I was fourteen. Eighth grade. At one of the most privileged schools in Defence — a place that was supposed to be safe.

The siren went off.

The same siren installed after the Islamabad earthquake. We’d heard it before. We thought it was a drill. Line up. Walk out. Stand on the football ground. Wait five minutes. Go back to class.

So we waited.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then more.

Whispers started. Something was found under the staircase. The bomb disposal squad was outside. I looked at the gates — both entrances blocked, guards standing still, armed.

School hours ended. No one let us leave.

Then gunshots were fired outside.

That’s when it hit me: I could die today.

Some kids laughed like it was nothing. That scared me more than the silence. When the gunshots echoed, everyone panicked. Parents screamed at the guards to open the gates. Chaos pressed in from every side.

Later I learned the principal made a deliberate choice. If someone had managed to place an explosive inside the school, they were likely waiting outside too — for the ones who survived.

The police came. The bomb disposal squad came. The media came.

Our school’s name and address were on TV — until money turned it into just “a school in Lahore.”

Standing there, I had one clear thought:

If something explodes inside this building, the structure will collapse, and that will be the end of us.

No escape. No survival instinct. Just finality.

And I knew I would never see my family again.

No goodbye to my Aba. No goodbye to my Dadi. No goodbye to my brothers or my mother.

I felt guilty immediately — for not spending enough time with them, for leaving things unsaid. That realization hurt more than the fear. My eyes filled with tears as I stood there, waiting.

My father was in the village that day. I was alone, except for my cousin — my senior at school. We waited until the area cleared, until the bomb disposal squad carried the bag — the one filled with explosives — out of the building.

When the gates finally opened, it was madness.

Parents crying. Children running. Everyone just trying to get out.

I found my cousin. We didn’t talk. We got into our vehicle and left. Distance was the only thing that felt safe.

That was my first trauma.

Our school stayed closed for months, and I had never been afraid like that before — not that deeply, not that quietly. My father wanted me to quit school, he wanted me abroad, he wanted me safe, and the very next day he left for the city just to see me, to check if I was okay, because incidents like this don’t just scare you, they alter your brain completely. He showed up with protection and urgency, while my mother showed up differently — by giving me space to think, to breathe, to exist without being questioned — and in that contrast I understood love could be loud or silent, and both could save you.

But safety didn’t exist anymore.

Soon, institutions across the country were attacked. We were told not to go to crowded places. To avoid traffic signals. To leave immediately if something felt wrong.

That day taught me something I didn’t know at fourteen:

Fear doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it waits with you in the open, under the sun, until you understand what you’re about to lose.

Seeing the recent attacks on civilians has brought parts of that day back to me. It’s a fear I learned early and lived through myself. I pray there are better days ahead for this country, and may Allah protect us and the people we love.

Peace.