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A wise person once said that a mother\u2019s true beauty lies not in her appearance but in the depth of her love and thus every mother in the world is the most beautiful, for maternal love knows no comparison. A mother is an embodiment of sacrifice\u2014her days and nights revolve around her children, and her prayers are a constant plea for their well-being. She stands as a silent sentinel over her child\u2019s life, giving of herself in ways no one else can.<\/p>\n
The poet Tabish so profoundly captured this eternal bond:<\/p>\n
“For years, my mother has not slept<\/strong> The reality of a mother\u2019s love finds its most heartbreaking expressions in places where war, oppression, and forced displacement have torn families apart. In the occupied regions of the world, especially Kashmir and Palestine, mothers bear the heaviest burdens. They send their sons off with prayers but live in the torment of uncertainty\u2014unsure if they will ever return.<\/p>\n A Journey of Love and Farewell<\/strong><\/p>\n On February 22, 2025, in Tangmarg, a small town in Occupied Kashmir, a seventy-year-old mother embarked on a journey despite her failing health. She was determined to see her son, Muzaffar Ahmad, who had been living in exile in Rawalpindi for over two decades. For twenty-three long years, they had been separated\u2014one imprisoned in a homeland under siege, the other forced to live away from his motherland in Pakistan.<\/p>\n When they finally met, words failed to capture the depth of that moment. It was a meeting sculpted out of years of longing, of unshed tears and unanswered prayers. But fate, ever cruel to those who have already suffered much, had its own plans.<\/p>\n Her frail health deteriorated soon after the reunion. She was admitted to the hospital, where she spent a week battling her ailments. On March 2\u2014coinciding with the first day of Ramadan\u2014she took her final breath, resting her head in her exiled son\u2019s arms. Her last journey was not back to the home she had once known, but rather to the eternal abode of her Creator. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.<\/p>\n The Silent Cry of Mothers in Occupied Lands<\/p>\n This is not just the story of one mother. This is the story of countless mothers in occupied lands\u2014whether in Kashmir, Palestine, or elsewhere\u2014who live with the unbearable pain of separation. In these regions, sons are either taken by bullets or forced into exile, leaving behind grieving mothers who spend their days waiting for letters, phone calls, or a fleeting moment of reunion that may never come.<\/p>\n These mothers do not seek grand monuments or flowery tributes. They seek only the right to embrace their children without fear, without borders, without the looming shadow of occupation. Their grief is not just personal\u2014it is political, historical, and deeply unjust. It is a grief that should shake the conscience of free nations.<\/p>\n Yet, the world remains largely silent. The pain of these mothers is not broadcast on prime-time news, nor does it move the powerful into action. But the question remains: Will the free world ever listen? Will those who champion human rights ever extend their concern to the women whose sons are either killed or exiled? Or will these mothers continue to wait\u2014year after year, decade after decade\u2014hoping for justice that never comes?<\/p>\n Only time will tell. Until then, the cries of these mothers will echo through the valleys of Kashmir, the ruins of Gaza, and the refugee camps of the world. They will continue to pray for their children, knowing that a mother\u2019s love transcends even the cruelty of occupation.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" A wise person once said that a mother\u2019s true beauty lies not in her appearance but in the depth of her love and thus every mother in the world is the most beautiful, for maternal love knows no comparison. A mother is an embodiment of sacrifice\u2014her days and nights revolve around her children, and her …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":170741,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-170740","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-articles"],"aioseo_notices":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/assests\/2025\/03\/WhatsApp-Image-2025-03-12-at-13.29.27.jpeg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/170740","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=170740"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/170740\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":170742,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/170740\/revisions\/170742"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/170741"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=170740"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=170740"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kmsnews.org\/kms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=170740"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nOnce, I told her I was afraid of the darkness”<\/strong><\/p>\n