My people are being killed. They are the Shia Muslims of Pakistan. Caught in its own affairs, the world has forgotten to care.

In the past months, more than 200 Shia Muslims have been murdered in various areas of Pakistan at the hands of an Al-Qaeda militia group called Lashkar-e-Jhangvi. The largest massacre was in early January, at Quetta.

It was believed that this would be the final atrocity, but in the second week of February another bomb was detonated in Quetta, killing more than 90 people, and injuring at least 180 others. More recently, another bomb detonated outside of a mosque in March, murdering 45 and wounding more than 150.

Three years ago, my uncle took me and my cousins to a park in rural Karachi. We were unsure why we were going there.  We were simply told we would be going to some sort of charity affiliated event.

When were arrived at the park, our expectations of having fun were shattered.  We were amidst a tiny lot in the middle of nowhere with two rusty water slides, a tiny pool, and some dirt.

But what I experienced next has changed my life.

Buses of children joined us, and they flooded the seemingly small park with smiles and happiness. These were the orphans of the Shia.

The kids had been brought to the park through the Shaheed Foundation, a charity which benefits the families of people killed in genocide.

After we had finished afternoon prayers, children proudly came up and declared the names of family members they had lost. Toddlers recited the names of their fathers, and young adults spoke the names of their sisters.

I asked myself, “Why did they do this?” And the answer was completely self-explanatory. So we would never forget.

It seems that no matter how much the children recite the names of their loved ones, the world still forgets. If there’s one simple act we must carry out to fight the injustice against the Shia, it would be to make sure these names are not forgotten.

I remember the smile of little Muhammed as ice-cream was handed to him, carefree of this world and it’s burdens.

I remember the brothers from Gilgit splashing each other with water in the hot summer air.

I remember waiting in line to go onto the water slides with my fellow Shia brothers, each one of us nervously observing the steep descent into the pool below.

I remember leaving the rusty worn-down park, with a  conviction for change.

My people are being killed, the world has forgotten to care.