Agha Murad, a 60-year-old father, resides in the difficult conditions of Turkmen Camp, where he faces daily struggles to support his large family of ten. Born blind and physically disabled, Murad must overcome immense obstacles to provide for his wife and eight children. Having fled the unrest in Afghanistan, he now seeks survival in Pakistan, where every day presents a new hardship. Life is a constant test, Umar shares, his voice heavy with emotion. “Though I cannot see, I can feel the hunger of my children, and that is a pain no father should endure.”

Despite his disabilities, Murad refuses to give in to despair. His older children assist him in managing daily tasks, while his wife takes on small jobs to earn a little money. However, their combined efforts barely meet the family’s basic needs. With inflation driving prices higher, affording food, medicine, and clothing has become almost impossible. “There are nights when we have nothing to eat,” he says. “My children deserve more, but I am powerless to provide.”

Among his children, his youngest daughter suffers from severe malnutrition, adding to the family’s hardships. The absence of proper medical care and nutritious meals has severely impacted her health. “She requires special attention, but how can we afford treatment when we are struggling just to survive?” Murad questions, his voice filled with anguish.

Amidst these overwhelming difficulties, the Peace Train Food Assistance Program has been a crucial source of relief. Through this initiative, Murad has received essential food supplies, including wheat flour, rice, sugar, and milk—enough to sustain his family for two months. “This help has been a blessing,” Murad expresses with deep appreciation. “Without these food packages, my children would have suffered even more.”

For a man who cannot see the world but endures its hardships daily, the food support has lifted a significant burden off his shoulders. “Now, I can focus on finding other ways to support my family without the constant worry of hunger,” he says. “The Peace Train program has given us a moment of relief in this unending struggle.”

Murad’s story reflects the reality of many families in Turkmen Camp, where poverty and desperation are a daily battle. The Peace Train Food Assistance Program not only provides crucial sustenance but also restores dignity to those who have lost nearly everything. “We need this support to continue,” Murad pleads. “Without programs like Peace Train, families like mine would have no hope. The food they provide has been a lifeline when we had nothing left.”

In a place where hope is often scarce, the Peace Train Food Assistance Program stands as a symbol of kindness and resilience. Through thoughtful distribution and unwavering dedication, the program continues to uplift families like Umar’s, offering them not just food but also a glimmer of hope for a better future.

Abdul Kaliq, a 40-year-old laborer, lives in the harsh conditions of Khairabad camp, where he faces the daunting challenge of providing for his family of eight. Having fled the violence and instability of Afghanistan, Abdul now works tirelessly in Pakistan to support his family. His situation, however, is dire, as his income as a laborer barely covers the essentials needed for his children’s survival. “Every day is a struggle,” Abdul says, his voice filled with the exhaustion of years of hardship. “My children look to me for everything, and I feel helpless at times.”Abdul’s family consists of his wife and six children, including his youngest son, who was born with a physical disability. The burden of caring for his disabled child adds an emotional and financial strain to the family’s already precarious situation.

“He needs special care, and we can’t afford proper treatment,” Abdul explains. “But as a father, I have to try my best, no matter how difficult it is.” Life in Khairabad camp is far from easy. The lack of stable work, coupled with inflation, has made it almost impossible for families like Abdul’s to afford food, clothing, or medicine. “Some days, I don’t know how we’ll make it through,” he says. “The prices of basic items keep rising, but my income stays the same. It’s a constant battle to feed my children.”In these dark times, the Peace Train Food Support Program has become a critical source of relief for Abdul’s family. Through the program, Abdul has received food packages that include essentials like wheat flour, rice, sugar, and milk enough supplies to last his family two months. “The food packages have been a lifeline,” Abdul says, his gratitude evident. “Without this help, we would have gone hungry many times over.” For a man who works long hours under the scorching sun, the food packages have been a game-changer. “With the support from Peace Train, I can focus on finding work without constantly worrying if my children will have something to eat,” Abdul explains. “It has given me a little bit of hope during the darkest of days.” Abdul’s story is one of countless others in Khairabad camp, where families struggle to survive amidst extreme poverty and limited resources. The Peace Train Food Support Program is making a tangible difference in the lives of these families, ensuring that children and parents alike receive the food and support they desperately need.

Despite the hardships, Abdul remains determined to provide for his family and keep his children safe. “I want them to have a better life than this,” he says. “My hope is that one day, my children will not have to endure the same struggles that we face now.”

The support from Peace Train has been instrumental in helping families like Abdul’s survive in these difficult circumstances. The program not only provides vital food assistance but also restores a sense of dignity to those who have lost so much. As Abdul looks to the future, his message is clear: “We need continued help. Without programs like Peace Train, families like mine would be lost. The food they provide has kept us going when we had nothing left.”

