"Tears of the Valley"

The rain had begun on a quiet Wednesday night in Bahrain, a peaceful village in Swat, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Pakistan. At first, it felt like a blessing—cool winds, gentle drizzles, and the distant murmur of the Swat River flowing stronger. But by Friday, it became clear: this was not a normal monsoon.

The mountains, once green and majestic, now seemed to weep mud and stone. Villagers whispered, “Yeh barish thek nahi lag rahi (This rain doesn't feel right).”

At 2:37 a.m., the first landslide hit the east bank. By 3:15, the river had overflowed. Mud houses along the lower side collapsed like cards. People screamed, children cried, and in the chaos, 18 people became trapped in a narrow gulley with only one path—now swallowed by water.

Among the 18 were:

Sajid, a 45-year-old father of three, who ran a small fruit shop

Haleema, a widow in her 60s known for making the village’s best roti

Zubair and Imran, teenage cousins visiting for Eid

Rehman, an imam

Fariha, a 9-year-old girl who had dreamed of becoming a doctor

And two young brothers, Bilal and Yasir, aged 6 and 8

They took shelter in an old guesthouse—its walls already damp and shaky. There was no mobile signal, no way to call for help.

⚠️ Hour by Hour: A Fight Against Time

The first night, they rationed biscuits and dates left in their pockets. Sajid tried to comfort the children. “Jab subha hogi, rescue aa jaye gi (When morning comes, rescue will arrive),” he whispered, more to himself than to them.

But morning brought only more rain.

By noon, the guesthouse's back wall had crumbled. Cold water now reached their ankles.

“We need to move to higher ground,” Rehman suggested.

But there was none. They were surrounded—mountain on one side, raging flood on the other.

Around 3:00 p.m., tragedy struck.

A surge of water broke the front wall, and within seconds, chaos unfolded. People scrambled. Fariha slipped from her mother’s hand. Zubair and Imran tried to hold onto a beam but were pulled under.

Screams echoed. Water silenced them.

By sunset, 12 people were gone.

Only six remained: Sajid, Haleema, Rehman, Bilal and Yasir, and Raza, a 28-year-old who had just gotten engaged two weeks earlier.

They climbed to the roof—wet, trembling, barefoot. They had no food. The cold mountain wind pierced them like knives. Still, they prayed, they hugged, they waited.

🛟 Hope from Above

On the third morning, the sky cleared slightly. From the west, a faint thumping sound grew louder—it was a military helicopter, scanning the valley.

Raza tore a piece of his shalwar and waved it frantically. Haleema lit a small fire using dried branches she had kept under a broken clay pot.

The chopper saw them. It flew over once. Then again. Then it disappeared.

“I think they’ll send the boat,” Rehman said.

He was right.

By late afternoon, an army rescue boat arrived, guided by locals who had seen the survivors from afar. The path was treacherous, filled with floating debris and broken wires.

“We can’t all go,” the officer shouted. “Two at a time!”

Rehman lifted Bilal and Yasir into the boat. “They’ve lost everything. Save them first.”

Next went Haleema, nearly fainting from weakness.

Sajid and Raza were last.

When the boat finally touched dry land, people gathered in silence. Tears fell freely. No cameras. No speeches. Just grief, hugs, and prayers.

Twelve graves were dug by the river. Fariha was buried in a small white shroud, gifted by a nearby family.

Raza placed a flower near her grave and whispered, “I didn’t know you, but I’ll never forget you.”

🕊️ After the Waters

Weeks passed. News of the incident spread. Aid came—tents, rations, promises.

But what stayed was the silence.

Sajid reopened his fruit stall but left an empty basket on display—for Zubair and Imran.

Haleema still made roti, but now gave it free to children.

The mosque began holding dua gatherings every Thursday—for the flood victims.

And little Bilal, now 7, kept asking, “Why did the water take Mama but not me?”

🌟 Moral of the Story:

Nature does not choose victims, but humanity chooses how to respond. In every loss, there lies a duty—to remember, to rebuild, and to rise again—together.