Beyond the Courtroom: Human Rights Lawyer Natasha Latiff’s Relentless Fight for Justice

Founder, Strategic Advocacy for Human Rights & Women for Justice
Text by Dawn Wong, Edited by Wy-Lene Yap; Photographs by Juliana Tan
May 5, 2025
Become – Trendsetters

In the summer haze of Kabul, dust hangs like breath on pause. The air is arid, saturated with stories. Natasha Latiff first stepped onto Afghan soil when she was 17. It was not a place for a teenager, but a place where laws unravel and human dignity became a mission to protect.

In a world defined by power structures and deep-rooted systemic injustices, very few intrepid souls willingly embrace chaos and carve out paths towards justice. Paths that are treacherous, precarious, and downright heart-wrenching. Natasha is one such individual. As an international human rights lawyer, consultant and founder of two award-winning organisations, her work spans war zones, fragile democracies, all in pursuit of integrating human rights in law and policy.

"No 17-year-old seeks out Afghanistan," Natasha tells me, more than two decades later, as we sit in a quiet corner of a cafe. Her voice is calm, almost slightly amused by her younger self, yet unwavering.

At the time, Afghanistan was a battlefield in every sense. An interim government was in place, but the scars of war, the occupation by Western forces, and a booming drug trade made peace and justice seem like a distant concept. "It was the epitome of complexity. Occupation, gender apartheid, espionage and war, all layered together. But what struck me most," she says, her voice softening, "was against all odds, how grassroots and political leaders were unwavering in driving policy for human rights, despite setbacks from the war and fragile political situation."

"I banded with them. We had a clear vision of what needed to be done to set a new policy direction for human rights. We moved decisively. What kept us going was the warm and soulful nature of the Afghan people. There was music, poetry—Rumi was from there, and I even met my husband!"

Natasha recounts it all with a smile that gently disarms, just before the weight of her words lands. Clad in a salmon-hued suit, she appears poised and elegant—the kind of woman one might mistake for someone en route to a gallery opening, not someone accustomed to navigating the frontlines of bureaucracy and injustice. There’s a quiet magnetism to her: soft yet unshakeable, steely yet deeply attuned.

Those early years impressed upon Natasha that justice was not a clear-cut outcome, but a complex, human process—one informed by empathy, nuance, and real life.

A Different Approach to Justice

In the years that followed, Natasha trained as a lawyer and collaborated with the United Nations, NGOs, and governments on various human rights issues. Between the ages of 17 and 26, she spent about five years in Afghanistan and lived there. She started by analysing the land management law to scrutinise its impact on women and displaced communities. She also trained some of the top female Afghan lawyers and public prosecutors to implement human rights policies in government.

“The thing about working in countries where the rule of law has broken down is that justice is not secured in courtrooms only,” she states.

In one of her most challenging cases, women were being sexually abused within a workplace operated by a particular company. It was a huge case, involving dozens of victims. A multinational corporation (MNC), though not directly responsible, was aware of what had happened, but was at a loss on how to resolve it.

“When the media picked it up, their lawyers stepped in to shield their client. But I told them, ethically, they can be responsible; they can do something. Let’s work together,” Natasha recalls. Whilst criminal proceedings were underway, Natasha worked to negotiate a bridge between the victims, the MNC, and the government, so that the victims could be heard. It was an opportunity for her to inspire collective responsibility.

“We also had to ensure that the victims were protected and remedied,” she says. “In the places where I work—conflict zones, fragile democracies, communities living on the margins—it is not safe or easy for marginalised groups to come forward.”

As a result of her work, the MNC remedied the victims—and the victims were reinstated in their jobs. “We facilitated the dialogue in a strategic and tactful way. The victims exercised their agency and returned to a safer environment, with resources they can turn to,” she adds. Guidelines were also developed to train company staff on how to detect and respond to violations, laying the groundwork for real, lasting change.

And so, Natasha found her métier: turning dysfunction into dialogue, and making institutions more responsive and responsible so that communities affected by business operations can access effective remedies. “In situations of crisis, how do you carve out avenues for remedy and justice that mean something to affected communities?” Natasha reflects. “It forces you to become resourceful and relentless in finding a solution. You’re trained to be resilient, and that’s crucial for a human rights lawyer.

Rewriting the Rules for Women

Globally, one in three women experiences physical or sexual violence in their lifetime. Women are also over-represented among the 73 per cent of the world’s population which has partial or no access to social protections. Women make up most of the workforce in textiles and apparel, yet are overrepresented in the lowest, most precarious jobs—facing low pay, unsafe conditions, few benefits, and frequent harassment and discrimination. The high financial costs of grievance processes and the absence of legal aid often pose major barriers to justice for women.

“If you're a Burmese refugee woman working in Thailand and you're sexually abused in the workplace, the moment you report it, you risk deportation, job loss or further victimisation,” she says. “That’s the system. It doesn’t protect her—it punishes her due to her precarious legal status and lack of labour protections.” The system frequently fails to protect these women and instead can penalise them for coming forward. That is why Natasha’s work reaches far beyond the letter of the law. It’s about building the scaffolding of justice from the ground up: stepping into policy rooms, raising awareness, guiding new policy directions, and training implementers.

“I partner with institutions to craft and operationalise human rights-based policies, using political, economic, and cultural analyses,” she says. “We identify and assess human rights risks and integrate our findings into institutional processes, developing targeted actions, and tracking their effectiveness to ensure meaningful impact for affected communities.” A key challenge is that institutions are afraid to be held liable. But Natasha doesn’t see these challenges as walls, but as puzzles to be solved. “You’ve to understand what they’re trying to protect and then find a way to bring them alongside you,” she establishes.

