ANGER is the first emotion that comes across when you meet the parents of APS martyrs or survivors; it can’t be separated from their grief.

Almost all the parents we visit want to talk about their kids and that fateful day. They recall every little detail, while their children continue to exist in their homes — in the form of framed photos and posters, scrapbooks, memorial corners, books, and, in one case, in their last essay.

Some parents are still sending their other kids to APS, or continue teaching there as a form of resilience, or as a need to hold on to their loved ones. The same need drives them to keep their belongings intact, even 10 years on.

Today in Peshawar, posters of these kids outside and inside the house are not a rare sight.

Professor Gul Shahzad Khattak, father of slain 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 reads.

At Falak Naz’s house, photo frames of her martyred sons Saifullah and Noorullah fill up a room, but the void in her heart lingers. “In the beginning, whenever I saw any mother [of the deceased] laughing, I felt so angry. Today, I may smile or attend events, but my heart never wants to indulge in anything.”

One can tell that the events from Dec 16 often come up within these walls. But not everyone wants to participate.

On December 16, 2014, Pakistan lived through one of the most horrific chapters in its history: the attack on Army Public School in Peshawar and the operation to clear out the terrorists unfolded in less than 10 hours, during which 147 lives, including those of 132 schoolchildren, were taken. Ten years on, the effects from that day can still be felt; by the loved ones who continue their healing process as well as their search for closure, and by a nation still battling terrorism. This special report — which is available in much greater detail on Dawn.com — is meant not just to look back at what was lost, but to look ahead at what can be learnt for the living.

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 recalling details from that day. He keeps his headset on throughout the conversation and is only 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-i-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.

Some can’t help but remember, like Nazia who lost her 16-year-old son Malik Usama Tahir Awan, a 10th grader. “For the longest time after the attack, I would prepare breakfast for all 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.”

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 made in his memory. For other family members, Nazia says, the trauma of Dec 16 has seeped into their hearts, minds and personalities. “It comes out in the form of anger.”

The school

Coming from GT Road, you have to take a left to get to the school. 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.

The main entrance has at least three barricades outside. In the years since the attack, 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 [from] 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.

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 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 monuments

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.

According to parents, the gate where the Martyrs Monument is located is hardly ever opened, except for special events or visits by high-ups.

Every year, on Dec 16, a ceremony — attended by parents, civil society members, and government and military officials — is held here 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.

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.

That was in 2018, and years later, the fading monument stands in the same place. Beside it is a narrow gate to the Shuhada-i-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.”

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.

Healing

One of the purposes of this report was to find out how much, if at all, the families, survivors and Pakistan’s society had healed from the unimaginable tragedy that unfolded on Dec 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?

Psychologists Dawn 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.

“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.

“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.

“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,” Dr Faaiza Haroon 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.

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.

Published in Dawn, December 16th, 2024