No more coffins

Terrorism in Pakistan is not something slipping into the past. It is present, violent and near. You see it in a wrecked train in Balochistan, in the broken windows of a seminary in Nowshera, in the small shoes left on a road in Khuzdar. These are not distant tragedies. They are daily realities shaping how people live, how they think, and how they fear.

In March, the Jaffar Express was hijacked. More than thirty passengers were killed and dozens taken hostage. That train, meant to carry people home, became a moving grave. Later, Khuzdar was torn apart when a bus carrying schoolchildren was rammed by a vehicle filled with explosives. Ten children were killed. Their books and bags lay on the road while parents rushed to the site and collapsed when they recognised their own children among the bodies.

February brought heartbreak to Nowshera. A suicide bomber entered a seminary during Friday prayers. Over twenty worshippers were injured. In June, North Waziristan bled again when a suicide vehicle slammed into a convoy of soldiers. Sixteen soldiers were killed, nearly thirty others wounded, including women and children who happened to be nearby. Quetta too has been scarred. A rally marking the anniversary of a nationalist leader ended in fire when another bomber struck, killing eleven and injuring dozens.

By midyear, Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa alone had recorded more than six hundred attacks. At least one hundred and thirty-eight civilians were killed. Over three hundred were injured. These are not faceless figures. They are fathers who will not return, mothers who will not hold their children, and classrooms where empty desks wait for voices that will never come back.

The methods of violence are shifting. Militants are now using drones to carry explosives. In one such attack, a woman was killed and three children injured. Local police with rifles were powerless. The battlefield has shifted into the skies, while the state has not kept pace.

For ordinary people, fear is no longer an interruption. It has become part of daily life. A mother in Quetta prays before her son leaves for school. A bus driver in Peshawar studies each passenger nervously. A shopkeeper in Banu jumps at every sudden sound.

What can be done? Security must adapt. Border posts need systems to detect drones. Convoys and school routes must be properly screened and protected. Political rallies and religious gatherings cannot remain exposed. These steps may feel heavy, but they are necessary.

Intelligence must move closer to the people. Villages and small towns often see the first signs of danger. A stranger arriving suddenly. A neighbour vanishing without reason. A vehicle left in the wrong place. These signals exist, but they are lost without trust. Local liaison networks could turn these whispers into warnings.

Justice matters. After every attack come condolences, promises, and then silence. Families need more. They need answers, real trials and accountability. Without them, trust fades and grief turns into abandonment. The pain outlives the funerals. Children remember classmates who never returned. Parents bury sons and receive only medals. They need care and dignity.

Pakistan has endured worse and survived. After the Peshawar school attack, classrooms were rebuilt. In Swat, families welcomed the displaced. That resilience still exists. But resilience alone is not enough. What is missing now is urgency and honesty. This cannot become normal. Trains cannot be hijacked. Buses cannot turn into coffins. Prayers cannot end in fire. Pakistan still has a choice. It can let violence shape its future, or it can act with courage and clarity. The people are waiting. Their patience, like their hope, is running out.