Army Public School Peshawar opens: Prayer from a mother

I imagine. The walls are high, the guards on high alert, the gates watched very closely, and the entry of everyone watched. Some of the rooms have been painted, after the many holes in their walls were filled up. There is no trace of any broken furniture, spots of dried-up blood, books-notebooks-bags strewn all over, and shoes slipped off feet that were trying to escape bullets. As Army Public School (APS), Peshawar, opens after the winter break – filled with wails, graves, mourning, hospital visits, prayers, and nightmares – there is little that could come close to understanding what those who lost their beloved sons, brothers, cousins, friends and students feel.

As the gate opens, there will be no visible mark of that one fateful day that changed, irrevocably, the APS, Peshawar, and Pakistan. But there is nothing that would erase the memories of what happened on December 16, 2014 from the minds of those who witnessed it, those who survived it, those who heard their friends, class and school-fellows being shot, one after the other, and those who were injured with their friends and lived to tell the story of horror few would have the spirit to withstand. The newly painted rooms will have invisible stains of blood that flowed from cold shots of bullets that made holes in young bodies. And the eerie silence will ring with cries of pain, pleas of mercy, screams being stifled with ties stuffed in the mouth after being shot, and young feet running to find a safe place in their school from terrorists who came to kill them all. It may be years, maybe a lifetime, when those rooms will be clear of the ghosts of that one December day. Of pain, of loss, of helplessness, of unmentionable barbarity, of humanity losing its face, of finality. Until then, I pray. Like all those in that school.

Today, as I ask my son to choose clothes for school tomorrow, I say a prayer for all those mothers who lost their sons on December 16. How does a mother look at her son’s empty room? Her son’s closet full of clothes, and shoes; the old cricket bat, and favourite football under the bed; the shelf and table in his room groaning under books that were left unread; the video game he saved money to buy to play with his friends on the weekend, and the movies he always left half-seen. To be watched later.

I say a prayer for all the fathers who lost their sons on December 16. How does any father reconcile with losing his oldest son, his first-born, who was now almost as tall as him? The young man who looked like him, but doted on his mom. The careless teenager who forgot to do his homework, but the loving son who never forgot to kiss his mom goodnight, waving to his dad. The good son the father advised on things that mattered, and lectured on things he knew the son would inevitably do, but nevertheless had to as agood father.

I say a prayer for all the siblings who lost their brother/s on December 16. How does a sibling bear the death of a brother who he/she always fought with but was the rock in his/her life? The smiling selfies, the hidden-from-parents tardiness, the good-natured bullying, the short-lived blackmailing, the shared history, the future plans, the noisy todays.

I say a prayer for their grandparents, for their friends, for their cousins, for their aunts and uncles, for their class-fellows, for their teachers. For all who knew them.

I cannot begin to imagine their pain. I cannot even try. Ergo, I do what I can. I pray.

In solidarity with the students of the APS, I will send my son to school every day, blowing Ayat-ul-Kursi on him like I have for years, but with a smile. Despite there being a general feeling of fear permeating Pakistan regarding its schools and children, I don’t know of a single parent who’s not sending his/her child to school or college tomorrow. When hundreds of APS students enter their school tomorrow, Pakistan stands with them. Your pain is ours; your fear is felt by us; and our fear takes strength from your resilience. While you stand in the auditorium listening to the new principal speak, and be silent for the national anthem, you will have the prayers and best wishes of all others like you - children in school - all across Pakistan.

Sending our children to school while there is a security threat is the one way we say in unison: we will not bow down to any form of terrorism. Our unity, our resilience, and our perseverance to march on despite fearare the best weapon we have against the dark power of terror. And that is one little tribute to those children who were shot dead, and their teachers and principal who died trying to protect them. Your pain and your deaths will not go in vain. We couldn’t save you, but there is no way we would ever forget you.

While there is a national consensus to fight terrorism on all levels, there is no way our children would remain sheltered at home while those at the APS, and countless other schools braving their fear walk into their schools, ready to do what schoolchildren do all over the world: attend school. With only thoughts of their friends, the class-fellows they tease, the sports they love, the tests they fear, the homework they slave over, and the examinations they dread. Without any fear of bullets.Without any fear of death. With twinkle in their eyes, sparkle in their laughter and dreams in their souls.

To children… May you all be simply…children.