Life is unfair they say. Afterlife is not, they might not know. Here I am, a simple Kashmiri, laying down on my sleeping mat in dark, frightened, listening to the distant screech of firing. “Maybe, there is another causality”, my heart sinks in more depths while I think of the probability of another mother losing his dear son.
Trails of sweat pass below my temples, not clear if due to the heat caused by the absence of electricity, cut down by the Indian government, or the feeling of fear, despair, uncertainty, anger, uselessness, or straightforwardly, the realization of being the next victim. There are so many feelings, you see, including those I even fail to name.
“Mercy, God!?”, I sob, trying my best to compress it, even though I catch my family members in another corner of the room, posing to sleep, doing likewise. What else can they or I do anyways other than hiding our vulnerable sides in dark? Because after all, we are Kashmiri freedom fighters, in bright light we have to show up roaring at the face of the wicked enemy.
As my mind wanders, I smile thinking of naughty school times with my bestfriend; the smile that vanishes the next moment I relive today’s afternoon when I lifted his coffin amidst inhumane shelling by the Indian Army against a young Kashmiri. The bond between us that none could break was sabotaged by a bullet. Ironic. Carrying his coffin to his last destination decided the fate of two more boys after the bloody butchers shot them during the same funeral march. More young men must have lost their bestfriends.
Kashmir is known as Paradise and I have been finding answers to “what Paradise is colored with the blood of innocent humans?” since I first saw a similar kind of genocide, maybe when I was 4. Yes, Kashmiri people, undoubtedly, grow up so earlier. And so did I, continuously switching decisions on if Paradise is meant to feature milk streams or the bloodstreams.
Why is it so that land is being shrunk for us? For, a coffin that has to reach graveyard has to dig more graves for the carriers of that very coffin. The ladies are made deprived of respect for their pure bodies. For the kids in their healthy learning age are getting to remember different pitches of ammunition that will haunt them forever. For we have to eat very little to save from our small utility stock for coming many uncertain days, only if our houses are not set on fire at first. For the Indian masters have their kids enjoying water fights in bathtubs while here we Kashmiris wait silently till the pressure in our bladder gets on our kidneys to finally go washrooms because after all, we have to save water for we don’t perceive till the war ends, only if it does after all. We are disconnected by all means from our loved ones and have no information if they are alive yet or not, and so must they be wondering the same. We have sternly forbidden our dearests abroad from coming back here no matter how much we are yearning to meet them one last time. Why the whole world that has always strictly despised Hitler’s Holocaust movement and pledged to cease such incidents from happening ever again is paying no heed to us anymore? Are we any different from being humans? Why on this BaqraEid, instead of slaughtering animals, we are most likely to be slaughtered?
Death is everywhere and I am not sure if it’s going to be too long before I reunite with my bestfriend. Jinnah once said, “Muslims wishing to stay at Hindustan are going to prove loyalty their whole lives”. But we are a step further, we don’t prove faithfulness to India anyways, but Pakistan only; so, you can wonder with what amount of misery we would have been dealt with.
To be snatched your identity, history, land, and the right to live away is not a piece of cake. It makes you numb, and at the same time, hot-blooded with raging fire inside. It makes you an irresistible contradiction. And so, till our last breath, Kashmiris are to thrive dauntlessly, no matter how numb at the same we get, for indubitably, fortune favors the brave. Maybe not always here, but hereafter!