a letter to Pakistan

Dear Pakistan …

I miss you..! Do you remember I used to visit you every year? Every day I looked forward to the summer vacations …to the day I would fly to you. The word ‘fun’  was attached to you.

All the feeling and emotions would pop up the word ‘Pakistan!’ .

I had all the luxuries which you could expect in a foreign country  but the warmth of relations  was only felt when I stayed with you.

 Late night outings ,cricket matches ,crazy cousins ..all were part of the bubbly and memorable trips on your soil. The uncontrollable laughter magically captivated us. We loved you and wanted to be with you forever.

Today, I live with you  and yet I miss you.

I miss the good old ‘Pakistan’. I remember your ‘ city of lights.It was  my favorite. Its all dark and gloomy now. It smells of blood. All I can see is scared eyes .There are only two kinds of people left. Scared and barbaric.

Every news is heart breaking. Being optimistic is becoming difficult each day. Every day  a hope shatters.

Innocent lives are laid down . We promise ourselves that these sacrifices will not go to waste. But they do. Things do not change. Each day has a new horrific story to tell.

I miss the ‘botal wali coke’. We used to get our deposit back on returning the bottle. Time changed.The bottle started being used as a weapon in universities.

I remember the long list of visitors from morning to night. Today every visit and phone call alarms me. ’Is everything fine?’

A little delay in someone’s flight forces me to switch on the t.v. My heart starts to beat faster when I receive a phone call from my child’s school. I silently pray for her safety before picking up the phone.

As I am writing these lines, I have tears in my eyes. I terribly miss you Pakistan.! I wish to see you rise again.I want to see you beautiful again ….without  intolerance, without  hatred …without barbarism.

I miss the peaceful Karachi beach. Recalling the soothing wind there can work as a medicine for me even now. The sand stuck in your head for weeks, eating  biryani with a bottle of coke, sitting for hours in the cool sea . I close my eyes and think about you. I can smile now.

Pakistan! You will rise. You have to. You have given us so much. Please do not take it back. I want to be mesmerized by you once again.

Yours truly,

sahar

FIR..ah!

You will never be bored but you will always be amused. Every little thing is a struggle in Pakistan which demands time and effort. The more smaller the problem, the more time and effort requirement. The more time consuming struggles include Petrol/CNG filling, understanding the logic behind inverse proportion of availability of electricity and electricity bills and last but not the least , FIR.

My apartment  is located in an army housing scheme. Two guards sit beside the gate behind the barriers. All the masis have an ID card without which they cannot pass.  Yet,It was robbed in the broad day light.

Day 1:  Police and security personals from two other organizations arrive at the crime scene. Try to find finger prints. No success. No FIR.

Day 2: Chehlum. Police has other duties to perform No FIR.

(News Flash: Shahzeb’s family having  a hard time registering the case owing to political pressure coming from other end) . Should I even try for a FIR?

Day 3:Application has to be submitted at the local police chowki. Inspector’s had to go to the court. The main police station cannot do anything yet. No FIR.

Day: 4:   The inspector had duties last  night. He didn’t show up. No FIR.

Day 5:Application finally submitted and forwarded to the main police station.( Witnesses might have forget everything by now.)

Day 6: FIR cannot be registered without SHO. SHO not on duty. No FIR.

Day 7: SHO still on unknown duties. An officer from FIA intervenes.SHO informs to pick up the FIR  next morning.(The robber might have sold the jewelry and spent the cash)

Day 8: A confirmation phone call is made  before the daily visit to the police station to avoid disappointments. The SHO after being told of  a  reference tells on the phone that FIR can be picked any time(in a ‘at your service’ style). The visit is not a big surprise. The staff at the station asks to come the next day. No FIR!

(News Flash: The Crime Investigation Agency (CIA) of the capital police busted an eight-member gang of robbers on Tuesday. Five members of the gang turned out to be the children of serving police officials.)

Day 9: The robber plans for the next lottery? Yes? No? Whatever but no  FIR.

