“My mother did not shed a tear”
I never missed Faiz Ahmed Faiz whenever I approached Amma’s room. Our grandfather had the legendary piece Aaj Kay Naam (Intesab) framed and draped on the corridor, serving as a reminder that there was much work to do for the nation.
I had always felt inspired reading it. I imagined myself becoming a humanitarian, going places, feeding the hungry, sheltering the poor. Educating the illiterate.
All I needed was time. And time is what we are always short on.
A sliver of moonlight lit up my mother, sitting on the prayer mat. Her head was bowed in her cupped hands, and her shoulders shook. She made no sound, and yet every last corner of heaven screeched with her unspoken grief. She looked up towards the sky, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. I watched her lips move silently, her eyes pleading with God. Her hands shook. I watched and watched and watched, and before I knew it, dawn came.
Reluctantly, she left the prayer mat. Her hands were still shaking.
She ironed the clothes, made breakfast, set the table. Dressed herself in white shalwar kameez. Her face no longer held the myriad of emotions I had just witnessed a few hours ago. Instead, a deadened determination had replaced everything else. She went about her chores just like she used to but she didn’t seem alive. All the while, I watched.
She was the same Amma, my Amma. Her face held the familiar lines, her hair the white strands, her eyes the same kindness. But I no longer saw the crinkles she got when she smiled, the remnants of a dye in her hair, the light in her eyes. She walked as if the weight of the world rested upon her shoulders. How I wished to tell her how beautiful she was.
My father was also dressed in white Shalwar Kurta. He smiled as Amma helped him put on his waistcoat. It didn’t reach his eyes. He patted her head affectionately, and she managed a small smile. And still, I just watched.
They left the house, and I followed. People often stopped and gave their condolences, some even joined them. They proceeded towards Army Public School.
As the school came into my view, I started hearing the sounds. Gunshots, alarms, screaming. The thud of bodies hitting the floor. The piercing pain. Sir Abu Bakar shouting for us to run. Miss Tahira’s brave voice over all others. More gunshots. Screams of agony. Blurring vision. The faces. So many of them. My friends, my teachers; the people I have loved and admired. Yelling helplessly. Kashan, Zaheer, Abdullah, Shayan, Malik, Khalid, Ahmed… some alive, some gone forever.
I see a huge crowd inside and around the school. People wearing black bands, black clothes, black dupattas. Some are holding pictures, others posters. I see a kid on the side holding a colorful kite and another one holding a book.
I personally prefer my parent’s white, the book and the colorful kite.
The parents are standing off to the side. My mother sheds no tears. The determination is etched in the lines of her face. She stands tall, clutching my father’s hand. I smile as I continue to watch the scene.
A procession of students comes out of the school. They march onto the street to the cheers of the crowd. They begin to sing and their melody takes every beaten down part of me and puts a bandage on it. What a beautiful revenge – Humai dushman kay bachon ko parhana hai (we have to educate the enemy’s children).
My parents leave the event a few hours later. After the procession, they had speeches, tributes, and the national anthem. My mother remained amazingly strong in her emotional state.
We visited another event organized by an NGO next. Thousands of people had gathered as they read out our stories. They all shared the grief of the nation. There was no division of ethnicity, class, religion or stature. We were all the same.
It was our eternal truth; what unites us more than love is tragedy. I saw it with my eyes on 16th December 2014, and I see it again today, a year later.
Through the entire ceremony, my mother did not shed a single tear. Her hands shook violently, but she dare not let any sorrow display. She smiled when people offered condolences and thanked them for their prayers and gifts.
We went to schools, universities and events. People in rags, people in suits, children with books, children without books… everyone was there. They cried and prayed and I heard every one of them.
My mother did not shed a tear.
And finally, as the sun begun to settle into the sea, we reached the Peshawar Cemetery. My parents slowly approached the gate. My father glanced back at my mother, tears glistening in his eyes. She nodded, and he went inside. I simply watched.
She clutched the bars of the gate, staring into space, her face still devoid of emotion. A light breeze blew across the vast expanse, bringing with it the fresh smell of flowers.
A single drop of rainwater fell. Then another. Soon, it was drizzling lightly. But my mother’s shivering was not because of the cold.
Slowly, her face softened. I saw how her eyes melted, her posture fell, defeated. She slid down by the gate, and the tears started to fall.
And I watched. Because that was all I could do. That was all we could do.
I felt a hand grip mine on either side, and I smiled. We stood watching. All 144 of us.
I saw pain today, just like I had a year ago. I saw beautiful faces marred by irrevocable loss. I saw our blood marking their hearts. The stench of our death filling their air. I saw our anguish reflected in their eyes. We all saw it.
But I am so proud. So proud of Amma, of this nation. I saw today how they had embraced their shared suffering and used it to rise. How they are struggling not only to overcome adversities, but to thrive in it. How they still have hope. I wish I could tell them how much this means to us. How much more powerful their prosperity is than their mourning. How the best revenge is not having revenge at all. Instead, we will put the murderer’s children in school too. We will give you pens instead of guns, compassion instead of bullets. I realized today that I am Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s writing, and they are the humanitarians. They are doing what I had always aspired of doing. And that is the biggest gift they could’ve given us.
My mother’s lap is soaked with tears and rain, but she gathers herself and stands up. She looks up to the sky again, and then she smiles. It eventually turns into a strangled laugh, but I finally see the crinkles around her eyes. She remembers how much I loved the rain.
My heart goes out to you, Amma. I will meet you in heaven.
My father comes back eventually, and laughs when he sees her. It is an enchanting sight for me. Together, they move towards the last occasion of the day.
There are countless people at the vigil. Each one of them holds a candle. The 144 of us stand away from the gathering, watching. I can feel the warmth engulf each of us.
There are 144 frames in the center. Slowly, people began lighting their candles. One by one, they proceed toward the pictures, say a prayer and put down a candle. Then, they drop some money in the donation box on the side. Quietly, they leave.
Hours later, the area is cleared with the exception of some parents that linger behind. Amma and Abba stand by my picture, silently praying. Tears drip down their cheeks, but they are smiling. And I am smiling too.
From the 144 of us, to you: We are alive in the memory you have kept of us. We are alive in every action that you do to fix this country. We are here, amongst you, in every passing moment.
Don’t forget us.
In the name of the students
Who went to the masters of drums and banners
Prostrating themselves on doorsteps
With their books and pens
Praying, with open arms, to be heard,
But never returned.
Those innocents, who, in their naiveté
Took their tiny lamps,
Their candle flames of hope, to where
The shadows of endless nights were being given out.– Translated from Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s Aaj ke Naam (Intesab)
