“We had sent our children to school to study, not on the border to get martyred.”
It’s 2024 and Pakistan is solemnly remembering the attack on the Army Public School in Peshawar that took place ten years ago. A decade after the schoolchildren were massacred by terrorists, their homes — many on streets named after the martyrs — are still grappling not just with the loss, but anger.
Anger is the first thing that comes across when you meet these parents, and it can’t be separated from their grief.
“How can we forget? How can we move past a tragedy of such a proportion? How can we forget the way our children were killed?” asks Ateeq Akhtar, father of 18-year-old Aimal Khan, who was in grade 12.
The interview is being conducted at the house where Aimal was born. There are no pictures or any memories of him. In informal conversations with Aimal’s mother, she says it has become increasingly difficult to look at his pictures now. She has packed up all of them, except for one.
Dec 16, 2014: “I was in the office on Dec 16 when my wife, who is also a teacher at the Army Public School, called and informed me about the attack around 10-10:15am. I immediately reached the school, but it was completely cordoned off and army personnel were stopping everyone from entering the premises. I was trying to access all the entrances of the school. My wife and younger son managed to escape from the backside but there was no update on Osama. I called CMH (Combined Military Hospital), the same hospital where Osama was born; the person on the other end said they hadn’t found Osama but told me to come to the hospital. My wife and I went there and at around 1:15-1:30pm, a man took me to the hall where all the bodies were. That day, Osama was wearing a new brown jacket he had bought a few days back. Before leaving, he had said that he was not feeling well but then on his own agreed to go. I had told him not to wear the brown jacket but he was insistent. That jacket was how we identified Osama’s body.
Zafar Iqbal, father of Osama Iqbal (age 15, grade 10)
Almost all the parents we visit want to talk about their children and December 16. They recall every little detail while their children exist in their homes in the form of framed photos and posters, scrapbooks, memorial corners, books, and, in one case, in the last essay.
(Clockwise from bottom left): Memorabilia of Ghasan Khan, Shaheer Khan, Shayan Nasir and Hassan Zeb.
Nasira Aurangzeb, mother of 10th grader Hassan Zeb, keeps her connection to her 16-year-old through the parrots in the house. “They can get a little too upset if not fed on time,” Nasira says as she places sliced green chillies inside the cage. “They are like my children,” she says with a smile. “Shaheed Hassan Zeb brought them home one afternoon; he named them Motu, Moti and Polu.”
“There was a fourth one too, but he died just a few days after Hassan.”
“On our way back from walks, he would always stop by the bakery to get biscuits. Whenever asked about his future, Hassan would say he wanted to run a bakery of his own.” She pauses when her son walks in with snacks, including the buttermilk biscuits, for the guests, and looks at him intently before pointing out that he has the same eyes as Hassan. Their house can be identified by a photo of Hassan outside, with dates of his birth and death underneath.
Dec 16, 2014: “That day, Huzaifa wanted to treat his friends and he had come to me for money just five minutes before the attack. But I refused because I had seen him taking money from his father in the parking lot. It is the biggest regret of my life now. I followed him into the auditorium, ensuring that he went there and attended the lecture instead of hanging out with his friends. I sent him towards the hall myself. And just after a few minutes, we heard firing. I was standing outside the hall. But I couldn’t understand where the noise was coming from. Everyone was running frantically. One of our clerks, who was later killed in the attack, came running to me and said they [the terrorists] were on the roof. He then directed me to go towards the administration block. When the intense firing began, we locked the staffroom and hid inside the washroom. From 10am till 6pm, we were dying every moment in that washroom. The building material fell on us and the door of the washroom was broken in several places. We stood blocking the door until the army rescued us. The first thing I asked was about my children. I was told Huzaifa had been handed over to his father – I forgot to ask if he was alive or dead. When I finally reached home, Huzaifa was already in his grandmother’s house. He had sustained five bullets and did not survive. There was space right next to the bed he was on … it was for me. But, I couldn’t go with him that day.