In a place where hope is often hard to come by, the Peace Train Food Support Program stands as a beacon of compassion, offering critical aid to the most vulnerable. Through effective planning and distribution, the program continues to uplift families like Abdul’s, making a lasting impact on their lives and giving them a reason to believe in a better tomorrow.

Zahir does not raise his voice even when he’s starving, even when his daughter coughs all night even when his shoes have split open at the soles he remains silent. Not because he has nothing to say, but because he believes other might be worse off. He is 68 years old an Afghan Refugee a father of five. He lives in a crumbling corner of Turkmen Camp, where the sky is pale with dust and the walls remember winters. Every morning, before the sun spills across the brick piles he walks to the road outside the camp and waits near construction sites. Some days, someone calls him. most days no one does when our team met him in May he hadn’t worked in nearly two weeks his youngest Amina was nine and coughing from the dry wind. Their last full meal had been tea and stale bread. He had sold his mobile phone just to afford half a bottle of cough syrup for her. He did not complain “there are families with nothing.”he said. That month FRDP was distributing ration in Turkmen Camp. Zahir’s family received flour, rice, lentils, oil enough to last them more than a few weeks. He didn’t cry in front of his children but he cried when no one was looking “ it’s the first time in months I didn’t have to borrow food he told us quietly”. He used his next days earning to take A mina to a clinic. Hamza his son stopped skipping school there was breakfast again. Zahir still waits near the sites every morning but now he waits his head a little higher. This small act of support didn’t change his world but it let him breath it reminded him that someone somewhere still sees him.

Sadaf doesn’t remember the last time she felt still. In Husri Jamal Kachi Goth, her days pass in motion chasing water, scraping together food, rocking a six-month old son while calming the cries of five other children. She has four daughters and two sons. No steady income, no savings, no space to breath. Her husband, Ashraf finds work when luck allows it a day of labor here a few rupees there never enough, always uncertain. Some nights he returns with calloused hands and empty pockets. Other nights he doesn’t return at all until morning not because he doesn’t care but because shame makes a man linger in silence. Their home is a loose structure of walls that don’t meet and a roof that leaks more than it shelters. There is no furniture, no fan not even a door that locks. When it rains the floor turns to mud. When it’s hot and it often is the children cry from thirst and there is no money for ice, milk or medicine. The family relieve themselves behind a curtain of rags strung up near the back wall. It offers no privacy, no safety only the illusion of it. Her daughters have learned to wait until dark, their childhoods shaped by fear rather than freedom. Sadaf doesn’t ask for much. Just a safe place to raise her children. Food that lasts more than a day. A washroom with a door and maybe one day the feeling of not always being on the edge.

In the narrow lanes of Mahab Ali Shah Colony, Phuleli, Noor Bano’s life has been marked by quiet endurance and the unrelenting strength of a mother’s love. She and her husband, a daily wage laborer operating a molding machine, shared a modest yet profound dream to educate their son Umar Farooque and lift him beyond the limitations of poverty. Through their income barely covered necessities, they held onto hope. That fragile hope began to unravel when her husband fell seriously ill. Knowing that her husband had cancer was a blow that shattered the fragile stability of their lives. With nothing to fall back on Noor leaned on her loved ones , parted with whatever belongings she could spare and humbled herself by knocking on doors asking for help one household at a time.

The family’s meager savings were exhausted as they pursued treatment in Karachi, but despite their efforts, her husband passed away. His death shattered Noor’s world during her Iddah, she and her son often endured hunger in silence, relying on the kindness of neighbors when they could. “My child would cry for food and I had nothing to give, “ she later said, her voice heavy with grief. Yet Noor refused to surrender to despair. Once the mourning period ended, she returned to domestic work and borrowed money to start selling clothes, fighting to keep her son’s future alive. It was during this time of deep vulnerability that Fast Rural Development Program (FRDP) reached her doorstep. Their team assessed her situation and intervened with compassion and timeliness. They enrolled Umar in a private school, which she had never ever dreamed of, and provided all essential books, uniform, shoes, stationery, while also delivering ration support to stabilize the household, her son had access to a quality health checkup. For Noor, it was more than assistance, it was the return of dignity and the revival of a dream she thought had died with her husband. “When I saw my son dressed for school, I felt like Allah had heard my prayers,” she shared. Today, her son’s education is not just a personal milestone, it is a testament to her resilience and to the power of meaningful support delivered at the right moment.

