Remembering Anwar Saleem Ahmad

Scattered around the house are tangible reminders of our father Anwar Saleem Ahmad’s life. On the bookshelf are remnants of a storied career in the civil service - ranging from the mildly interesting (a commemorative shield from the Balochistan Lawn Tennis Association) to the downright inexplicable (an 8-inch long dagger in a leather sheath). In the drawer, a set of pens passed along from brother to sister. In the guest room, three large stuffed panda bears - gifts for his daughters from a work trip to China. On the wall, a painting from the 80s, capturing his typical stern ‘office’ face. And the most recent discovery: a black-and-white group photograph of a school football team, with a tall, gangly teenage version of our father, hitherto unknown to us.

Our father was a sports enthusiast. Our house was filled with debris from his playing days - squash balls, cricket hats, worn-out sweatbands. But the fact that he had once played football was a surprise to us all. Fifteen long years after his untimely death, there is still so much we continue to learn about our beloved father.

Our father lived an unconventional and challenging life. After losing his mother at the age of two, he was raised by his elder sisters, two invincible women who undoubtedly prepared him for the many trials life would throw at him. He graduated at the top of his class in the first batch of students to receive a Masters in International Relations from Quaid-e-Azam University, and went on to top the CSS examination and join the DMG. In 1982, he was awarded the Hubert Humphrey Fellowship, under which he studied policy and governance at the University of Minnesota. In 1992, while serving as Deputy Commissioner Sargodha, a car accident left him permanently paralyzed from the waist down and restricted to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. After months of extensive physical therapy, he rejoined the civil service as Additional Commissioner Revenue in Rawalpindi.

In September 1993, he started writing for The News, becoming a weekly contributor in 1994. He picked up a following of keen readers and remained a regular columnist for the next ten years, continuing to write up to a year before his death.

In 2000, our father was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a cancer of the lymph nodes. With our mother by his side, he set about battling this new setback - as he had all other obstacles in life - with unwavering courage and strength. In all the years of his disability and illness, never once did he give in to prolonged self-pity or cynicism. We asked him once if ever thought ‘why me?’ With a slight shake of the head so quintessentially him, he pragmatically replied, ‘who doesn’t?’ Through everything, his own pain was always secondary, and his priority remained caring for and protecting those he loved, especially us, his daughters. Even in his final days in the hospital, he would speak to each of us about our lives - exams, classes, a new job - to maintain a semblance of normalcy for us, for as long as he possibly could.

On 18 April 2005, we finally lost our father to this dreaded disease, after a painful and bravely fought battle.

In 2011, our father was posthumously awarded the Presidential Accolade for Pride of Performance, in recognition of his life’s work. Today, fifteen years after his death, he is still remembered and spoken of fondly as an honest, dedicated and hardworking officer.

It seems almost unreal that we have now spent nearly as much of our lives without our father, as we did with him. People often say they see him in us, his daughters. In our appearance, in our habits, and in our achievements - always a comfort to hear. But the brightest markers of his legacy now are his six grandchildren - bright, spirited individuals whom he never got to meet, yet reflect him in the most unexpected of ways. The eldest is now a tall, gangly pre-teen, deeply obsessed with football! In an increasingly complicated world, his wisdom continues to guide us as we try our best to raise these little humans to channel his warmth, courage, and indomitable spirit.

We love you Aba, and we will miss you always. — Suraya, Saman, Maheen, and Mariam Saleem Farooqi