Andaleeb Aftab — mother of Huzaifa Aftab (age 16, grade 10), survivor and APS teacher
Some parents are still sending their other kids to the school or teaching there as a form of resilience and a need to hold on to their loved ones killed in the attack. The same need drives them to keep their belongings intact, even 10 years later.
Fourteen-year-old Muhammad Ghasan, in grade 8-C, is described by his father Dr Aminuddin Khan as an “avid reader” who had a library of around 1,000-1,500 books. “Whenever we went to the markets, he would always ask me to take him to bookstores,” he remembers.
Ghasan’s library, split into two racks, is inside a small room that functions as a memorial for the boy. Between the shelves with books by Paulo Coelho, Jeffrey Patrick Kinney and J.K. Rowling is a mirrored cabinet that proudly displays all the shields and trophies Ghasan won. There are also photos of the bespectacled teenager but most noticeable are two panaflex standees, the sort you’d have at an event; one lists every accomplishment and milestone from his life and the other mentions his birthday, age, education, hobbies, titles and last words. Without even a word spoken, no visitor can leave without knowing who Ghasan was.
Today in Peshawar, posters of these kids outside and inside the house are not a rare sight. Professor Gul Shahzad Khattak, father of teacher Sadia, has put photos of his daughter on the wall of his drawing room; some are simple with her name and profession, and another has a description in Urdu of how she was shot nine times while protecting her students with an image of the medal she received. ‘We are proud of this nation’s brave daughter’s martyrdom,’ the text ends.
At Falak Naz’s house, photo frames of her martyred sons Saifullah and Noorullah fill up a room but understandably, the void remains. “In the beginning, whenever I saw any mother laughing [of the deceased], I felt so angry. Today, I may smile or attend events but my heart never wants to indulge in anything.”
Dec 16, 2014: “When the terrorists entered the classroom, two of them came from the front door while the other came from the back door. They had big weapons in their hands, not Kalashnikovs. When they came near me, I lost all sense. I was shouting at my students to escape but all of them held on to me as if I could protect them from what was coming next. But I was just a teacher, what could I have done? The terrorists fired blindly. Almost all of us – the students and I – fell; half died while the others sustained injuries. I was hit by five to six bullets, in my shoulder, arm and chest. I had fallen but I was still conscious and was watching everything unfold before my eyes. At that moment, my sixth sense said they would come again. The terrorists went to the other rooms on our floor and after a minute, they came back and fired again at the students in the room. I saw everything. At that moment, the wailing and groaning in the room stopped and there was pin-drop silence. During the second round of firing, I was hit in the leg. I finally heard the ambulance come in after over an hour. When I was taken away, I could hear the call for Zuhr prayers. The operation was underway at that time and I could still hear the firing.
Zulfiqar Ahmed — survivor and teacher
One can tell from visits to these houses that the events from December 16 often come up within the walls. But not everyone wants to participate.
In one house, as the father tells the story of how he and his wife lost their younger son, the elder one, who survived, appears visibly uncomfortable rehashing details from that day. He keeps his headset on throughout the conversation and is able to respond with “I don’t remember”, “maybe” and “I guess” whenever his father turns to him. He soon finds an opportunity to leave the room and comes back once all the difficult questions have been asked.
“I consider myself blessed… at least he made it out alive,” the father says in a room with a framed picture of his younger son and the Tamgha-e-Shujaat — awarded by the government to all those killed in the APS attack — hanging inside a cabinet.
There are also families, such as that of 15-year-old Asad Aziz, who can’t go by the school anymore. “It now looks like a slaughterhouse to me. I don’t even take the Warsak Road anymore because it brings back memories of that day,” his father Dost Muhammad says.
Muneeb Tahir, now 28 years old, struggles with being a survivor and the brother of a martyr. “After the attack, there was a difference in emotions between me, my sisters and our parents. They were expecting us to go on every platform and talk about what happened,” he recalls. “They were dealing with their own emotions obviously but then, I was also there in the hall [when it happened]. It was all very mixed up.”
Many didn’t have a choice in what they remembered or forgot, like Nazia who lost her 16-year-old son Malik Usama Tahir Awan yet made breakfast for five instead of four for the longest time after the attack. “I’d forget that the number had now shrunk to four.”
