Posted to Sister Zeph’s Journal
By Sister Zeph
On 17 July, 2015
It was almost midnight on December 24, 2004, a night etched in my memory. My family was gathered, brimming with joy, celebrating what would become one of the most beautiful Christmases we ever experienced. My sister, pregnant with her two-year-old daughter and her husband, had joined us at our home. Our house radiated festivity, adorned with my mother’s enchanting decorations. Relatives and their families had just left, and we were preparing to retire for the night, eager to attend the Christmas service at our church in the early hours.
Suddenly, we heard the unmistakable sound of bullets hitting our roof. Such celebratory gunfire, though now illegal in our area, was not uncommon. Initially, we attributed it to this local custom. But then, to our horror, we spotted a man with a gun on our roof. Panic ensued as we rushed indoors. In a matter of seconds, we locked all our doors and switched off every light. Our immediate concern was the safety of my pregnant sister and her toddler. Our youngest began to cry, prompting my mother to instinctively stifle her sobs, fearing for our lives. I looked into my mother’s eyes and sensed her anguish; it felt as if her soul was withering away. I couldn’t bear to ask my mother to release her grip on our little one to allow her to breathe; it was a desperate measure to ensure her survival.
Bullets continued to rain down on our roof. A deafening silence enveloped the village, and we feared that the intruders would break in at any moment, putting our lives in jeopardy. My sisters prayed fervently for our safety, while I wept, tormented by the belief that it was my fault that my family was facing such danger. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. Death seemed imminent, just beyond our doors, and there was little we could do. We lacked knowledge of the internet, did not possess a telephone, and even if we did, we would not have known how to seek help. We were unarmed, unable to defend ourselves.
Then, as if by divine intervention, a miracle unfolded. Our brother-in-law had a mobile phone, and he used it to call the local police station, situated about 2 kilometers from our home. The police arrived within minutes, prompting the armed intruders to flee. To this day, we remain unaware of their identities.
Throughout the night, the police remained stationed in our home. In the morning, they informed us that it was unsafe for us to stay and insisted on escorting us out of the city. Thus, my four sisters, brother-in-law, and our little niece departed for Rawalpindi for a temporary respite. However, my parents chose to remain behind. During my time away, I secured employment and sent money to my friend, believing it would be used to support our students’ education. Yet, something drew me back; I couldn’t stay away from my students. Every moment away was a reminder that these girls depended on me to fulfill their dreams. If I prioritized my safety, their futures would be marred by illiteracy. I made the courageous decision to return, determined to rescue them from the clutches of ignorance.
Upon my return, I discovered an empty center—my students had vanished. I embarked on a quest, visiting their homes one by one, despite their initial reluctance and fear. With my mother by my side, we rekindled the spark of education. And so, we began anew.
Today, we have 200 students at our center, each not only receiving an education but also acquiring valuable skills and self-defense techniques through 15 distinct projects. We continue to dream of achieving even more.
As I sit in my room, reflecting on that fateful night when my family’s safety hung in the balance, I am grateful that they stand beside me. I harbor no regrets; I did nothing wrong. I was simply endeavoring to educate these young girls.
In spite of the perilous ordeal, my parents never once discouraged me from pursuing my mission. Had they done so, I would have perished alone. Today, I fear nothing, for I am no longer just an individual; I am an idea that resides in the minds of hundreds—my students who share a passion for learning, teaching, reading, and writing. This is who I am: “Learn and Teach.”