In the summer of 1999, in the city of Rawalpindi in Pakistan, I was brought to Valley Clinic, a hospital on Peshawar Road in Rawalpindi opposite to West-ridge I, with a severe head injury. I had lost a lot of blood, but was not giving up. I was a fighter and could defeat almost anything. I was strong, determined and sure. I had so much confidence in myself. It was almost half past two in the night. There were no doctors at sight. I saw the body of a young boy brought to the hospital on a stretcher, lying to my left. He was dead. He had suffered severe injuries. I was shouting, calling out for doctors. A few attendants and a doctor came and took me in a lift to an Operation Theater upstairs. There was blood all over me. My shoes were soaking wet with blood and so was my red beautiful dress that I used to wear most of the time. I loved it very much. It had beautiful collars and was made of a cloth similar to "Ajrak". On the operation bed, the doctor cut off my hair fro