Her other two children, a son and a daughter, were also at the school. “After the attack, my children went back to APS […] they were determined to go back as they believed they would study in place of their brother.”
Much like most of the other homes, Usama’s photos fill the house. “My husband refuses to put them away, he keeps looking at them,” she says. Most of the teenager’s videos are now on a Facebook page that his father has made in his memory. For other family members, Nazia says, the trauma of December 16 has seeped into their hearts, minds and personalities. “It comes out in the form of anger.”
Dec 16, 2014: “All of us [five brothers, two sisters and parents] had breakfast together that morning after which Zeeshan came to me and asked to wear my new shoes because of sports week at APS. Around 10am, a friend told me that an attack had unfolded at the school. Initially, I thought it would be something small and resolvable because attacks had become normal in Peshawar during that time. But after some minutes, another friend said students had been killed. I immediately left Islamia College, where I was studying, and rushed to Saddar on foot. I kept calling my parents but they were not picking up. My father has a shop at the Pabbi station from where he rushed to the Lady Reading Hospital (LRH). When he finally picked up the call, he told me that Awais had been killed and asked me to search for Zeeshan. I went to CMH, where dozens of bodies covered with white cloth were laid on the ground. While checking all the bodies, I spotted the white shoes that I had given to Zeeshan earlier in the morning – I couldn’t recognise him because he had sustained all the bullets on his face – and the shoes were how I identified him. I picked him up in my arms and moved him to a cab because there was a shortage of ambulances. We brought both our brothers to our house in Peshawar and within the next few hours we left for our village, from where we had come to the city for good education, to bury them.
Waqas Ahmed, brother of Awais (age 14, grade 8) and Zeeshan (age 16, grade 10)
“Not even a bird can fly over the school today” is an observation made often by families, survivors and teachers while talking to Dawn.com .
Coming from the GT Road, one of Asia’s major and oldest routes, you have to take a left to get to the school. The APS — roughly spread over 20 acres — is situated on a branch of Warsak Road, the Naseem Rizvi Shaheed Road, opposite an army unit in the Cantt area.
There’s first a check post where armed soldiers are on guard and question visitors who want to go to the school or pass by the route. Nearby also stands a ‘Threat Alert Meter’, a circle divided into three colours: amber, red and black. A hand stays on one of the colours to signal the severity of the security situation on an hourly basis. In all of Dawn.com’s visits near the school, the hand remained positioned at amber, which signifies moderate.
The Naseem Rizvi Shaheed Road, named after a soldier who embraced martyrdom during the 1965 war, leads straight to the school*. Our first visit to the school premises is between 2pm to 4pm and the area is relatively quiet. The main entrance has at least three barricades outside. According to parents, the gate on the other side where the Martyrs Monument is located, is hardly opened except for special events or high-ups.
*Dawn made multiple requests to visit inside the school but did not receive permission.
The road on the right side of the campus separates the school from the Cantonment Graveyard. On the left, a stream from the Warsak Dam flows parallel to the school, almost like a border.
We walk on the right road, where barbed wires — that some residents say carry a flow of electric current — dominate the now tall walls of the campus and come to the second gate of the school, used by students of the senior section. At least two uniformed men remain seated outside. A poster featuring photos and names of this year’s high achievers is pasted on the wall next to the gate. Just a few steps ahead is yet another checkpost, where locals say the questioning is stricter, after which comes Behari Colony.
The road on the left side of the school, meanwhile, is greener. It ends at Defence Park, opposite which is the third gate of the APS, used by students and staff members of the Toddler’s Academy. It is the same gate from which children were escorted out on the day of the attack.
Dec 16, 2014: “It was a really difficult time; may Allah protect everyone, even our enemies, from such calamity. I do not remember when my son’s body arrived home […] I had his coffin opened and checked his entire body. I kissed his bloodied hands. I do not know what was going on at that time. I have no recollection of seeing or hearing anyone. I am just alive for the sake of my other kids. His father is also the same. The only solace we get is from the union of the martyrs’ families, there is no peace in anything else. We just want justice for the kids from wherever we can.
