Pakistan Diary: Breaking Bread — The Peshawar Kitchen Feeding Souls, Not Just Stomachs

X: @vivekbhavsar

Just before the sun rises over Peshawar’s historic Qissa Khawani Bazaar, a once-forgotten community hall begins to stir with life. The scent of turmeric and lentils wafts out onto the street as the metal shutters roll open. Inside, retired schoolteacher Asma Khan stirs a large pot of daal with practiced grace, while Rizwan Ali, a fruit vendor, chops onions with a quiet smile. Within the hour, they and a dozen other volunteers will serve steaming plates of food to over 200 people—street children, elderly labourers, and anyone who walks in hungry.

This humble kitchen, started six months ago by a handful of neighbors, has quickly become a beacon of hope in a city that often grapples with poverty, displacement, and daily survival. It is powered not by institutional support, but by goodwill, small donations, and the determination of ordinary citizens who refused to look the other way.

The idea was born during a chance conversation between Asma and Rizwan at the local mosque. During the COVID lockdowns, both had noticed an increase in children rummaging through garbage and old men skipping meals to save a few rupees. “If they can’t come to school or afford a clinic, at least let them come here for food,” Asma recalls. With a borrowed pot and a bag of lentils, the first meal was served to 30 people on a cold winter morning.

Today, their operation is surprisingly efficient. By 5:00 a.m., volunteers trickle into the kitchen—some bringing flour, others rice or donated vegetables from the market. Chopping, stirring, and laughter fill the room. By 7:00 a.m., the doors open. A line forms—children with empty hands, men with tired eyes, women carrying toddlers. No IDs are checked, no questions asked. Everyone leaves with a full plate and a warmer heart.

Faizan, a 12-year-old who sleeps on the footpath, now comes here daily. “This is the first time I’ve had hot lentils,” he says with a shy smile. “I go to school, but it’s hard to focus when your stomach is empty.” Sixty-two-year-old Bashir Khan, who loads fruit trucks nearby, adds, “Now I come every morning. It gives me strength to work.”

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The volunteers have their own stories too. Asma taught school for 35 years, and now, with the same discipline, she oversees the kitchen like a classroom of kindness. Rizwan donates half his fruit stall earnings to buy ingredients. “If I earn a living through this, I believe it will bring me blessings,” he laughs.

The kitchen runs on a shoestring budget—about PKR 60,000 a month, covered by local donations and contributions from shopkeepers. One bakery supplies discounted rotis. A health clinic volunteer holds weekly workshops on hygiene. Even Asma’s old students, now grown up, occasionally send money.

Challenges persist. On some days, there’s no money for meat or eggs. Still, no one is turned away. The volunteers simply cook more rice or use seasonal vegetables to stretch the portions. Plans are now underway to open a second kitchen near University Town, supported by a group of university students inspired by the first.

As the morning rush ends, the pots are cleaned, the floor swept, and leftover food packed for a nearby shelter. The kitchen falls silent again—until the next day.

In a city often defined by its hardships, this volunteer kitchen serves not just food but dignity, belonging, and a reminder that ordinary people can create extraordinary change. Tomorrow, when you break your fast or enjoy your breakfast, remember this corner of Peshawar, where strangers gather each morning—not just to eat, but to care.