'They named a road after my martyred child. What good is that?'

People keep telling me that it has been three years since Dec 16. But that means nothing to me. My wounds haven’t healed; they are only growing bigger. My pain hasn’t reduced. I remember it all. So much has changed in these years – our faces, our likes and dislikes, our habits, our routines. We rarely go out anymore and when we do I see him everywhere: sitting, eating, talking.

I love my children. Everyday, as I watch them leave for school, and then return, I think of how precious this time is that we spent together. But Asfand. I raised him.

There are times when I look into the mirror and I don’t recognise myself. I didn’t talk like this. I didn’t look like this. I didn’t even think like this.

People often tell me not to cry. They tell me that the mothers of martyrs don’t shed tears, they smile. I tell them we, mothers, do cry. Martyrs are said to be alive. If he is alive why can I not see him? Because I have tried.

If he were alive today, he would have been a young man. But he isn’t.

In the last three years, I have attended a few programmes and events at the Army Public School. Many of Asfand’s cousins still study there. They stand in line in their matching green and white uniforms and get their pictures taken. Their mothers smile. I wish my child could also be amongst them. So I turn my back. I look away. I can’t be crying in a crowd.

These days, when I am not sad, I am angry. I want the authorities to explain to us what happened that day? Why was there no security at the gates, except for one guard, Bilal. There used to be snipers on the school’s roof. Where did they go?

After the parents created a lot of noise, we were invited to a gathering. This was maybe five or six months after Dec 16. In the hall, officers showed us footage of dead terrorists. We were told that these were the men who killed our children. But some parents spoke up during the presentation. They pointed out that they had seen these images before and that these images were from the attack at the Bacha Khan airport. I was shocked. Are we being fooled?

Were those who have been hanged the real perpetrators or not? How can I be sure? No one is telling us who the mastermind was and the facilitators. Let me tell you today that justice has not yet been done to our children.

I am a mother; I have the right to ask questions.

What a strange country this is where terrorists accept responsibility for their attacks but those who were responsible for our security do not. I want them, the authorities, the officials, to admit it. To tell me, and the other parents, “Yes, since I am sitting in this chair. It was my responsibility to protect your children and I failed.”

No one resigned from their post, not even a police constable.

On the third day, after my son was killed, I went to the school. The walls were covered in bullet holes and blood that was turning darker over time. So, I removed it myself, with my own two hands. I cleaned whatever I could from the walls. My daughter told me not to. She told me it was dirt. I told her, this is the blood of our innocent children, of our martyrs.

Others tell me that I was the only mother who had the courage to go to the school three days after the incident, demanding answers. I am surprised at parents who have chosen to remain silent. Speak up. Your child was killed.

I have met many mothers. They all say that their sons received more than two bullets. When my Asfand came home, he had three bullet holes in his head.

We were promised an inquiry report. But there is no word on that. We have asked Imran Khan about it several times. The fathers got together and met the speaker of the provincial assembly, Asad Qaiser. He told them that they have the report but it cannot be released right now. When we ask the provincial government for help, they send us to the federal government, when we ask them for the same, they tell us that it was an army-run school and we have no authority over it. Recently we also met Amir Muqam, the adviser to the prime minister. He promised us a meeting with Prime Minister Shahid Khaqan Abbasi.

A road leading to the zoo in Peshawar has been named after Asfand Khan. I don’t know whether to cry out of grief or happiness. You took away my breathing, living child and gave me a road in return. What good is that?

Shahana Ajoon is the mother of Asfand Khan, 14, who was martyred on Dec 16 in the attack on the Army Public School in Peshawar. Her story is written here as narrated to Aftab Ahmad.