Azra Bibi, mother of Adil Shahzad (age 14, grade 9)
In the following years, a checkpost has been built around the corner of the street.
“Not just outside, there are checkposts even inside the school where soldiers are on duty throughout the day,” says Shahana, a parent who visits the campus often. “There is a huge difference in the APS today and the APS 10 years ago.”
Rana Muhammad, a survivor, agrees. “Before it became a household name [due to the incident], the APS was like any other school,” he says, adding that the high walls, barbed wires and additional security checks came after Dec 16, 2014. Now, there is also a fourth gate, next to the Fauji Foundation, situated at the tail end of the campus.
Security is a subject that is taken very seriously at the school, notes Shabana, a junior section math teacher at APS who witnessed the attack. “Feedback over security is regularly taken from all the staff members and we are told to point out any loopholes that can be addressed.”
“I feel very safe there. Not even a bird can fly over the school now,” she reiterates.
Dec 16, 2014: “When we were finally given the go-ahead to go inside the school, there were pools of blood on the floor of the hall and the walls were riddled with bullets. We were shifting bodies and injured students in the ambulances amid crossfiring. At that time, the gravity of the situation dawned on us and more ambulances were called from charity organisations such as Edhi and Al-Khidmat. The highest number of bodies were taken out of the school’s auditorium. Explosions would take place inside the school from time to time. The faces of the children are still fresh in my mind, some had a smile on their faces. Their eyes were open and it seemed as if they would come back to life any moment.
Bilal Faizi, Rescue 1122 spokesperson
Security is, however, not all that has changed in the last 10 years.
“The infrastructure of the school was changed entirely, so much so that it felt as if they didn’t want us to remember anything that happened that day,” says survivor Muhammad Abuzar, who studied at the school from nursery to intermediate. “By the time I was doing my FSc, I had completely forgotten the pre-attack APS.”
For a few years after the attack, pictures of the slain children were hung inside the main school hall. “But they have been taken down recently,” says Andaleeb Aftab, a chemistry teacher at the school. One of the photos was of her son, Huzaifa.
Abuzar tells Dawn.com that the auditorium, where the cold-blooded massacre unfolded, was turned into an indoor sports complex while the school grounds were reshaped and a monument was built to honour the martyrs.
The APS Shuhada Monument, a 40-foot-high structure, comprises three stone walls engraved with the martyrs’ names in Kufic inscription, the writing style of Hazrat Ali (RA). Atop the walls is a flock of birds made of copper sheets, aimed at the sky.
The APS Martyrs Monument. — Photo provided by parents
The immovable birds suspended in the air cannot be seen from outside the boundary walls of the APS.
“The concept captures the spirit of tragedy in a very symbolic and emotional manner,” says architect Nayyar Ali Dada, who designed the three-dimensional monument. He regrets that it isn’t accessible to the public. “This great monument should remind people of the historic incident. The monument is a powerful expression of sculpture displaying the intensely emotional feeling of the tragedy.”
A note written by Ibrahim Hyder, associate architect at the Nayyar Ali Dada Associates, on the first anniversary of the APS tragedy. — Facebook
The school reopened on January 12, 2015, nearly a month after the terrorist attack.
“I took on the renovation on the third day after the attack,” Muhammad Jamil, contractor and Behari Colony nazim, tells Dawn.com . “When we entered the main building [where the attack took place], there was a terrifying sight before us […] there were bullet holes in the seats, human flesh on the walls, blood on the floors. It was terrifying, I could never stay inside the hall for long. But I had to drop off the materials so I used to go once or twice a week. It was our job and we completed it within 20-30 days.”
Every year, on December 16, a ceremony — attended by parents, civil society members, and government and military officials — is held at the APS to pay tribute to the martyrs. The parents and school administration also organise a Quran Khwani, light candles and shower flowers on the monument. In recent years, though, functions to commemorate the attack have been cut short, several families complain. They describe feeling a sense of “ajnabiyat [alienation]” at the school.
