• Part 1: Anger
• Part 2: Survival
• Part 3: Healing

Part 1: Anger

“We had sent our children to school to study, not on the border to get martyred.”

It’s October 2024, two months before the country will remember the attack on the Army Public School in Peshawar. Ten years after the school children 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 Aiman Khan, who was in grade 12.

The interview is being conducted at the house where Aiman was born. There are no pictures or any memories of him. In informal conversations with Aiman’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.

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 anyone from entering the premises. I was trying to access all the entrances of the school. In the meantime, my wife and younger son managed to escape from the back side. But there was no update on Osama.Other members of my family came over but none of us could find any clue of where Osama was. I then 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)

All the parents we visit want to talk about their kids 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.

-Collage photo? Or carousel of the above

Nasira Aurangzeb, mother of 10th grader Hassan Zeb, remembers 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 smiles. “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,” she says.

“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.

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 from 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

Those still sending their other kids to the school or teaching there are doing so 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 Ghassan, 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.

Ghasaan’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, Jeffery Patrick Kinney and J.K. Rowling is a mirrored cabinet that proudly displays all the shields and trophies Ghasaan 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 Ghassan 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 Saadia Gul, 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.”

2014: “When they 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 after which I was unable to move. I finally heard the ambulance come in after over an hour. When I was moved to the stretcher and 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. “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 says.

Some can’t help but remember, like Nazia who lost her 15-year-old son Malik Usama Tahir Awan, a 10th grader. “For the longest time after the attack, I would prepare breakfast for all the five family members, forgetting that the number had now shrunk to four,” she says. Her other two kids, 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.”

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 then, 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 immediately 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 17, grade 10)

Part 2: Survival

“Not even a bird can fly over the school today,” a sentence repeated often by families and teachers who survived the attack.

Coming from the Grand Trunk 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 the XI Corps Officers’ Mess within 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; black, amber and red, along with a hand that signals the security situation on an hourly basis. In all of Dawn.com’s visits near the school, the hand remained positioned at amber, which means moderate.

The Naseem Rizvi Shaheed Road leads you straight to the school. The main entrance of the APS is now in full view with at least three barricades outside. It almost feels wrong to peep inside the horizontally striped gate of the school because of its checkered history and the overwhelming military presence around the area. According to parents, the gate, on the other side of which is the Martyrs Monument, is hardly ever opened except for special events or “VIP visits”.(Dawn requested access for a visit to the school but was unable to procure it.)

Maybe a photo?

On both sides of the campus are two roads. The one towards the right separates the school from the Cantonment Graveyard. Towards the left, a stream from the Warsak Dam flows parallel to the school, almost like a border. For a venue bustling with children of all ages, the area is eerily quiet between 2pm-4pm.

We walk on the right road, where barbed wires — that some say are live and can pass current — dominate the now tall walls of the campus and come to the second gate of the school, where students of the senior section enter and exit from. At least two men, uniformed, remain seated outside. A poster featuring photos and names of this year’s high achievers is pasted on the wall next to the gate. And just a few steps ahead is yet another checkpost, where locals say the questioning is stricter. Hereon begins the Behari Colony.

The road on the left side of the school, meanwhile, is green and shady. 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.

—2014: “We could hear firing outside [the classroom] and covered all the windows and doors. Some students hid under the desk. After what felt like hours, army personnel came in and first rescued all the seriously injured students. I was also shot but I couldn’t feel it because I was in shock. A classmate told me my leg was bleeding. The military had prepared a safe passage. In a queue, with officers on either side, we were taken to the Defence Park through the gate of the Toddler’s Academy. Outside the gate, ambulances were waiting. They took us to the Combined Military Hospital.”

Muhammad Sajidullah, survivor and student

or

2014: “When I got near the St Mary school and saw the situation – the roads were blocked, there was a fleet of ambulances headed towards the school and their sirens were echoing on the streets — I was shocked and realised that things were far worse and serious than I had imagined. At least five to six more children in our family studied in the same school but in the junior section. So I went to the Defence Colony gate of the school where the students were being evacuated. I found my other children there and sent them home. But we kept standing outside the school, waiting for any information on Asad. My brother was standing at the main entrance, but he was told to go to the hospital. We could hear heavy firing every few minutes and then there was a blast. At that moment, I thought everything was finished…that they had blown themselves up. But firing resumed once again, and it was such that it would jolt me.”

Dost Muhammad, father of Asad Aziz (15)

—-

In the following years, a checkpost has been propped up 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. Other parents and teachers concur. “Just a few steps from the entrance is an open area covered by a roof from where parents can pick the students up after identity checks.

“There is a huge difference in the APS today and the APS 10 years ago,” she adds.

Rana Muhammad, an alumni and survivor, agrees. “Before it became a brand, the APS was like any other school,” he says, adding that the high walls, barbed wires and security checks are additions made post-Dec 16, 2014. Another of the newer additions to the school is 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, adds Shabana, a junior section math teacher at the APS who also 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 filled.”

“I feel very safe there. Not even a bird can fly over the school now,” she reiterates.

