THE small, grey apartment in Gulzar-i-Hijri where Amna Arif and her father Imran lived is now wrapped in quiet grief.

The two were on their way home when a speeding four-wheeler ran them over near Karsaz on August 19.

As I enter the sparse abode, Amna’s mother rushes out of a bedroom, smiles and disappears. “I wanted to check if my son had switched the water pump on. He works at a reputed institute but is on leave for a few days,” she explains.

Mrs Arif is not tearful today; her relatives say she oscillates between desperation and normal. We say a silent prayer for her daughter and husband. She wants a conversation but is unable to summon the right words. “I had made custard,” she whispers, without taking their names. It is still in her fridge, frozen like an epitaph.

Despite anger on social media and a revolving door cast of high-profile visitors, Amna and Imran Arif’s family are grieving quietly

This is a contained landscape of sadness where a family searches for the language of pain. “It is God’s will, but how will she carry on? This compound is so quiet without Amna. It was sudden and we don’t know what to say to my aunt and her son,” Amna’s cousin tell me.

“My brother-in-law was a chips, papad and water supplier. A most gentle and soft-spoken man… so loved and respected by all of us. I am Amna’s youngest khala and we were inseparable. She was my dearest friend and the life of our home. I hope people don’t lose interest in this tragedy,” says the young girl as she ushers in PTI politicians and YouTubers, whose presence is a small consolation to this family, whose main concern is that the tragedy should not be forgotten or brushed aside.

On the day I visited, the revolving door of political visitors saw Sindh Governor Kamran Tessori visiting the grieving family, while politician Sharmila Faruqi called on them Friday.

In a heartfelt message on X, the PPP MNA said she was heartbroken and had “promised to help them in every possible way”.

For any empathetic human being, there can be no other response.

As I walk into the tented enclosure reserved for visitors and mourners, a few ladies recite verses from the Holy Quran.

Amna’s closest friend; her Karachi University classmate and gym companion, looks longingly at a photograph of her departed friend that is saved in her phone.

The sting of disbelief and loss is palpable in her voice.

“I have not slept in three nights because I can still hear her. Uncle was a friend of my father’s, so our families met often. Amna and I were together every day. She was an extrovert who talked incessantly and wanted to make it big in the IT sector, or in business. None of us had her energy. Her days were long; balancing university, work and aerobics sessions,” she says without pausing for a breath.

“How she loved the idea of becoming a bride and new clothes! You know, we made a paani puri plan for Sunday. Now, I don’t even have the courage to listen to her long voice notes, but I want to.”

“When will people stop circulating these videos?” she starts to complain, before her voice tapers off.

When Amna’s mother enters the tented pavilion, the women present take turns to approach her. She smiles at them with vacant eyes, suspended between disbelief and hope.

Although an uncertainty and pain have seeped into the family’s home, they grieve with a rare dignity, uninterrupted by vengeance, hysteria and or even the traditional wails one expects to hear in a grieving household.

“I want justice for my bhabi and nephew. My youngest brother’s family has been reduced to just two people. They should be secure,” is the only request from Amna’s uncle.

As journalists, we reported on many tragic and sorrowful stories that highlight the imbalance of power in our society. But the degree of composure displayed by this family stood out.

Amna’s kin are aware that it will take a lot more than public promises of transparent investigation and justice when the suspect Natasha Danish, currently on judicial remand, has privilege on her side.

They do not want their story to become just another anecdote; it has to stay alive as bad memories do; like Amna’s photos in her friend’s phone, her brother’s silence and the quiet in her mother’s home.

Published in Dawn, August 24th, 2024