“We are only allowed to visit the monument of our martyred children after verification […] we have stopped going now because of the long and difficult process,” laments Zafar Iqbal, father of 15-year-old Osama. “The guard of honour [on the anniversary] is presented in our absence, we are not even informed about it,” says mother Nazia.
Jan 12, 2015 (first day of school reopening): “When the school reopened, there was no thought in my mind about why I was going back; it was my parents’ decision as I was young. But I was very scared. Even today, I get scared when I hear a gunshot. One time when we were in class, renovation work was underway in the auditorium but we weren’t aware of it. After hearing the sounds of drilling, all of the students and the teacher ran outside towards the main gate. Such was the fear in us.
Obaidullah, student and survivor
Back at the GT Road, a 13-minute drive down Mall Road leads to another monument, this one by the government inaugurated in 2015 and also somewhat obscure. The weathered and chipped structure requires a closer look to understand it; its base is designed to resemble a stack of notebooks, with the topmost book’s pages bearing the names of the martyred students, and a depiction of pencils next to them.
“How can one even tell it is dedicated to the martyrs?” a fellow journalist asks as commuters pass by without noticing it. His sentiment was also echoed by the Peshawar High Court, which had termed the monument as “unsuitable” for representing the sacrifices of the killed children and ordered a fresh design.
The monument constructed by the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa government to honour the martyrs.
That was in 2018, and years later, the fading monument stands in the same place. Beside it is a narrow gate to the Shuhada-e-APS Public Library. A nearby plaque reads: “Yaadgar Shuhada Army Public School […] inaugurated by Pervez Khattak, chief minister of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Dec 16, 2015.”
Inside, after the main entrance, is the hall where once the grieving parents used to gather. “After the attack, families of the martyred students used to come here frequently and hold meetings,” recalls Dr Ashfaque, the chief librarian. “Over the years, these visits have largely reduced.”
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The library is particularly crowded on Dec 16 every year, when parents, relatives and civil society activists visit the monument and hold a candlelight vigil in memory of the martyrs.
At a short distance from the library, after crossing the Peshawar Museum, comes the Shaheed Tahira Qazi Ladies Park — the government’s tribute to the slain APS principal. In our walks across Peshawar during this one week, the names of the deceased can be spotted every few steps on colleges, schools and roads named after them.
On Bara Road, just a few streets from Aimal Khan’s house stands a namesake educational institute: the Government Shaheed Aimal Khan Higher Secondary School. Aimal, 18, was a pre-engineering student in grade 12 at the APS. In Hayatabad, the Government Shaheed Huzaifa Aftab School honours the 10th grader who lost his life in the attack. Near the iconic Qissa Khwani Bazaar, the Government Shaheed Osama Zafar Centennial Model High School serves as another sombre tribute. There are at least 60 other educational institutions across Peshawar, the boards of which were changed after Dec 16, 2014.
Nestled deeper within the city’s narrow and busy lanes are shrines, most of them built by families, with posters bearing photos of slain sons and daughters and their dates of birth and death — a reminder of a life’s promise cut short.
On a chilly Friday evening, we join Tariq Jan, his wife Shagufta and other parents for an evening with the members of the APS Martyrs Forum, who gather from time to time to remember the past and celebrate each other’s present.
Inside, Shagufta places a box of kebabs on the dining table and then makes her way to the hall with Nasira. “Asfand shaheed’s mother, come out of the kitchen and sit with us,” the women call out to Shahana, who smiles and makes her way to them.
“I look at this incident in two ways: physically and spiritually. Physically, we cannot take this pain but spiritually, these children died as martyrs and we became parents of martyrs. It also gave us a new family in the form of the APS Martyrs Forum. Many attempts have been made to weaken this platform, but we have vowed to stay together till the end.
Dr Aminuddin Khan, father of Ghasan (age 14, grade 8)
By 8pm, Shahana’s hall is bustling with more women and her dining table is brimming with plastic containers filled with food.
“How do you still have his pictures up on the wall?” Seema asks Shahana as the women seated around her nod in unison as if acknowledging the unsaid difficulty in the question posed. “I just have one photo frame on my bedside,” says Shagufta while Nasira adds that she locked all the posters up in a box, which now sits on the top of her cupboard. “I tear up every time I look at his photos,” Azra Bibi admits.
