Iqra is small, her home huddled near the brick kiln’s dusty haze. School was a distant dream before bricks were carried instead, alongside her mother. Tiny hands ached from the load, caked in grime day after day. Other children played, but sadness gnawed deep inside.
One day, an invitation rang out: “Come to Roshni School.” Fear gripped her, she would never step into a classroom, owned no books, felt utterly unworthy with sad eyes.
Yet warmth awaited. A smile greeted her from the teacher, whose hand clasped hers gently. “Jesus loves you,” came the gentle words. A book her very first, was placed in her grasp, touched with wonder.
Now, class is her haven. Letters are learned; smiles bloom freely. At night, prayers rise: “Thank You, Jesus! you see me.”
From kiln shadows to lighted promise, Iqra’s world expands, one page at a time.
