In remembrance: ‘Fijja, I used to call her...’

Fizza died for Pakistan and I hope Pakistan realises that.

Fijja, I used to call her because she hated when someone misspelled her name. And as a true friend I always misspelled it because I loved to bug her. She always emphasised, “It’s Fizza, not Fiza.” When I read some news reports of her death, I saw “Fiza Malik passed away”. I thought to myself, “She would have hated that”.

But she is no more, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

At first, you try to convince yourself that it’s someone else. You tell yourself Fizza Malik is a common name. But after a few phone calls, it becomes clear.

It didn’t hit me when I was booking my ticket on the first plane to Islamabad to attend her funeral. It didn’t hit me, even when I was on the way to her house. But it hit me when her mother held my hand and said, “They took my daughter, they shot her. But she is a shaheed”.

That’s when I cried.

I’m glad I cried, it helped. I didn’t go to Islamabad to just meet her family. My main purpose was to say goodbye to Fizza, because I owed it to her. On the way back, I started recalling her plans of going to the UK to do her Bar as she had done her LLB from Islamabad (external programme). Her aim was to be a successful lawyer, work for the betterment of society and her nation.

In the eight years of our friendship, she would always talk about being a lawyer. She planned to change the way people saw the legal system of Pakistan, provide everyone with an equal kind of justice, the only kind there should be. She also wanted to come to Karachi and work here but she wasn’t too fond of this city. She would always say, “Halaat buhat kharab hain” (conditions are really bad there). Ironically, the city she thought was safe and peaceful took her life. Islamabad was her home from the beginning. She lived in the Beverly Hills of Islamabad named Bahra Kahu. I used to call her ‘burger bachi’. Jokingly, I would ask her how elitist does one have to be to live in a bubble’s bubble i.e. Bahra Kahu, Islamabad. She maintained that life in Islamabad is also tough and I would laugh.

Fizza had become religious in the past few years, as she had seen her share of problems in life and she had found solace in religion. She was one of those friends, who would always be there for you. Even if you have not talked to her for months, you could just call her randomly and blabber about your own problems and she would just listen and tell you it will be okay.

The reason why she still hadn’t gone for the Bar or even visit Karachi to inquire about potential job opportunities is because she loved her parents. She was one of those daughters who put her parents before herself or anything else. While writing this piece, I came across her last conversation with me in which she said, “Sometimes I think, what if I’m not with my parents phir kya hoga?” I wonder what will happen to them now, who are both old in age and not in the best of health.

As Fizza’s friend, I just hope her death is not meaningless. She died for Pakistan and I hope Pakistan realises that. Yes, her life was as precious as the hundreds of thousands before her, but that doesn’t mean she was any less important either. Because of her, I promise I will raise my voice against terrorism and no longer subtly disapprove of it. I will speak up for my friends, my nation and myself. That is my revenge: not to be terrorised. I hope you learn something from this too; I hope you don’t have to wait till someone close to you is shot three times in the chest mercilessly to realise this.

Please Pakistan, become one and don’t scare me with comments such as “they are not really terrorists because...” Anyone who can kill a kind, caring and loving Fijja can only be called a terrorist.


Published in The Express Tribune, March 7^th, 2014.