake up screaming.”
Across the camp, 29‑year‑old Amina warmed tea over a tiny fire. Her five children huddled close. Her youngest asked her, “Am I Pakistani or Afghan?” Amina couldn’t answer.
The sun sits heavy above Chagai’s dusty plains, where thin canvas and plastic tents barely shield families from heat reaching 47 degrees Celsius. A single tanker delivers water once a day. Its precious cargo is gone in minutes.
Over the past month, dust storms have blotted out the sun. Dust settles on blankets, cooking pots, and even on children’s sunburned skin. Children cough from the grit. Heat-related illnesses spike. Yet families cling to routines; a handful gather at dawn for prayer under a tarp. Others play tag between tents, laughter echoing against dry earth.
A small library, cobbled from donated books, offers sanctuary. Volunteer teachers sketch letters on scrap boards, coaxing reluctant readers to learn. A women’s self‑help group meets under a tarp, where sewing and literacy classes are held. The sewing classes began with scrap cloth and a few hopeful mothers. Now the group feeds resilience, even if it can’t register or secure funds.
Qaiser Khan Afridi, the UNHCR’s spokesperson in Pakistan, has called for the extension of PoR cards. “Families here have lived on this soil for decades,” he told The Diplomat. “Their return must be voluntary, safe, dignified, and respectful.” He warned that Afghanistan still faces a dire humanitarian crisis and rampant rights abuses.
Pakistan has hosted refugees since 1979. Since it is not a signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention or its 1967 Protocol, its treatment of refugees relies on ad hoc policies and goodwill.
Millions of Afghans in Pakistan now wait in legal limbo. They have no domestic law to protect them.
Pakistani police harassment breaches international norms, said human‑rights lawyer Moniza Kakar. “We need a standalone refugee law. We need citizenship paths for those here before 1980. We must uphold non‑refoulement. You can’t send people back to danger,” she told The Diplomat.
Since April, Pakistan’s Illegal Foreigners Repatriation Plan has registered 226,279 Afghan nationals and deported 42,306, according to International Organization of Migration (IOM) figures. Among them were 115,319 women and girls, now returning to Taliban‑ruled territories where girls have no access to education after grade six and women can’t work or study.
Afridi warned of cascading fallout: “Forced returns will spark spikes in child marriage. Young people without jobs may turn to crime or join extremist networks. That endangers them and regional stability.”
Last week’s interim order, which said that police shouldn’t harass the refugee until the Ministry of Interior decides their future, offered hope on paper.
But on the ground, patrols and raids persist. Notices pinned to tent flaps quote court rulings in jargon most can’t read. “One day, they promise safety. The next night, they storm in with trucks,” said Rashida, who runs the camp’s informal school.
Across the border in Kabul, life for returnees is bleak. Since August 2021, the Taliban have barred girls beyond grade six from secondary school and outlawed women’s public life. The International Court of Justice has issued arrest warrants against Taliban leaders for persecuting women and girls.
“There is no future for my daughters there,” Latifa said. “Their books will be taken. If they protest, they’ll be beaten, or even worse.”
Men like Farid, 22, fix shoes for a living. He’s lived in Pakistan longer than in Kabul. “Without papers, I can’t open a bank account, rent a shop, or travel freely,” he said. His cousin, Ahmed, 19, scrolled through engineering tutorials on his phone. “I wanted to study engineering,” Ahmed said softly. “My plans died with the expiry of the PoR card.”
When I asked Latifa about her biggest sacrifice, she didn’t hesitate. “I gave up my country, my youth, my home, for my children’s safety. I sacrificed my dreams, comfort, even joy.” She wiped dust and tears from her face. “Every day, I pray their future will be better than mine. That they get the education and respect I never had.”
Global watchdogs have sounded alarms. In May, Amnesty International called Pakistan’s repatriation plan “inhumane” and in breach of non‑refoulement. Human Rights Watch joined calls for immediate protection, legal clarity, and an end to forced returns. Yet pledges from donor conferences have fallen short.
Latifa holds tight to hope. “When I look at my girls,” she said, “I feel both pride and pain. In their innocent eyes, I see dreams that this camp’s walls cannot crush. I pray they live a life free from fear.”
She wishes the world understood her story: “Please see us as humans, not statistics. We have prayers, hopes, and the right to safety.” To Pakistan’s prime minister, she would say: “We’ve called this land home for 40 years. We respected its laws and people. Please don’t uproot us now. My daughters’ future depends on your decision.”
If her voice falls silent, Latifa fears injustice would win.
“My daughters would slip into obscurity, no school, no document, no dignity. Humanity itself would lose.” Her simple dream remains the same: “I want my children to learn, to work, and to live with respect. A small house, loving family, that’s all I ever wanted.”
Under Chagai’s starless sky, women stitch dreams into fabric, teachers scatter chalk on dusty boards, and children trace letters in the sand. “They still dream,” Latifa whispered, cradling her youngest. “Even here, under this sun, they find reasons to hope.”
Kakar and the UNHCR are pressing Islamabad for a permanent reprieve. They demand PoR extensions, a comprehensive refugee law, due process before any deportation, and urgent aid — food, water, medicine, and legal help to border zones like Chagai. Until that happens, Afghan families will wait through long days and restless nights.
“Treat us like human beings, not threats,” Latifa pleaded one last time. “Our worth isn’t measured by a card’s expiry date.”