Kanwal once believed that life even in hardship could be held together by dignity in a modest home in Mehtab shah colony she lived with her husband, children and in-laws. Her husband had finally secured stable work as an office boy. It wasn’t much but it was enough. Their children started attending school and for a while the days passed with a kind of ordinary grace. Then come the illness her husband once healthy began to fade. After months of misdiagnosis and hopeful prescriptions they learned that he had he hepatitis C already in his third stage. His body withered eating became painful speaking harder in a matter of weeks he was gone. the 30,000 that ran the household vanished with him. School fees went unpaid. The children stayed home Kanwal still stunned by grief found herself scrubbing floors in stranger’s homes feeding her family with whatever coins remained. When her father in-law died shortly after, she barely had enough money to bury him. It was in these ruins that FRDP found her. They arranged her children’s return to school covered every cost books uniforms fees and brought food to her door. The help was more than material. It was thread, keeping her from unraveling. Her second marriage arranged by her father, collapsed when the man who once promised care abandoned her after birth of their daughter. Her son lives with his grandmother. Kanwal with her daughters stays in her father’s crowded home alongside a divorced sister and a sister in law who throws words like stones. She works she mothers she prays and still she is blamed for surving. What remains a women who has buried a husband endured abandonment and still rises because someone must. And because her children still look at her like shes the only steady thing left.

There was no warning when the world shifted under Seema’s feet. One day she was a wife , the next a widow with three children and a sewing needle for hope. Seema , a mother of three, lives in a modest home in Paretabad, near Phuleli. Her husband, Imran once a daily wage laborer used to return each evening with just enough to cover that days food and fare. There was never enough for savings, never room for emergencies. Life was hand to mouth, but it was lived together. When Imran fell ill, there were no hospital beds waiting. No family savings to lean on. Seema watched his body weaken while holding her household together with needle and thread. She stitched clothes at home, working late into the night. But as his condition worsened, work became impossible. He passed away before they could afford proper treatment. Seema buried not just her husband but only steady income they had known. Her Iddat passed in silence, broken only by the needs of growing children. School fees, rent, ration it all loomed larger than her earnings. Saylani Welfare gave her some relief like basic household items and 2,000 PKR. But that was weeks ago. Life doesn’t wait for aid to return. FRDP arrived in her village. They came to her doorstep, took her details and enrolled her for monthly food rations. What she received fed her children for more than a month. It lifted a weight off her back, if only for a while. Today, Seema continues to sew quietly fighting the tide of poverty. The ration helped her stand a little taller, pray a little easier. She thanks the FRDP who showed up without being asked. In a life full of waiting someone asked. In a life full of waiting, someone finally came.

Hope rarely knocks twice but when it did, I opened the door with trembling hands. This is how Shabana Qurban describes the moment her life took a turn. A widowed mother of four living in the village of Detha, Shabana has long shouldered the burden of survival in silence. Her young daughter suffers from thalassemia, a life threatening illness that demands constant medical care that is difficult to access from their remote village and nearly impossible to afford. With no stable income, Shabana has been staying at her brother’s house trying to make ends meet by running a small shop from home and stitching traditional Rali by hand. Her elderly mother helps where she can but income barely covers the basics. The strain of caring for a chronically ill child, feeding a family and fighting off despair became part of Shabana’s daily life until a team from the Fast Rural Development (FRDP) arrived in her village. They visited her home listened to her story and responded with immediate support distributing food and clothing for her family. “For the first time in a long while , my children were smilling,” she says.

But the greatest surprise came later. FRDP returned and informed her they would help build a house on a small plot she owned. Shabana could hardly believe it. “it felt like Allah had sent them as an answer to every unspoken prayer.” Today, the walls of her new home are rising brick by brick, a dream long deferred now finally taking form.

My name is Shahnaz, widow of Gul Hasan. I live in Manthar Soro goth, where shadows grow longer in the absence of a provider. Since 2022 I have been raising five children alone one barely four months old when their father took his final breath. Life didn’t just change it unraveled. The world grew heavier, colder, unfamiliar. Three of my children once went to school, there, fees paid by father-in-law, a kind but ageing labourer, I could not bear to keep leaning on hands already calloused by a lifetime of hardship. We lived and cramped in a house of twenty-two souls, where even air felt scarce. My children were often struck and scolded. I wept quietly, shielding their wounds with my body and prayers. My husband had bought a plot and laid a foundation, a whisper of a future that never came. I used to plead with Allah in silence of night, grant me a home, a space where my children can be safe, heard, and whole. Then one day, a team from FRDP arrived. They embraced my children with compassion. They brought food, clothes, shoes, and with them a moment of dignity. When I asked for help building a home, they didn't run away. That day, I saw mercy take human form. Now the house rises, not just in brick and mortar, but in hope. It is more than shelter. It is the echo of a dream, a mother once whispered through tears.

