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A freelance journalist from Norway, I had some personal business at a police station close to the biggest bus station in Lahore, a bustling city of 6 million people.

However, I had to change my plans when I met Saira, a girl who estimates she is 17 years old. A Muslim, she had run away from a village seven hours away from Lahore to escape an arranged marriage with one of her cousins. Not knowing where to turn, the girl ended up here, and her father and uncle had come to get her. Saira was terrified, and she had every right to be.

According to international human rights groups, 5,000 women and girls worldwide are murdered annually by male relatives in so-called "honor killings"—including 1,000 in Pakistan. An honor killing is based on the belief that women belong to their families as property. Men accused of adultery or other offenses can also face a death sentence to protect the family "honor." However, they usually get off much more leniently. The human rights group Amnesty International reports that women—like Saira—who refuse arranged marriages are often murdered.

Although journalists are trained to maintain a professional distance, I felt I had to do something to help this girl. Saira, dressed in a black hejab that covered her body and much of her face, was screaming, especially when her father or uncle tried to approach her.

As Saira sat on the edge of a cot used as seating inside the police station, an off-duty constable started getting too familiar, reaching to touch her breasts. The constable's superior nearby did nothing but watch this assault unfold. The father and uncle, who wanted the police to help them, did nothing to interfere. I think they also wanted to teach Saira a lesson.

Whether I was brave or stupid, I ran over and pointed a shaking finger in the face of the constable. "You filthy bastard!" I shouted. "Let the girl alone! In my country we never treat women like that. You are the lowest of the lowest!"

I decided not to leave the girl until I was certain she was safe. I made the police promise Saira that she did not have to go anywhere against her will, and I made sure Saira understood what was going on. Still, the officers put a lot of pressure on Saira to return with her father and uncle.

Saira's father and uncle were furious with me. The uncle openly threatened me, accusing me of being an arrogant American who was interfering in private business. I'm not sure what would have happened if we had not been in a police station. I didn't object to his misperception about my nationality. I felt that it gave me more power in this delicate situation. And I pointed out to him that human rights are universal and that what they were attempting to do was a violation of Pakistani law. On paper, laws left over from British colonial rule supposedly protect women, but for women in the villages, there are no laws.

Later that evening, I was able to get Saira into a women's crisis center in Lahore. This center has armed guards who will shoot first and ask questions after. No visitors are allowed, not even family members. Any meetings with the women take place in the office, and Saira could stay as long as she wished. Initially, Saira refused any contact with her family, but after a week at the center, she decided return to her village. Workers there told me the decision was hers, but they didn't give me any details.

A psychologist who was trying to help Saira at the center, Naima Hassan, 36, was mystified by the decision. However, she says that because Saira has tasted freedom, she will know where to go the next time she has a problem—assuming she is not killed.

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April (Web-only) 2002, Vol. 46