If you haven't read the previous chapters, start here:
Chapter 2: How Waliullah Began His Mission
He couldn’t stop after that.
Waliullah created pages on Facebook and YouTube. Simple name. Reuniting Hearts. He used an old
smartphone. Battered laptop. The internet connection was weak during load shedding. But he worked
hard. Late nights. Eyes burning. Editing emotional videos. Writing stories with pain and hope.
The first cases were local. Close to home. Missing child from Lyari. Mother searched for eight years.
Praying every day. Waliullah posted an old photo and details. People shared, and within weeks the boy was found. Now a teenager and working far, mother ran, hugged him tightly, and screamed with joy. “Mera beta! Mera beta wapas aa gaya!”(My son is back) That sound, pure and raw. Waliullah still remembers it in quiet moments.
Then work grew bigger and harder. I can't tell you about all his 450 cases.
Among them Hamida Bano case was very famous. Trafficked from India to Pakistan, suffered for years. Silent pain.
Waliullah sat with her and listened to her every detail for hours. Her voice was shaking. He posted
carefully with respect. The media noticed Indian channels and Pakistani too. After many months,
coordination with authorities and embassies. Hamida crossed the border and fell into her sister’s arms.
Whispered. “Meri behen… main wapas aa gayi.”(my sister I am back) I have come back.
Waliullah stood far away, watching; his heart was heavy with their past and lightened with present joy.
This work. It demanded everything. He said in an interview that I watched.
Calls came at 3 a.m, strange hours and desperate voices, crying and begging. Someone's father was from Yemen. My daughter disappeared during the conflict. “Please find her. She is all I have.” An old woman from the Philippines. My son came to work years ago and never heard any news since then. In another case, a young man from Malaysia; his mother was taken. “I was a child when she left.”
He sat in a small room, the fan creaking above. He listened and never rushed. Let them speak. Let them
cry. He asked small things. His/her name, parents’ names, siblings, area and other information if they
have. These tiny details. They became a map for him. Clues across time and borders.
He built a small team of boys from the madrasa, women from the neighborhood, and retired officers who believed. They translated languages, made calls to foreign embassies, and followed leads across different time zones–tired but determined.
In another inspiring video I watched. It was very painful. An old man from Jordan. He came to Pakistan in the 1980s for treatment, lost in papers. He tried to get them but in vain, and forty years passed. The family thought he was dead. Waliullah searched and found him. He was begging near a shrine in Manghopir. His mind was half gone because of age and trauma.
A video call was arranged; his son was in Amman. Now fifty years old with gray hair, his voice trembling. “Baba… Baba, main aapka beta hoon.” ( Dad, I am your son)
Old man, wrinkled hands, touched screen and crying like a child trying to reach through the glass. “Mera beta…”(my son)
When he finally went home. The family carried him on their shoulders, like a bridegroom. He lived six
months, surrounded by love, and died peacefully, not alone. That gave Waliullah strength.