There wasn’t any expectation of an answer from Shahana, who is focused on spreading out the dinner for her guests. “Shaheed Hassan Zeb’s mother, can you pass me the bowl please?” she asks and the topic swiftly changes to the menu as the women delve into the dishes they had brought. Soon, the call for dinner is made and the men, including Tariq, make their way inside to the dining space. Except for some ladies obstructed by arthritis, everyone sits on the cold marble floor as the food platters are brought out with every woman pointing out their share to the spread.
They offer up a prayer for the martyrs before sharing the meal.
“If we are living today, it is due to the support of other shuhada families. We meet at least twice a month and talk to each other. These mothers also have their own WhatsApp group. We can’t cry in front of others because they won’t understand; these people do because they have gone through the same pain as us.
Tariq Jan, father of Shaheer (age 14, grade 8)
During dinner, for a split second, Shahana glances up at the wall that was under discussion just a few moments ago. Over a dozen photos and memories hang on it; Asfand on his first day of school, Asfand with his siblings and friends, and Asfand just days before he was murdered.
The homes of the other mothers have a similar wall. “But lately, it has become too difficult … the pain is almost unbearable,” Seema remarks and Nasira agrees. “After his father’s demise, I took down almost all of Hassan Zeb’s posters,” she says. “It is like a constant reminder that he is not amongst us.” All the other mothers in the room nod in understanding.
For the last 10 years, these women and men have been gathering at least twice a month to both celebrate and mourn their martyred children. These families, who hardly knew each other until the day of the attack, have forged an unbreakable bond out of grief. Together, they have protested in the streets, gone to courts and cried on each other’s shoulders.
So when Seema talks about the unbearable pain and consequent sleepless nights, Shagufta tells her to get out of the house more often. Nasira suggests she should get her children married. “Shaheed Aimal Khan’s mother, why don’t you become a rishtey wali aunty?” quips Shahana’s daughter, a lanky girl in her 20s, as she squeezes in next to Seema and hugs her. Everyone laughs.
“The one thing that gives me hope and strength today is the fact that I am Pakistan’s hero. I have shed blood for this country…and my children can proudly say that their father contributed to the foundation of Pakistan, whether someone recognises it or not.
Abu Bakr Waseem, APS teacher and survivor
The nameplate outside Abu Bakr’s house.
As the dinner goes on, the discussion jumps from “selfish politicians” to the “indifferent army” and “handicapped courts”, and finally lands on the next meeting. A birthday is coming up and the plan is to take a cake to Falak Naz’s house, who lost two of her sons in the attack.
Naz, a nurse, couldn’t make it to the meeting because of an overnight shift at the Fauji Foundation Hospital. The plan, therefore, is to surprise her. The day is carefully thought out, keeping in consideration everyone’s availability. Each family is given a task; one gets the cake, others arrange the food. All of them are to convene by evening and head to the Naz’s residence.
The forum never fails to celebrate a martyr’s birthday. But birthdays are not the only days they converge on; last year, all the families took mehndi to Professor Gul Shehzad Khattak’s house when his youngest daughter tied the knot. His oldest one, Sadia, an English teacher at the APS, was killed in the attack.
Parents gather for a meeting of the APS Martyrs Forum.
“This is the only time I go out of the house,” says Nasira, who is among the elderly mothers. “The forum is the only family we have because others don’t understand our pain … we are all aboard the same ship,” remarks Professor Khattak. Ateeq, Seema’s husband, adds, “The grief would have eaten her up if it were not for them.”
By the time the night comes to an end, Seema is laughing with the others. They decide to finalise the arrangements for the upcoming birthday on the WhatsApp group with Shahana taking the responsibility of sending out the reminders. The remainder of the conversations, meanwhile, keep swaying between the dead and the living.
“The only thing that has given me strength is my faith. Is it possible that a person who had cancer twice could defeat it? This is what gives you hope, that there is a God. From the day my son’s funeral was held till today, my God has looked after me and so have my parents. These aspects of my life gave me hope and healed me.
