My Father, My Fear, My Pride

Fearing for my father’s life is not something I learned recently — it’s something I’ve lived with for as long as I can remember.

When your father is Akhtar Mengal, you don’t grow up with the luxury of ordinary fears. From a young age, I knew that the man who held my hand could be taken from me not by illness or accident — but by injustice, violence, and a system that has never made space for truth. Whether it was when he was in jail, or when he went to Wadh while bullets were flying, I’ve seen him walk into fire for the people he refuses to abandon.

I used to beg him not to go. “Please, Baba, don’t go to the rally today. Just stay home, stay safe.” But he would smile — always calm, always hopeful.

Up until last year, my phone was never far from me when he was out. During every jalsa, every speech, I’d wait with a racing heart until I knew he had returned safely. Fear wasn’t occasional — it was constant. A silent companion that haunted my every day.

Two years ago, during the Wadh riots, that fear took on a new shape. I saw rockets fired. I saw bullets fly. Later, when I saw footage of how close they came—how inches could’ve changed everything — I realized something: Baba isn’t just brave. He is unwavering. And his love for his people runs deeper than anything I can put into words.

Just a few weeks ago, another bogus case was registered against him and my brother. My father spent days in prison as a form of protest — unbroken, unbending, as always. He is the strongest man I know. The most resilient. The most optimistic. And the pillar of my strength.

The night before the Long March, I tried one last time.
“Baba, please don’t go. It’s my birthday tomorrow,” I said softly.
He looked at me with that same calm and replied, “If not now, then never. There are many daughters looking my way who need me more than ever.”

On the morning of my birthday, I woke up to the news of a blast. A suicide attack —targeted, during the sit-in.
I froze. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. For ten minutes, all I could do was whisper, “Ya Allah, please let him be okay.”
I waited for that one call.
And when it came — when I heard his voice— my knees gave out in relief.

Later, I saw the videos. I saw the thousands walking beside him. I saw the people clinging to hope through him. That day, I understood something I’d always struggled with: I can’t be selfish with his presence. His life, his voice — it belongs to a greater cause.

This is about dignity. It’s about the right to exist, to speak, to be heard. It’s about justice for a land that has bled in silence for far too long.

My father isn’t just leading a march. He’s carrying generations of pain, of loss, of stolen futures — and still walking forward. And though my heart will always tremble when he’s out there, I now carry that purpose in my own chest.

Because when you are the daughter of a man who walks through fire for his people — you don’t just inherit fear.
You inherit courage.