A day to remember

This Weekend was a long, exhausting, yet incredibly bright day—a day filled with the deepest sense of fulfillment. The morning began at our relief school, where we celebrated the annual sports day. Despite the small size of the school and the lack of a playground, we rented a sports field for the occasion. Watching the children’s faces light up with joy—children whose lives had once been torn apart by the horrors of the Delhi Riots—felt nothing short of divine. It’s been five years, and we remain a part of their family, sharing in both their happiness and their sorrow.

Amidst the crowd, I saw Khushi, the daughter of Firoz bhai, who was brutally burnt alive in the riots. I’ll never forget the first time I met her at our relief camp when she asked us to help find her father’s body. Firoz’s charred remains were eventually found in a drain, the only recognizable part of him being his shoes. Khushi’s mother, who was three months pregnant at the time, had her world turned upside down. We stood by her, providing her with support, regular health checks, and enrolling three of her children in our relief school. She later gave birth to a baby girl, whom she named Firoza, and this year, we proudly enrolled her in our school as well.

Like Khushi, there were other children whose lives had been forever changed by the riots. The children of Jamaluddin bhai, Akil bhai, Musharraf, and Mursalin bhai, all of whom were killed in the violence. To see their smiles—smiles that were once stolen from them by hatred—was a moment of pure grace. It felt like a divine gift to be able to give them their childhood back, something that had been ripped away by the brutality of the riots.

Later that evening, we met with Akil bhai’s wife and children at the Sabbat Centre. We had promised her an electric sewing machine, and today, she came to receive it. With this machine, she will be able to earn a decent living, and InshaAllah, we’ve also promised to help her open a small grocery store.

We had planned to meet Sameer and Vakil bhai too. Sameer, just 17, had been shot by the police, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. Over the past three years, I’ve had many conversations with him, urging him not to give up on his education, and Alhamdulillah, he finally agreed. He’s now in class 10, determined to keep moving forward. Just last week, we fulfilled his request for a smart TV to help him with online classes.

As for Vakil bhai, he lost his vision in an acid attack carried out by Hindutva extremists. His children are now enrolled in our relief school, and we had hoped to meet him regularly too. But by the time we wrapped up, it was already late, and we needed to return to Shaheen Bagh.

On my way back, I found myself lost in thought. Over these five years, I can’t say what I’ve gained or lost, but one thing is certain: Alhamdullilah, we’ve been the reason for thousands of smiles and the source of countless hopes. For those affected by mob lynching, communal violence, and destruction, we have been their family—through every hardship and every joy.