—

2014: “When we were finally given the signal to go inside the school, there were pools of blood on the floor of the hall. Its walls were bullet-ridden. We were shifting bodies and injured students in the ambulances amid cross-firing. 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 anytime.”

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 in its entirety, so much so that it felt as if they didn’t want us to remember anything that happened that day,” says Muhammad Abuzar, who studied at the school from nursery to intermediate. He is also one of the survivors of the massacre. “By the time I was doing my FSc, I had completely forgotten about the pre-attack APS.”

He explains that the auditorium, where the cold-blooded massacre unfolded, was turned into an indoor sports complex. The school grounds were reshaped and a monument was built to honour the martyrs. “You can see that a lot of money has been spent,” scorns Nazia, mother of Malik Usama Awan.

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 APS. One of the photos was that of her son, Huzaifa.

“Near gate number two of the school was also a plate inscribed with Quranic verses and their translations in Urdu and English, along with an ode to the innocent students. But I haven’t seen it around lately,” she adds.

Walking inside the school from the second entrance, neighbouring Behari Colony, the APS Shuhada Monument comes into sight. The 40-foot-high structure comprises three stone walls engraved with the martyrs’ names in Kufi inscription—Hazrat Ali’s writing style. Atop the walls is a flock of birds made out of copper sheets, aimed at the sky. Ironically, the birds, in flight to heaven, cannot be seen beyond 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. However, he regrets it being inaccessible 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.”

https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=818395808269810&set=a.818394641603260 — written by Associate Architect Ibrahim Hyder, Dec 2015

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,” points out Zafar Iqbal, father of 15-year-old Osama. “The guard of honour is presented in our absence … we are not even informed about it,” says mother Nazia. “When we protest, they are forced to do something,” the parents of Shaheer Khan add.

–

2015 (first day of school reopening): “When the school reopened, there was no thought about why I am going back but it was my parent’s decision…I wasn’t that mature at that time. But I was very scared, even today, I get scared when I hear a gunshot. There was this one time when we were in class while renovation work was underway in the auditorium, but we weren’t aware of it. Hearing the sounds of drilling, all of the students in the class and the teacher ran outside towards the main gate. Such was the fear in us.”

Obaidullah, student and survivor

—-

Outside the school, back at the GT Road, a 13-minute drive down Mall Road leads to another monument, somewhat obscure, the government’s homage. The weathered and chipped structure demands a closer look. Its base is designed to resemble a stack of notebooks, with the topmost book opened to reveal the names of martyred students inscribed on its two pages. Beside it stands a depiction of pencils.

“How can one even tell it is dedicated to the martyrs?” a fellow journalist asks, as cars zoom past without a glance. His sentiment was also echoed by the Peshawar High Court in 2018, which had termed the monument as “unsuitable” for representing the sacrifices of the killed children and ordered a fresh design.

Years later, the fading monument, inaugurated in 2015 stands in the same place as cars zoom past without sparing a second glance. Beside it is a narrow gate to the Shuhada-e-APS Public Library. A plaque sits just a few steps away. “Yaadgar Shuhada Army Public School … inaugurated by Pervez Khattak, chief minister of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Dec 16, 2015,” it says.

Add photos/videos

Walking inside, we are greeted by a grassy ground, and then comes the main entrance of the library, beyond which is a hall — once a gathering place for grieving parents. “After the APS attack, families of the martyred students used to come here frequently and hold meetings,” recalls Dr Ashfaque, the chief librarian.

“But over the years, these visits have largely reduced,” he adds. 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.

Insert video/audio of librarian

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. During our multiple walks across Peshawar, the ghost of the dead never leaves us alone; colleges, schools and roads named after victims of the APS carnage greet us at every corner.

On Bara Road, just a few streets from his house stands the Government Shaheed Aiman Khan Higher Secondary School. Aiman, 18, was a second-year pre-engineering student at the APS. In Hayatabad, the Government Shaheed Huzaifa Aftab School honours a 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 another 60 educational institutions across Peshawar, the boards of which were changed after Dec 16, 2014.

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Nestled deeper within the city’s narrow and bustling lanes are shrines, most of them built by families with posters bearing photos of slain sons and daughters, their dates of birth and death — a poignant reminder of a life’s promise cut short. Grief, in Peshawar, is almost trapped, a persistence of the agony of that day frozen in time.

—

2015: “Khaula, six, was in the first grade. Dec 16, 2014, was her first day at school. When the attack was going on, I kept thinking about Khaula Bibi and who could kill her – after all, she was just a child […] I was put on a ventilator after the attack. They tried to save my lungs but could not, so now I only function on a single lung. Despite that, I continue to work. On Dec 29, I had a major four-hour-long operation because there were pieces of bones near my heart. After four months, on May 2, I was back at the school. In the initial days after the attack, I had expressed wanting to quit my job and take my children out of school. But my wife told me that our daughter’s blood was in the school, so now we have to work for that.

