Recently a young woman, Aneeqa Ali, courageously posted a story about being harassed in Lahore while riding her bicycle.
A group of young men began aggressively tailing her, hooting at her and eventually hit her bicycle and sped off, leaving her with minor injuries. Their act was a brutal reminder that she does not belong on the roads.
In response, several groups came together under the banner #GirlsonBikes in Lahore and Karachi — including Girls at Dhabas and Critical Mass — to organise a rally in her support and in support of the right of all women to occupy their city’s streets.
Take a look: In pictures: Girls ride bikes in rally against harassment
About 50 women cyclists turned out in Lahore and Karachi on Sunday morning along with many enthusiastic supporters (I was among those) to reaffirm our claim to the city.
In Lahore, we cycled in one of the central areas of the city, from the Main Market, down the Main Boulevard and the Canal, while curious passersby took photos and occasionally and unsurprisingly made catcalls. We were, however, unfazed and undeterred.
By the end of the rally, there was a palpable sense of elation and triumph amongst the participants.
Although we may have been few in number, we had successfully managed to mark our space in the city, and refused to cower in the face of violence.
I spent the day with a smile on my face, while friends from around the world shared and ‘liked’ our photos on social media. I felt like we had dropped a small pebble in the ocean of negativity that seemed to have been engulfing our country and that things were finally starting to look up. I made the dangerous mistake of actually starting to feel hopeful.
See: 'Cycle chalao, patriarchy dubao': Taking to Karachi streets without the company of men
And then a few hours later, I got a phone call. ‘Did you hear about the blast in Lahore’ my mother asked?
‘No, what blast?’
Apparently it had just happened, and the news of casualties had only just started coming in. A couple of people killed, then 30, then 50.
By the end of the evening, over 70 people — mostly women and children — had been brutally murdered and many others had been severely injured at a suicide bombing in one of the city’s most central parks in Gulshan-i-Iqbal.
Many of them had come in their Sunday best to celebrate Easter. Others had come to enjoy a cool evening with their families before the summer heat set in.
All of them were claiming their right to the city, to enjoyment, to fun. While the victims of the attack were both Muslims and Christians, the attack was targeted at Christians.
Rather than cowering in fear, we need to organise public events, and ensure the protection of those who are most vulnerable — including the poor, religious minorities, women, and children — rather than barricading ourselves behind higher walls guarded by men with even bigger guns.
The small glimmer of hope I had felt just a few hours before was quickly extinguished, and I was once again paralysed by a sense of helplessness and despair.
This was only compounded by the news of 10,000 people gathering in Islamabad in support of Salmaan Taseer's killer Mumtaz Qadri, which represented only the tip of the iceberg of hate that has been building in this country for the past decades.
The bicycle rally, the bombing and the protest in Islamabad are all testament to the battle that is currently engulfing our country.
Those who are on the side of hate have made it clear what their demands are, even listing them explicitly for us, while those on the side of love, peace and inclusivity continue to remain largely silent and dispersed, retreating into their private spaces (if they are privileged enough to afford these) and calling for a military solution.
However, the tide of violence that is sweeping over us will not end simply by calling in the army or the Rangers. The Lahore attack should have convinced us of that.
It is imperative now more than ever that those opposing hate make their presence visibly felt on our cities' streets, repeatedly and continuously.
Rather than cowering in fear, we need to do the same by continuing to organise public events, and to ensure the protection of those who are most vulnerable — including the poor, religious minorities, women, and children — rather than barricading ourselves behind higher walls guarded by men with even bigger guns.
The battle lines have been drawn. It is up to us to decide now, vocally and visibly, which side we are on.