Chapter 2: How Waliullah Maroof Reunited Nani Zahida with Her Family After 37 Years | The True Story That Started His Mission

It all started with Nani Zahida. I watched a video of his interview. He told how he got the idea to reunite people. There was an old woman with a frail body, silver hair, and a Bengali accent whenever she spoke, who lived alone in a tiny rented room near their alley. Waliullah had known her since childhood. She sometimes gave sweets to the kids. Smile softly, but her eyes looked sad. They carried deep sadness. Like an ocean of pain hidden inside. One very hot evening, the air hung heavy. Waliullah sat with his mother in the courtyard as the fan made a slow noise. He scrolled through his phone, wasting time. His mother put her hand gently on his knee. “Beta,”(son), she said softly. “This phone. Allah gave you a reason. Not just for fun videos. Use it for good. Something meaningful.” Waliullah looked at her. Confused. “What do you mean, Ammi(mother)?” She pointed toward Zahida’s room across a narrow lane. “That poor woman has no family here. She was lost. Post her story on Facebook; maybe someone from Bangladesh will recognize her.” Waliullah thought for a long time. Then he did it that night under dim light, fingers shaking a little. He took a simple photo. Zahida was sitting on an old charpoy(rope cot) with a faded green shawl around her shoulders. Eyes looking far away. He wrote the post with care. “This is our Nani Zahida. I came from Bangladesh many years ago. Trafficked maybe. She misses her daughter so much. If anyone knows her family. Please contact me. Allah is watching us.” Posted then, he slept; his heart was beating fast. Not expecting anything. 

Seven days. Just seven days. The phone started exploding with notifications, messages, and shares. Someone from Bangladesh saw it, then another, then the whole family. Video calls are arranged quickly. Waliullah helped Zahida sat properly. Her hands trembled so badly. He held the phone for her. The screen lit up. A middle-aged woman appeared on the phone; her face looked like Zahida's. “Ammi(mother)?” she whispered. Voice cracking. Zahida’s eyes widened. The sound came out, half cry and half prayer. “Rina? Meri beti…(my daughter) Rina? Is that you?” Thirty-five years, no word, no contact. 

Now, in this moment, tears were flowing like a river. Zahida was crying loudly. Her daughter was crying. Both reached out their hands toward the screen. Waliullah stood in the corner. His own tears came and wouldn’t stop. It was a heartbreaking and healing event at the same time. Then I read about him and how he started to continue his mission.  It changed everything. Later, with the help of kind people, volunteers, and donations from strangers. Waliullah arranged everything: passport, travel expenses. Zahida went back to Bangladesh. After thirty-seven long years. When she hugged her daughter. The whole village gathered, and women ululating. Men wiping their eyes. Zahida was holding her grandchildren for the first time. She kept repeating. “Allah brought me home. Allah ne mujhe wapas kar diya.”(God sent me back). Waliullah watched videos later, tears again. He understood family, not just blood. Family is oxygen. Family is the soul. He saw a dead soul breathing again. That day, a mission was born in his heart.

 

With thanks, Waliullah Maroof:

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