Altaf Hussain — APS teacher, survivor shot three times, and father of Khaula Bibi (age 6, grade 1)

—

Abu Bakr Waseem - survivor and teacher

Even survivor Abu Bakr Waseem, who has been teaching math at the APS for over two decades, takes exception to difficult questions. He does not, however, shy away from answering them. “I am Pakistan’s hero,” he asserts. “I have shed blood for this country … my children can proudly say that their father contributed to the foundation of Pakistan, whether someone recognises it or not.”

The cube-like room he is seated in is a familiar sight for many students in Peshawar who follow Waseem’s YouTube channel ‘W Maths’, where he gives online math lessons. Along with numbers, the educationist also has a way with words, which can be seen in his book titled ‘Waqt Abhi Gaya Nahin’ (There is still time).

“I just try to keep myself busy,” he says. “I may be strong, but I am also a human at the end of the day. Even today, when I remember the martyred children, I want to burst out crying. But then a man has to be strong, they can’t cry.” With the call for Maghreb prayers, Waseem leaves the comfort of the couch and limps out of the room. His walk is not the only thing that changed after Dec 16, 2014.—

Part 3: Healing

The car jerks through the Tehkal Bala Road on a chilly Friday evening. The scarcity of streetlights makes it difficult to gauge the surroundings. But Tariq Jan, in charge of the steering wheel, confidently navigates every curve and bend in the road before finally parking in front of an illuminated two-storey house. “Our destination is here,” he announces.

Taking the cue, the ladies get out of the car and enter through the main door of the house, which was left ajar. Tariq chooses to stay behind. “I will wait for the other men to arrive,” he tells Shagufta, his wife. “Come beta,” she signals to me and then proceeds to help Nasira climb the stairs.

Inside, Shagufta places a box of kebabs on the dining table and then makes her way to the hall with Nasira. They are the first ones to arrive. “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.

—

2024: “I look at this incident in two ways: physically and spiritually. Physically, we cannot take this pain. Spiritually though, these children died as martyrs at the age of 13, and we became parents of martyrs. And the worldly benefit that we have gained from this incident is that all four of my children have gained higher education. It has given 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 Ghassan (age 14, grade 8)

—

By 8pm, Shahana’s hall is bustling with ladies. Her dining table is brimming with Tupperware containers, all of different colours and sizes. Outside, Tariq Jan finds company as well.

“How do you still have his pictures up on the wall?” Seema asks Shahana. The women seated around her hum in chorus. “I just have one photo frame on my bedside,” says Shagufta. Nasira chimes in 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 adds.

“Shaheed Hassan Zeb’s mother, can you pass me the bowl please,” replies Shahana, who is too busy spreading out the dinner. The topic successfully changes to the menu as all the women delve into the dishes they cooked for the night and their contents. Soon, the call for dinner is made along with which Tariq and the other fathers make their presence. Everyone, except for some ladies obstructed by arthritis, sits on the cold marble floor. One by one, food platters are brought in with every woman pointing out their share to the spread.

Before they delve in, a prayer is made for the martyrs.

—

2024: “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. Other than that, what has given us hope is our children, particularly my son.”

Tariq Jan, father of Shaheer (age 14, grade 8)

—

For a split second, Shahana pauses and glances up at the wall that was under discussion just a few moments ago. Over a dozen photos, and memories, are hung 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 all the other ladies had a wall similar to that at Shahana’s house. “But lately, it has become too difficult … the pain is almost unbearable,” Seema remarks. 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 unison.

These women and their husbands gather every twice a month to both celebrate and mourn their martyred children. Over the last 10 years, they have converged under what is called the APS Martyrs Forum. These families, who hardly knew each other until a decade ago, 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 Aiman Khan’s mother, why don’t you become a rishte wali aunty?” quips Shahana’s daughter, a lanky girl in her 20s, as she squeezes in next to Seema and hugs her. Everyone laughs.

—

2024: “As far as coping is concerned, I began reading a lot of motivational books. I even wrote a book. Apart from that, I prepare math video lessons for students on YouTube. We keep ourselves busy. 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

—

As the clock ticks deeper into the night, the discussion jumps from “selfish politicians” to the “indifferent army” and “handicapped courts” until it finally rests at 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, Peshawar. 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 martyr’s residence.

The forum never fails to celebrate the martyrs’ birthday, a subject taken very seriously. But birthdays are not the only days they converge on. Last year, all the families took henna to Professor Gul Shehzad Khattak’s house when his youngest daughter tied the knot. His oldest one, Sadia Khattak, an English teacher at the APS, was killed in the attack.

“This is the only time I go out of the house,” says Nasira, who is among the older 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 a close, Seema is laughing with other mothers. 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.

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2024: “The only thing I can feel 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. What is the point of living in the world if you can’t do it for your fellow humans? The material things will go away but doing something to bring about a positive change will stay forever. From the day my son’s funeral was held till today, my God has looked after me. My parents did. Their life is an inspiration for me. These aspects of my life gave me hope and healed me.”

Andaleeb Aftab — APS teacher, survivor and mother of Huzaifa (age 16, grade 10)