Andaleeb Aftab — APS teacher, survivor and mother of Huzaifa (age 16, grade 10)
In the one week spent in Peshawar, the emotions of the families were in plain sight: their pain in the posters plastered on walls in their homes, their longing in the soft kisses placed on photo frames, and the struggle to preserve their children’s presence in memorabilia such as uniforms, medals, pets and essays.
Tokens of remembrance (left to right): Asfand Khan (first row, top), Shayan Nasir (first row, bottom), Aimal Khan (second row, top), Ghasan (second row, middle), Saifullah and Noorullah (second row, bottom), Ghasan (third row, top), Shayan Nasir (third row, middle), Hassan Zeb (third row, bottom), Malik Usama Tahir Awan (fourth row, top), Shaheer Khan (fourth row, middle), Sadia Gul Khattak (fourth row, bottom), Asad Aziz (fifth row, top), Adil Shahzad (fifth row, middle), Ghasan (fifth row, bottom)
One of the purposes of this report was to find out how much, if at all, the families, survivors and Pakistan’s society had coped from the unimaginable tragedy that unfolded on December 16, 2014. Meeting the affected raised two follow-up queries: Is there a right or wrong way to handle trauma of this magnitude? Do you ever actually fully heal?
The three psychologists Dawn.com reached out to all say that when the loss is so sudden and in such a heinous manner, the grief and emptiness that follows stays for a very long time. Sometimes, for an entire lifetime.
On a visit to Peshawar a few years after the attack, Islamabad-based clinical psychologist Dr Faaiza Haroon met the fathers of some of the children. “I remember how they talked about sending their smiling children to school,” she recalls. “They can never forget.”
“Let’s say you have a career or relationship setback in your life. Most of the time, people will recover from that, and it will become a memory that fades away over the years,” explains psychologist Humair Yusuf. “Losing a child is different … that loss is always there, they just learn to live with it.”
When asked about the photos of the deceased covering the insides and outsides of the homes and whether they signified more pain than healing, Yusuf says “preserving the photos and belongings of the children is perhaps their way of keeping them alive in their memory as opposed to the fear of forgetting them and somehow betraying them”.
The same can be said for when they pass by roads and schools named after their children — the government’s tribute to the martyrs — every day. “Any sort of remembrances or tokens aimed at paying tribute to someone who has passed away in tragic circumstances soothes the wound and gives meaning to their death,” says Dr Hannah Pasha, a consultant psychiatrist.
“When there is an effort to try to forget, you can only function temporarily and the wound remains.
That is not real healing, in her opinion. “To heal, you have to carry on without forgetting.”
From what we saw, many in Peshawar are doing just that, including Altaf Hussain who lost a lung and his six-year-old daughter Khaula Bibi in the attack. He walks to the APS every day to teach mathematics to a class of 28 students five days a week. He does this despite running out of breath during his lectures. He does this while also grieving the loss of Khaula who was killed on her first day of school. Like other parents, Hussain remembers the attack as if it took place yesterday.
Dr Yusuf attributes this to the school of functionality which is different from the conventional ‘diagnostic symptoms manual’ that calls grief exceeding six months ‘abnormal’. “When a person is functioning — having relationships, careers and families — the grieving process is up to them to decide. Who are we to say what is too much and what is not? The question is whether they have gotten on with their lives.”
Sometimes, this functionality comes naturally from being human and the core instinct to survive. “All human beings have a core need to survive,” says Dr Pasha.
“Our body and mind act in different ways to be able to survive. It offers various defence mechanisms so that we can separate ourselves from feelings of pain and trauma, detach from them or be indifferent to them.
Dr Haroon agrees. “There are two words in psychology — fight or flight. In such a case, flight means destroying your life. But fighting means realising that I have a family, I have a wife, I have children and I need to have some kind of a routine in my life that will help me come out of this severe trauma,” she adds.
