“What a dreary week it had been,” I thought to myself.

Schools and offices were reopening after the war. Life was returning to normal, but what did “normal” even mean now? So many people had lost their loved ones. Could their lives ever be normal again? What a terrible week it was to be alive. The fear of losing my loved ones had only grown stronger since the beginning of the war.

“I saw drones being shot down,” Kaleem said.

We had witnessed a war, and now we would carry its story for generations. We would wear it like a medal, because we survived.

“We had stored at least two months’ worth of groceries,” Sahir bragged.

Of course. For the rich, war is always different. I remembered how worried father had been because we only had very little ration left. If the war had lasted any longer, we would have starved. His helpless face lingered in my mind. Every night, he would recite Ayat-ul-Kursi over us.

Lost in my thoughts, I walked towards the assembly hall. Every morning before classes began, we would gather there. There were hushed voices all around.

“Did you hear about Shameer?” a junior asked another student in a trembling voice.

Before I could ask what had happened, Miss Hina stepped forward and addressed the hall. Her face was solemn, her voice calm but heavy.

“The school management has gathered you all here to inform you about the passing of our beloved student Shameer. He embraced martyrdom during the events of the recent war. He was in Muzaffarabad, visiting his grandparents, when the enemy launched an attack in the middle of the night.”

A wave of gasps spread through the hall.

Shameer? The captain of our school’s cricket team? The boy with the brightest smile? My heart raced. He was such a kind and lively soul. What a cruel thing that he had been robbed of a beautiful life. The hall fell into a heavy silence. Then I saw a boy walking slowly toward the microphone. It was Fahad, Shameer’s younger brother.

He stood there, small and brave, and began to speak.

“My beloved fellows, I know the news of my brother’s passing is difficult to bear. But do not forget that he is a martyr, and a martyr never dies! He gave his life for the beloved soil of our country, Pakistan. As long as this world stands, Pakistan stands — and so does my brother.”

He paused only for a moment, then continued, his voice steady and clear. “I have refused to fall into the darkest pits of misery. Instead, I will rise. I will rise for my country. Losing a brother is not easy, but a believer is meant to be tested. I can sacrifice a hundred lives for this country.”

Something shifted inside me. Watching Fahad speak, even after such a terrible loss, stirred something in my heart. There was strength in his grief, a quiet courage that left me in awe.

There, I vowed to myself: For all the ‘Shameers’ this war has taken from their mothers, let’s make a promise — we will take care of our country. No matter what.

Pakistan zindabad!

Published in Dawn, Young World, September 13th, 2025