One reads and hears about terrorist attacks all the time these days, but it is only when one has a narrow escape that one realizes the true horror behind such an experience. The following is a true account of the terrorist attack that occurred back in December 2003 when the then President, Pervez Musharraf’s motorcade was attacked twice near Chaklala Scheme 3. Around 16 people died and dozens were injured in that attack. It is intended as an eye-opener for those people who even in these terrible times are still of the “it-can’t-happen-to-me” variety and believe themselves invincible to any such attacks.
They say it is always better to learn from others’ experiences … wise words certainly. They also say that one cannot truly comprehend another’s fear or sorrow until he himself is placed in a similar heart-wrenching predicament, and experiences the kaleidoscope of emotions first hand. A few years back, I would have argued that you don’t need to be punched in the face to know that it will hurt, but now I realize why these words have so much wisdom. There was a time when every day of my mundane life, I would wake up in the morning and skim through the newspaper giving maybe half a thought to the Kashmir issue, the Iraq war, the Middle East crisis or the unrest in Zimbabwe. Every now and then I would come across a news item about 20 odd people being killed in a bomb blast here, or a gun battle there. I would shake my head benevolently, blame Uncle Sam for everything and go in search of a hearty breakfast, feeling sorrier for Shahrukh Khan’s back surgery than for those who, in some part of this chaotic world, had lost their entire families to one heartless and vicious act of terror. My apathy was soon to be jolted in the most unbelievable way. Unbelievable because like the rest of you, I, too, always felt that I was safe from this violence, thinking smugly: “That can’t happen to me.” But it did.
On December 25, 2003, at 2.00 pm, I was standing in a shopping mall in Lahore looking at a beautiful black angora sweater, and wondering why money doesn’t grow on trees, when my father’s cell phone rang. Having started a relatively shaky business, it was not at all surprising that his phone rang at least three times every hour. So like everyone else, I ignored him completely when he left the rest of us and went into a corner of the shop with a look of concern on his face. In the meanwhile, I was trying on the sweater, and my older brother was as usual snickering at my large exterior and noticing how the sweater pronounced my ‘tyres’ more than it should have. I turned towards my mother hoping that she would tell him off when I caught her looking strangely at my father. “Something’s wrong,” she said to me. “Yeah, your first born is,” I said, referring to my annoying brother, not realizing that she had sensed that my father seemed a little more anxious than usual. “Who was that?” she asked my father when he finally rejoined our group. “A colleague of mine. We have to return to Rawalpindi immediately because I have an urgent meeting to attend. A sponsor from Karachi is waiting for me and he has to leave in two hours,” was his reply. This time it was my turn to be alarmed. Why had the sponsor come for a meeting in the first place when he knew that my father was vacationing in Lahore? And secondly, there was no way we could reach Pindi in two hours by road anyway. Whatever my father was trying to hide, he was using a very lame excuse which was pretty obvious to all of us. My mother had suddenly gone quiet, which made the bells in my head ring even louder. I started bombarding my father with all sorts of questions, but was given a meaningful, threatening stare in reply through the rear view mirror.
This time it was my mother’s turn to take on my father. “Tell me the truth … why the emergency?” “I just told you,” he said, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “I’m hungry, I want lunch,” yelled my younger brother oblivious to the mounting tension in the car. “Not now,” my father said, his voice very tense. “But I’m hungry,” my brother wailed. Dad glanced at the speedometer and noticed that the car was low on fuel. “We’ll stop for some petrol, I’ll get you something to eat from the shop over there, Ok, now be quiet!” As soon as my father got out of the car, mother picked up his mobile and called my grandparents in Pindi. My cousin picked up the phone. She asked him if everything was well at home. A brief silence followed as she listened to his reply. I watched anxiously as my mother’s expression turned from concern to shock. “Is he allright? Tell me that he’s not hurt,” she started yelling into the phone. Apparently the line was cut off as she sat there staring incredulously at the instrument in her hands. “What happened, what’s going on?” I asked her. She could barely reply, “There have been two bomb blasts near Chaklala Scheme 3 while Musharraf’s motorcade was passing, Nana jee’s car has been blown to bits, the driver’s dead, and Nana can’t be found anywhere.” I stared at her, paralyzed with shock. “How could this happen?” I thought. It can’t be true.
The rest of the journey was sheer torture, the agony of the unknown too much to bear. All sorts of horrifying thoughts crossed our minds. Is Nana jee alive? And if by some miracle he is alive then how injured is he, has he lost any blood, or worse, has he lost a limb? We called everywhere we could, desperate for some kind of news, be it good or bad. After every 15 minutes the cell would ring and my uncles would give us updates on the situation. They told us that the injured and the dead had been taken to various hospitals all over the city, and that they were searching each and every one of them for Nana jee. They wept as they told us that they had been identifying the bodies also. For four gruelling hours we sat there in the car, praying, crying and hoping. My father turned on the radio in the hope that there may be news about the blast and a list of the names of the victims. All that the newscaster announced was that 16 people had died and many more had been injured, no names were given. She added that the president was fine and that he had narrowly escaped a second terrorist attack, the first being in the same area a few days earlier.
The word “terrorist” hung in the still air, echoing in my ears. For the first time the word had such a massive impact on me. Never before had I realized what terrorism was really like — but now I knew. I knew because I had experienced it first hand. I knew the horror that it carried, the fear it represented and the ruthlessness it signified. All this while my mother sat lifeless in the front seat, clutching a rosary. As we approached the outskirts of Pindi, the cell rang yet again. My mother leapt at it. “Did you find him?” she yelled. Silence. And then suddenly the tears started running down her face, tears of joy and relief, Nana jee had been found alive and well in one of the hospitals. He had received some injuries from the shards of glass of the shattered windshield, but otherwise he was fine. The driver had not died, but was very seriously injured and in intensive care. We hugged each other in joy and were thankful for the miracle that had been bestowed upon us.
But not everyone had been so lucky. Sixteen unfortunate souls lost their lives in this senseless act of terror. Dozens of others were critically injured. When we visited the hospital we came across people who had lost their eyes, their limbs even parts of their faces. All innocent human beings living their day to day lives, just trying to make both ends meet. What was their sin, what had they been punished for, what did the terrorists get out of destroying these innocent people? What difference did this act of terror make to anyone but those poor people who had lost their loved ones? Countless questions, but no answers. Today our country experiences terrorist attacks almost on a daily basis. With each act of terror, those moments of agony come rushing back to me, and now my heart breaks for those who lose their loved ones in such a brutal, untimely manner. For those whose entire worlds have shattered right before their very eyes, for those who can do nothing but watch as these heartless people who don’t even deserve to be called human take control of and destroy their lives. I can only hope and pray that they find the strength and patience to move on with their lives, with the promise that justice will be done one day…some day.
In my next post I’m going to talk about the protective & preventive measures one can take in the event of a terrorist threat or attack.
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