And in one way or another, despite the deep pain in their hearts, we see how the parents have found their routine. A new normal, as Dr Yusuf notes. For some, it means not passing by the school, for others it is religiously attending every ceremony on the anniversary of the attack. Many also seek solace in spirituality.
Photo from recent years of Falak Naz, mother of Saifullah and Noorullah
Photo from recent years of Ateeq Akhtar, father of Aimal Khan
Photo from recent years of Shagufta Jan, mother of Shaheer Khan
While each individual has their own coping mechanism, sharing pain, as the psychologists point out, is perhaps the most effective way to manage and process trauma. Fortunately, these parents have found support in each other, with some of them becoming members of a new family — the APS Martyrs Forum. In the meeting we attended during the visit, we noticed how the couples interacted without formalities; it felt more like relatives catching up. There is a familiarity that has developed among them in knowing each others’ loss. This forum, as the families say, is what they have gained from the tragedy.
Dr Yusuf views this forum as a support group. “Being with people who understand and share your experience can be very healing and therapeutic,” he says.
Jamal Khan, father of Shayan (aged 15), places a flower on the APS Martyrs Monument. “A week after the attack, I had gone to the school to collect Shayan’s bags and books. The administration had set up tents in the lawn where they were handing over the martyred students’ belongings to the parents.” — Photo by Jamal
The student survivors have also grown together; they meet each other from time to time and some of them have forged deep relationships. However, they haven’t bonded only through their shared trauma but through the will to not be defined by this one horrific incident and by setting paths for themselves.
“Bonding means I am there for you even apart from the attack … I am the guy you meet for Eid, play tennis with and shop with – I am that person too along with being the person who went through the attack with you. That way you feel comfortable sharing your vulnerable moments with that person,” explains Dr Pasha.
“To process a wound, sometimes your mind needs to get away and gain a lot of new information to analyse the old information,” Dr Pasha adds.
“Perspective is only developed when you have several experiences. So it makes perfect sense if the survivors don’t want to talk about it. What do they even have to achieve from talking about it repeatedly?
In such a scenario, a delicate balance has to be struck so that these men and families are not constantly reminded of being survivors and the attack, and neither do they feel abandoned. This is where the state comes in, as also noted by the judicial commission in its report. “The sufferings and pain endured by the parents of shuhada and their siblings is incalculable, unfathomable and inconceivable […] In these circumstances, it is significant to minister them with necessary medical treatment as well as psychological therapy as an endeavor to heal and rehabilitate their lives,” it says.
It adds that the government and armed forces must “shoulder this segment” with commitment.
With the name of the school starting with the word “army”, understandably many complaints are directed at the military. But can an institution that considers combat skills to be the ultimate strength and taking revenge on enemies as closure provide emotional support? The majority of the psychologists replied in the negative. As an institution, it is not skilled to be empathetic. They can show respect and pay tribute, and for them, that is the best they can do.
The onus, hence, lies on the government. And, as Dr Yusuf points out, there is only one thing it should have done: listen to the families. “The government should have asked them and then worked to fulfil their needs rather than assuming what would be the right thing to do.”
Parents sit by the Martyrs Monument inside the Army Public School. — photo provided by families
“When mental health needs are not fulfilled, all the people in your family — the dada , chacha , others — take on the role of therapists. You start sharing things with them but they are dealing with their own demons and are not qualified to do this […] they can snap and say things like ‘what more do you want from me’.
“But they can’t be blamed because they may also be on the brink of a nervous breakdown. The best solution to these things is to provide them [the survivors and families] with the people who have the skills to show patience and support,” Dr Pasha stresses.
Pakistan, and particularly Peshawar, is not a stranger to tragedy and terrorism. Children are killed in attacks in mosques and bazaars, and safety remains a perpetual concern. So what then makes the APS carnage different?
“Because it hurt everyone at their core,” Dr Pasha explains. “It targeted your Achilles’ heel; students in any society are its Achilles’ heel, they are the vulnerable members of the society who aren’t able to protect themselves. They are like the baby plants we are watering every day.”
Dr Yusuf notes that the APS attack shook a “desensitised society” because a majority of the victims were children. “I don’t think we heal from this, it is a collective trauma.”
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