In the narrow, winding alleys of Zakarya Goth, where the air is thick with the scent of commercial gas cylinders and the dust of passing Chinqi rickshaws, lives a story that refuses to be quieted by the weight of poverty. At 18, Rabia Orakzai is not just a young Pashtun woman; she is the living manifestation of a family’s collective hope, a girl stitching together a future from the fragments of a challenging reality.
Rabia’s story began with a journey. Years ago, her father left the rugged landscapes of Peshawar, fueled by the quiet desperation of a man seeking a livelihood. He landed in Zakarya Goth, a place chosen not for its beauty, but for its low rents. Through years of navigating the chaotic streets as a rickshaw driver, his hands calloused by the steering bar, he managed the impossible: securing a modest 60-square-yard home in a pacci abadi. In a world that often ignores men like him, he built a sanctuary for his wife and their only child.
Survival here, however, comes with a heavy price tag. In a household of three, the math of misery is constant. There is no gas supply; they rely on expensive cylinders. Water—the most basic of human rights—is a scarce commodity for which they must pay a monthly ransom of Rs. 1,000. Yet, amidst the flickering light of a Rs. 3,000 electricity bill and the struggle for resources, Rabia’s dreams have found a way to breathe.
Her path hasn’t been a straight line. It has been a series of closed doors and sudden tragedies. When she first sought out the Amna Shamima Foundation (ASF) to learn fabric art, she found the admissions full. She pivoted to a computer course, only for “ill fate” to strike. A dumper truck crushed her uncle’s motorcycle and his leg, plunging the family into a two-year cycle of hospital visits and constant care. Rabia, ever the devoted niece, dropped her studies to become a caregiver.
But hope, once ignited, is hard to extinguish. When she heard about the English Language Course at ASF, she didn’t just see a class; she saw a lifeline. Despite her father’s initial protective hesitation about the 15-minute walk to the center, Rabia—a natural problem solver—persuaded a neighbor to enroll with her, ensuring safety in numbers.
Today, Rabia is mastering the building blocks of a new world: nouns, pronouns, and the architecture of a sentence. “It’s a matter of practice,” her teacher told her, and Rabia has taken that to heart, scouring the internet for new words and meanings with the same intensity her father uses to navigate traffic.
Perhaps most striking is her self-taught passion for Yoga. Learning through YouTube, she finds in the ancient practice a sense of health and confidence that the world outside denies her. She doesn’t just want to practice it; she wants to teach it, to share that inner peace with the staff and students at ASF.
Rabia Orakzai is more than a student. She is a bridge between her uneducated mother’s aspirations and her father’s unwavering support. She dreams of a “decent organization” where she can work to uplift her parents, but her vision stretches further—she wants to help others establish their own businesses. In the heart of Zakarya Goth, Rabia is proving that while you can limit a family’s water and gas, you cannot limit the reach of a girl determined to speak a new language into existence.