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Death to Death

  • August 31, 2015
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I wanted life. A better life, if possible, but a life would have been sufficient too.

I once had a home. I once had healthy children. I once had laughter in my courtyard. My handsome husband had lands. He had cows and castles. We had a life in which everything was sufficient.

Then it all changed. There were bombs. There were blasts. There was blood. Everyone was fighting with one another.

I do not know how and why my country became a hell but it did. It was never a heaven but it was a home. It no longer was a home.

I heard women of the village say after all the bloodshed; we would have a better country. We must have hope in the free world to free us.

I hoped for improvement every day till one day they left my dead husband on the door. Who were they? I had no enemy but after his death I had to get a life for my three sons.

I had lands, I had jewellery but there were not many people to buy all that I had. So I gave them all to the man who promised me a life for my boys. He took everything I had except my sons.

He brought us to a lorry. It was a big one and it was white. He said in few hours we would be in the land of white people who would respect us. There would be no death in that peaceful world.

I believed him. My sons cried leaving their friends but I told them they will have better friends, better books, better food and a life in their new home.

My old parents begged me not to leave them but a mother has to do the best for her children only. I could not let my sons die like my husband.

I left it all. Maybe I should not have done it.

I trusted the free world for free life but I should not have done it. If my country could not give us life, why should any other country do?

We are people without any respect. Our lives have no value, neither for our people nor for anyone else.

If they did, my sons would not have died begging for water and air. We banged the walls and doors of the lorry but no one heard us.

Who would hear the voice of homeless people like us?

They died. I drove them to death, while all I was doing was to save them from death. Was it a sin? Was it a crime? Should I have left them die in their own home but maybe they would not have died there.

Now I must die too for I have nothing to live.

It has been a long journey from a death anticipated to a death achieved.




Living Dead

  • August 17, 2015
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It was another sad day yesterday.

A brave Minister lost his life to the terror he was dedicated to eradicating. A young police officer became a victim of the evil he professionally was determined to defeat. Along with them many more were martyred by the impure people, who have killed thousands in the Land of Pure.

This happened just two days after the Land of Pure had celebrated its most Pure Peaceful Independence Day in many years. The dark night of terror seemed to be giving way to a Dawn of Peace. It all now seems a wishful thinking.

The bullets of terror and despair take the lives of their targets. The targets go to a peaceful world.

Yet they leave behind many grieving and mourning for them forever.

My heart today goes to the mothers, wives, fathers, children, sisters and brothers of the martyrs. They must have the satisfaction that their loved ones perished while fighting a noble battle for their country and their people.

Yet in moments of extreme loneliness, will the widows of the martyrs not crave for a warm hand to hold, for shoulder to cry on and for someone to talk to. As the children or grandchildren celebrate milestones, will she not long for her life partner to share those joys with her?

A mother gives birth to a son and her greatest wish is that her son buries her. He takes care of her in her old age. Who will take care of the mothers of the martyrs? Who will bury them? Will she not miss her son as she grows old?

I think of the children of the martyrs. Children of any age need a father to be their protector, counselor and friend. No matter how old children become, they miss their fathers, if they are not around. Children of the martyrs would miss their parents at each and every milestone of their lives.

Think of an old father who has to bury his son, his anchor of support. Think of a sister, whose brother had to arrange a dowry for her. Think of a brother, whose brother had to educate him.

How do these people live? How does a plant live without water? It withers away. Do they whither? Do they live?
Do we care about them? Maybe we bury them also along with the dead. For I do not know of any effort made to reach out to these people who have lost their treasures in the hunt for terror.

For us they are living dead….but should they be living dead?