Dawn: It was one of those hazel sort of days that you sometimes get in Pakistan, in which a pleasant chill permeates the shining bright rays of the sun.

The sky was as azure as the sea and the trees never looked so verdant. Summer was just around the corner, ready to scorch all beauty from the earth, yet even this could not take away from the serenity of the moment as my family and I made our way to Islamabad for a weekend sojourn.

We got stuck in one of those interminably long CNG queues at Bhera which seem to proceed slower than the lope of a drowsy snail.

Still, a four day getaway and a cylinder full of gas would be ours eventually.

My wife and son had gone to the rest area. Something to do with nappies – it always is with young children.

My daughter took advantage of the empty passenger seat out front to scooch up and sit with her dad. She was almost a year old at the time. Of course the first thing she wanted to do was break the gear stick from which she was promptly shushed away. Her attention next fixed on the glove box. That I let her play with albeit under a watchful eye.

Ahead of us was a small Suzuki Mehran. From what I could tell it was full beyond the capacity of its creaking frame. The line was as slow as ever and the doors of the car soon burst open in perfect synchrony.

Six pot-bellied maulvis bundled out and began to stretch and yawn and scratch every last speck of itch that had tyrannised them back in the car. One of them saw my daughter and smiled, she smiled back and then she laughed. She turned to me and then back to this new found friendly face and giggled again.

I, too, acknowledged his pleasantries with an awkward head bob. And that was it. A small fleeting connection; a common human bond.

And then it came – a sort of epiphany.

What if he knew that the little girl he had looked at so tenderly was the child of Ahmadi parents?

Would the smile on his face turn into a frown?

Would he see apostasy in her innocent, creedless eyes?

Would empathy give way to hate? Would he want her to live or would he see her die?

Read more: Footprints: No space for Ahmadis

I have never been to Gujranwala myself. But from what I know it is a lively town; the home of the pehlwans and the self-styled food capital of Pakistan. It is where you go to eat batair or view a wrestling match fought in the ancient traditions.

But on the night of 28 and 29 Ramazan the city was host to a terrible tragedy.

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