Love story 2011-Qadri and his beloved

Her beauty had charmed so many. Ever since a lover had built a monument for her by killing thousands of people , she was getting famous. Countless admirers had laid down their lives on her name.

Who does not like being loved? But for some reason she was feeling suffocated. They were all too possessive. Each one of them could kill others for her. ‘They kill for love, how can I except love from them?’
Just when she was pondering over this , she heard some gunshots. She rushed to the window. Her new admirer had gunned down someone for her sake. She was dumbfounded. All the blood shed on her name? So many lovers but not one of them ready to listen to her perception of love?
She started feeling uncomfortable. She needed fresh air. Right then, there was a knock on the door. It was her new admirer to tell her what accomplishment has he made in her devotion.

For the first time she hated love. Seeing his smile made her lose control. She started shouting:
‘We can not be together anymore! I thought love meant peace, for you it means blood.
For me, its acceptance and endurance. For you its intolerance.
I thought love makes you smile. You proved it can make someone die.
Loves makes us feel good about ourselves. You all make me loathe myself.’

She slammed the door on his face. She had refused to be possessed. He was dumbfounded.
 His triumph was now futile.

A page from the diary of a suicide bomber

Title: Brain-washed

Location: Pool of blood

Time: Last breath

I just realized how quickly perceptions can change .But contrary to what people say ( ‘it is never too late’) it WAS too late. Just few minutes ago I was proudly dying as a martyr. I was part of a ‘revolution’.

A revolution which was supposed to wipe out the evils from this society .

I was amazed how blind we are to the angle by which we can see things other than what we actually perceive.

In those last moments I saw blood.

I saw school children whose life ended with me..because of me.

I saw limbs, hands, legs everywhere.

I saw lifeless breadwinners. Their eyes asked me countless questions: ‘Who will support our family?’ , ‘Will they die of hunger?’

I had no answers!  I had devoted my life for Jihad. THIS ..was an assumption. Jihad could not possibly mean this.

Lives of so many innocent civilians would mean nothing to the merchants of this country. They will continue to bomb their own country. They would keep their mouth shut over continuous attacks on their soil. They would keep licking feet of world-powers even if they drive them to stone age.

This suicide attack had been a  grueling decision but now seemed nothing but futile.  Only if I had realized sooner !!

by Sahar Syed

A complete change?

Our sense of humor has surely changed. With so much seriousness around the humor has also got its fair share. The military bombing Taliban hideouts. Taliban bombing capital city.

Is that , excessive use of these grave terms made them less evil or for that matter , utterly meaning less? Have these blasts also ruined our humorousness?

Have we become so inhuman that we find it funny to scare the scared stiff masses by making hoax bomb calls?

Are we ruined completely? Will this ‘war on terror’ affect the mental health of generations to come too?

Would we ever recover completely?

by Sahar Syed

Are we different?

How proudly we declare ourselves to be different from others. But actually we are made up of all those, we differentiate ourselves from.

Emotions,  behavior ,  attitudes do not shape us. We are made up of people. People who have loved us, people we have loved and people we hate.  Those are all part of us. They leave their marks on us. A particular word or phrase used by someone, a small gesture, facial expressions like biting our lips while in deep thinking , winking in jolly moods or sitting with  a special posture. We adopt it consciously and most of the time unconsciously. It becomes our part.

They all form us; people who make us strong; who inspire us, who let us down, who make us laugh, who break us and tear us apart. Yes, they all mold us and yet we think we are different from all these people?

How an attitude, a joke, place or even a word remind us of someone we might have once met.

People change us . They become our part and they make us different!

by Sahar Syed

Muted

Why are we leading our lives in the mute-mode. We see each and everything, we are aware of whatever is happening around us. We see but do nothing about it. We can accept a well known notorious criminal of international fame  as our head. We can  accept constant intrusion on our homeland. We accept endless  killings on our soul by our own army. Do we truly accept all this? We do not! But seeing and not resisting means acceptance of our defeat .

 Do we need a revolution ? A revolution in which the masses will finally break their silence and cure their indifference? Will we ever grab our right to be heard .?

By sahar syed