Ashes in the Air: A Child’s Prayer from Bahawalpur

I still hear the call to prayer.

Not in the way it used to echo from the mosque speakers, but from memory — muffled, buried beneath rubble, sung by silence. I was holding my sister’s hand when the sky turned red.

They called it Operation Sindoor. We didn’t know what that meant. We only knew that a bomb had fallen on our mosque, Masjid SubhanALLAH, and my sister never stood up again.

This is not a soldier’s report. It is not a politician’s press conference. It is a memory etched in ash.

Before the Blast

Bahawalpur was loud with life — children racing bicycles past roadside carts, women bargaining in the bazaars, prayer carpets airing on rooftops. On the morning of May 7, 2025, I skipped school to help my father fix a radio antenna.

At 03:15 AM, while we still slept, the first strike came.

They said it was a terrorist launchpad. I say it was our madrassa.

They said it was preemptive defense. I say we were never warned.

They said they were targeting threats. I say they killed Hafiz Sahab, our imam, who taught math in the evenings.

Aftermath

Fifty-one people died that morning. Eleven of them were children. My sister was one. She was nine. Her name was Amina.

Our health clinic collapsed. Our water pump shattered. A second mosque in Azad Jammu & Kashmir — gone.

No fighters. No camps. Just homes. And prayers.

My mother doesn’t sleep anymore. My father stopped speaking altogether. At night, we listen for jets and flinch at the sound of thunder.

They Said It Was Justice

In Delhi, they cheered.

They called it a victory. A bold move. A warning.

But even India’s own Ministry of External Affairs had admitted, just days earlier:

"The investigation into the Pahalgam incident is ongoing. No conclusive evidence has been confirmed."

So why did they launch missiles before proof?

Why did they drop bombs before guilt?

Why did my sister die before her tenth birthday — because someone wanted to look strong on television?

A World That Watched

The news came and went. UN officials held briefings. The UNHRC called for an investigation. Amnesty International called it a potential war crime.

But nothing changed. No one came. No justice arrived in Bahawalpur.

The Organization of Islamic Cooperation condemned the act. The European Union urged restraint — whatever that means when you're counting body parts.

In classrooms across Europe, they teach the Rome Statute:

"Intentionally directing attacks against civilian populations is a war crime."

We lived that lesson. In real time. In blood.

The Men Who Ordered It

Narendra Modi. Amit Shah. Ajit Doval.

Their names are etched on stone in Indian war rooms. Here, they are whispered by widows. We don’t see them as leaders. We see them as the men who made a decision that reduced a prayer hall to debris.

They said it was a threat. We say it was a masjid.

They said it was necessary. We say it was murder.

The Silence That Followed

Pakistan did not retaliate immediately.

Our leaders went to the United Nations. They offered investigators access to every bomb site. They called for justice, not vengeance.

That’s when the world looked away.

Because we weren’t useful anymore. Because our grief doesn’t trend. Because Amina’s name wasn’t on a diplomatic agenda.

Justice, Maybe

I hear that the International Criminal Court might investigate. That there are lawyers collecting testimonies. That if Pakistan joins the Rome Statute, there could be trials.

But I don’t want revenge. I want a court to say what the world was afraid to admit:

That what happened here was wrong.

That leadership is not an excuse for impunity.

That dropping bombs without proof is not strategy — it’s savagery.