After APS: How do you counsel a grieving mother?
PESHAWAR: The last time Seema Bibi talked to her husband, she had asked him, “Why is my child not here?”
It was the Qul of her only son, Fahid Ahmed, who lost his life in the Army Public School (APS) carnage.
Seema saw a number of children there, alive and moving about, and asked her husband, Hussain Nawab, where Fahid had disappeared.
“She has not spoken since December 19,” Hussain says quietly.
On Dec 16 last year, Hussain, a Frontier Corps (FC) soldier, left in the morning for his duty at Loweri pass, between the Chitral and Dir districts. Fahid went to school, and a few hours later, his dead body was brought back.
"At that time, my wife was alone at home; she spent almost six hours all by herself with his body," Ahmed remembers, his voice choking and tears on his face.
Hussain was numb with grief — his son was also his best friend. But matters took a turn for the worse when he saw his wife's condition. In the initial months, she would beat herself up and throw her body against the walls. She caused herself injuries that led to the loss of speech and hearing. Hussain took her to several doctors but there was little improvement in her state; she could only be stabilised by tranquilisers.
Hussain now uses metal chains and ropes to tie up her hands and legs, so she does not hurt herself. He cannot sleep and worries for Seema’s deteriorating mental health.
“She couldn’t bear the loss,” he says. “She has lost her mind.”
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Severe trauma
A year after the deadly attack, survivors and parents of the deceased children are experiencing severe trauma. Medical experts say that the APS massacre has deeply affected the medical health of parents and survivors.
Hours after the attack, parents rushed to the school and the hospital, only to be confronted with ruthless bloodshed.
“It is not easy for them to forget the sight,” says Dr Rauf Khattak, who heads the Casualty Department at Lady Reading Hospital (LRH), Peshawar. Majority of the survivors, he explains, suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Recurring memories from the day and its aftermath lead to sleeplessness, disbelief and fear.
Dr Mukhtar, who provides counselling to the bereaved families at LRH’s psychiatric department, believes that the process will be slow. “Overcoming the trauma will take time,” he says, explaining that most of these families consist of ordinary people: students and parents who had never imagined such bloodshed at school, but have been forced to confront it and live with it.
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Long-term counselling
Medicine, however, is not a permanent solution to trauma. “We normally advise anti-depression and anti-anxiety drugs,” Dr Mukhtar explains. “But the real solution is long-term counselling.”
After the attack, the KP government established a trauma centre at LRH to rehabilitate the surviving students and parents, especially mothers. Three teams of foreign experts, including one from America, visited Peshawar to provide counselling.
A counselling team from LRH visits the house of Malik Hassan Tahir once a week. Tahir and his brother both survived the deadly attack on their school, and are suffering from PTSD.
But Malik says that counselling is difficult and has not helped him. Part of the counselling process requires talking about the APS attack, which refreshes horrible memories.
Instead of coping with his grief, Tahir says he remembers the day’s images more vividly: the attack, the bloodshed, the crying of students in pain, the sound of the ambulance sirens.