Natasha’s approach isn’t rooted in confrontation—it’s built on strategy and empathy. In addition to this work, Natasha is the founder of Strategic Advocacy for Human Rights (SAHR), where she and her team mentor civil society leaders and policymakers across Kenya, Afghanistan, Indonesia, and beyond.

She looks for resourcefulness in leaders and emerging policymakers—the kind of mind that can hold contradictions, space for others, and pain. “I’ve developed a keen eye for spotting leadership within the grassroots,” she says. “If I find a leader with creativity and resilience, I invest in them. I love nurturing people, helping them carve out culturally nuanced approaches and policies on gender-based violence.” Natasha trains, mentors, and champions individuals around the world—especially those who are determined to shape laws, policies, and practices to end gender-based violence. “These leaders give me hope, ”she says, with a quiet certainty. “Our work now is to build a system that fully recognises gender-based violence as a crime.”

When I ask what kind of change she hopes for, she leans in, her voice steady. “I want a justice system that sees women. Not as collateral. But as full human beings.”

The Personal Cost of Justice

Inevitably, the question of how she handles the emotional toll surfaces. For the first time in our conversation, Natasha’s composure flickers. “I haven’t figured it out,” she admits. “The trauma doesn’t just disappear—it settles into the body. Mine’s in my lower back now. I don’t know anyone in this field who’s walked away unscathed.”

There is no romanticising the nature of the job. Justice, especially in conflict zones, is far from the heroics people imagine. It’s sleepless, isolating, and often heartbreakingly futile. Some of Natasha’s most difficult cases are the ones steeped in silence—tales of torture where the perpetrators remain untouchable, and the survivors are denied even the smallest thread of accountability. Many will never step into a courtroom. For them, the only justice may be to have their story heard. “You see the scars left behind—the marks on their bodies, the weight in their eyes. And you know no one will be held responsible. Those are the hardest moments,” she confesses.

Still, Natasha perseveres. Not out of blind optimism, but from a deeper commitment to the cause despite the pain she feels. For someone who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, I ask what gives her energy. “Reading good books,” she says. “They pulled me out of my slump—stories that let me connect deeper to the human condition.” Then her smile softens. “Connecting with my female friends, too—they bring so much love, joy, and laughter into my life. And having a great husband helps!”

To young lawyers or civil society leaders hoping to walk a similar road, Natasha has no shortage of hard-won wisdom to share. “Read widely—not just legal texts, but good literature. Speak with the community. Justice is not a straight path, so build your network beyond the courtroom: with banks, insurers, agencies, even law firms. You never know where the next ally might be.”

The Shared Fight for Dignity

Despite the brutality she’s witnessed, Natasha remains, at her core, sanguine. That optimism doesn’t come from idealism—it comes from people. From the movements that shift power and the individuals who carry those shifts forward. “Movements are powerful because people speak up. Movements have changed laws and policies. Movements matter—and they need not be loud or disruptive,” she professes. “Most of my movements have been quiet and collaborative, working behind the scenes.”

She is quick to underscore that the fight for justice isn’t gendered. In courtrooms across continents, in dusty townships and capital cities, she has met male leaders, judges, and prosecutors who take enormous personal risks to stand beside affected communities. “Many of them are on the frontlines, bravely supporting women. I’ve seen men show immense courage in the face of backlash,” she says. “At the end of the day, this isn’t a war between genders. It’s a shared fight for dignity. And some of the bravest people I know are men who have opened doors for us, championed us and stood with us.”

Reclaiming Dignity One Step at a Time

From the battlefields of Afghanistan to the boardrooms of multinational corporations, Natasha has spent her life seeking justice. Not as an abstract ideal, but as a lived, human experience. “There’s no perfect justice,” she says. “But there’s always something we can do. Some small shifts. A safe space we can create. That’s what keeps me going.”

Perhaps that’s what makes her truly remarkable. Not just her legal acumen or global reach, but her refusal to stop believing that in the midst of pain, people and systems can change. Her belief that even within broken systems, something vital can still stir. That dignity is not necessarily given by courts, but reclaimed in the adamantine decision to traverse the boundaries. “I am really living my values, and my work aligns with what I feel one hundred percent,” she declares. “I'm a Libra—I believe in fairness and equality. The work is challenging, but having done this for two decades, I can see the change.”

There are no flashbulbs in her line of work. No victory speeches. Only survivors who may never see a verdict but still leave with their voices returned to them. “Even if the outcome isn’t just or positive, standing up for what matters is still vital. Knowing how to use different methods of advocacy is part of that,” she says. “I’ve learnt so much from survivors. They don’t always follow the straight path to justice—but they’re incredibly resourceful. Some lobby the media. Some become advocates themselves.”

Justice, she reminds me, doesn’t always arrive in sweeping gestures. It begins in the smallest shifts—in quiet negotiations, holding space, and the sacred act of listening. “We may not fix the world,” she remarks, wrapping her hands around her tea. “But if we can create a space where someone feels safe, where they’re heard—that’s already something.”

Outside the café, the afternoon sun climbs higher into the sky. Somewhere—perhaps in the powdery dust of Kabul—a woman steps out, her head held a little higher. Though the weight she carries hasn’t lifted, the silence around her has begun to crack. At last, her story is being heard. Because someone like Natasha stood beside her and believed she was worth the fight. And in a fragile, fractured world, that kind of unflinching conviction isn’t just rare. It’s revolutionary.

Rumi once wrote, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Natasha’s work is a living embodiment of that truth—finding light in the broken places, and choosing, again and again, to stand where justice begins.