Shareefa’s home Jamal Kachi Goth, Husri, is made of brick but nothing inside it feels solid. There are no cupboards heavy with food no comfort stitched into furniture just bare floors a few old pieces of woodwork and silence. She is widow, mother to eight children and the only thing heavier than her grief is her duty. She cleans homes for a living scrubbing away other people’s mess while carrying the weight of her own. Her son, once spirted boy now twitches and stares blankly through days, his neurological condition unnamed and untreated. The younger ones huddled close as if her shadow might shelter them from the gnaw of hunger. There are nights when the wind rattles the windows and the pots remain empty. Nights when she tells stories just to distract them from the ache in their bellies. And then came the ration pack from FRDP heavy with staples, light with mercy. It was not enough to change their fate but it softened the cruelty of that week. The children ate without asking if it would last. Shareefa, for once did not have to choose who would sleep hungry. "It wasn’t just food,” she said “ it was a moment to breath. A moment where I didn’t feel like I was failing them”. For families like hers food pack isn’t charity its dignity delivered in a sack.

For years, the people of Kori Paro and Gulan Paro in Tando Hyder lived ankle deep in neglect. The drains were choked beyond repair. Wastewater gathered in the streets, mixing with garbage and disease. Children walked to school through sludge. The smell lingered in their homes, in their lungs. For over 2,000 households daily life was a quiet war with filth, sickness and decay. In december 2022 FRDP with RDF and support from WHH and Germany’s Federal Ministry For Economics Cooperation and Development BMZ launched the Urban food Production in Hyderabad. Among its aims food security, hygiene, infrastructure sanitation in Tando hyder became a critical priority. By december 2023, FRDP began constructing a 1,666 RFT open drainage system in both clusters. This wasn't just a technical fix it was a public health intervention, a dignity restoration effort. The community did not wait to be rescued they joined in preparing sites, overseeing work making sure this time it would last. And it did. By july 2024, the new drainage system was completed and formally handed over to th district government for long-term upkeep. The difference was immediate. Streets once flooded with sewage were dry, clean walkable. Children returned to outdoor play. Families reported fewer illnesses. The air felt different lighter. But what followed was even more powerful. Inspired by change, the community demanded more and succeeded. The local government responded with a Paver Block Project, improving mobility and cleanliness even further. What began as a response to stagnation became a movement. Tando hyder is no longer just surviving its building forward. Its what happens when people refuse to accept decay as their inheritance and when the right support meets a community ready to rise.

In Kohli ji Veri , a village cradled deep within the parched lands of Nagarpakar, Tharparkar the monsoon is no longer a song of mercy but a shadow that looms overhead. Kheeraj, son of Doongro Kohli, only 23 speaks with the weight of many lifetimes. For generations, the Thari people measured hope by the rhythm of rainfall. Their crops, their animals, their breath everything depended on the sky. But for over a decade, climate change has twisted that lifeline into a noose. Each monsoon brings not just rain but violence jagged streaks of lighting that strike without warning, killing livestock, burning homes and leaving villagers shattered in their wake. Kheeraj has seen it too many times animals turned to ash, neighbors buried, children crying at the sound of thunder. Responding to this quiet crisis, FRDP with support from WHH and funding by GFFO under the ToGETHER 2.0 programme and HOIFA launched an urgent protection intervention. A lightning arrestor a single rod of earthen resilience was installed to safeguard the lives and livelihoods of 100 vulnerable households, including 705 people and their animals. But the rod was not the only offering. FRDP trained local communities, engaged school children and distributed clear, practical safety booklets to ensure that fear would not continue to pass from one generation to the next without resistance. When the next storm came the skies split open as expected but this time, kohli ji very remained whole. No bodies to bury. No charred animals. The earth, for once, protected what was its own.

The earth Kohli Ji Veri has always been cracked long before the rains arrived. For years, their prayers rose into the stillness begging for clouds, for water, for mercy. But then the skies began to answer with fire. “lightning doesn’t just fall here” says Partab,”it haunts”. For five years now, each monsoon has brought with it a terror older than language. The clouds don’t just gather they growl. Thunder crawls across the ground like something alive. Bolts of lightning have seared through the village without mercy, killing livestock, striking homes, turning ordinary evenings into funerals. Partab doesn’t blink when he speaks of it “ we are afraid to hope for rain now. That’s what it’s done to us.” The trauma lives not just in memory but in the way the children flinch at a sudden crack in the sky. In how women huddle their goats inside, whispering prayers into darkness it is a fear they wear like a second skin. When FRDP with the support of WHH and GFFO under the ToGETHER 2.0 program, arrived with its short term emergency intervention, the community had stopped expecting help. But they came quietly and they listened. They saw what others had not just the loss but the silence that followed it. Through the installation of earthen rods across the village, FRDP brought not just safety but something more delicate, the possibility of trust. When the monsoon returned , loud and wild as ever something changed. No animals died no men were struck down. For the first time in years the people of Kohli Ji Veri did not run. They waited and when it passed, they were still standing.