Author: Saadut
•1:35 PM


Abhi zindaa hoon main, dekho meri pehchaan baaki hai /
Badan zakhmi hai lekin abhi mujhmein jaan baaki hai (Shatir)


Every pain has three dimensions one is the victim who suffers, is mauled, is killed, is hurt and is the jackboot & gun barrel fodder. Second is the perpetrator, the criminal, the killer, the action fascist who kills, mauls, oppresses & does so without any remorse or fear of  retribution. And the third is the fence sitting thought vulture that waits for the opportunity, cries wolf wolf, creates a media event of every pain of every agony and some rare times half lip advocates justice but clearly wishes none of it.

Kashmir is one of the most painful and agonizing story every told or played in the world political theatre. And while this act has many viewers, not all of these viewers speak for the blood on the altar. Every day, every moment brings news of more guillotined, more buds trampled and every next day the audience looks the other way having ignored the shrieks of the previous day. The murderer’s dictionary is limited to ‘collateral damage’, ‘self defense’, mistaken identity’ ‘unidentified gunmen’ and the last page of the dictionary is dedicated to ‘investigations have been ordered’. 

Media plays Kashmir as a news ticker, and the politician plays Kashmir as his survival grazing ground. Wannabe’s play Kashmir as their ‘political seat graduating college’. In all these trading houses Kashmir is sold, resold, traded and bartered for every trader’s convenience. Humanity, agonizing pain and the soul of Kashmir gets the spiked jack boot. Our voices get lost and suppressed in the din of the “trading house cries”.

Every murder, ever spilled blood in Kashmiri is used by the political theater actors for their perfect blame game while the sunken, dark eyes of the hopeless walking toward the graveyard brood over a dark horizon suddenly lit crimson red by innocent blood. Answers you say, no answers. Even before the corpse has settled in its final glory and even before the wet earth may have placed itself over the shroud, embracing the body into eternity, the murder is confidently forgotten by the studio crusaders and the self declared champions of humanity.

You will never know the weight of a dead son felt and carried by the frail & old shoulders of a father. While Hercules had trouble holding one earth, this father is carrying a whole universe on his shoulders. Can’t imagine the source that feeds power to the dragging legs of this old man, the conviction that leads the father to bury his sunrise, the heart wrenching feelings that his almost numb heart may encounter while lowering his son into that grave. The tremors that his hands may shake with, when he fills that earth on top of the young blood. He is the bravest of all men I say and the same father continues his fight with life even after this decimation. Words are words; they cannot become the presentiment of any feelings of pain, misery and paroxysm as felt in Kashmir, in real time. No writer worth his pen will be able to portray the strength of this father’s burden. We may all portray a sketch of his feelings but no frame will ever fit his true heart portrait.

Never understand the pain of a family whose young daughters are mauled, raped, murdered and consigned to circumstances of fiction. Eyes that would dream of spring, of heart bliss, of mates & simple joys of life, lie closed, body cold taken over by numbness. If you cannot hear the noise in this silence, the cries of the spilled blood you cannot hear anything. 

Our tragedies have not only seen swelled graveyards; they have cascaded into wrecked families, broken lives, living zombies & lost childhoods. The broadcast news tickers and the 2nd page print media news speak about the count of dead filling the graveyards, overriding the countless living dead consigned to a visibly vague & feckless living which cannot be called a life. The army of destitute and orphans left by unending tragedies are nobody’s children in Kashmir. They are conveniently forgotten to mute occasional sit-in ignored silently by the corporatized media. Such news does not fetch them any returns. You may find the expressionless faces of these destitute and orphans of no interest and grayish, but it is the apathy and criminal silence towards them that has taken its toll on their human faces, the delusions that has robbed them of any smile and the fight against hope that has made their gaze stern. It is their unparalleled inner strength that still makes their eyes blink and look ahead of them. The strength of their soul is far greater than you & I could ever muster. They fight with the heavy armor of misery & pain on them, and the heartless, spineless passersby hear no noise of the armor clanking on the skeleton bodies of these overrun families only  supported by their strong souls.

Every Kashmiri emotion has been turned into a saleable commodity. 

The news channels sell it to fill small news time. In rare cases they even debate our corpses, with a pre defined set of experts who seem to know the heart & soul of Kashmir, even if they never knew what a Kashmir thought and ideation is all about. The A/C room experts have a solution to all our imaginary ills but no answer to our real pain & torment.  When these experts offer unsolicited solution advices and unravelment, I feel they suffer from hallucinations and phantasm. These self decorated experts by their mis-representing & miraged portrayals cause more pain to wounded soul of Kashmir. They are murderers of thought, silent advocates of the continuity of pain in my motherland. 

Our pain is also adequately traded & bullion-ed by the political adventurists. Every death, ever tragedy in Kashmir becomes the raw material for their political packaging. Their momentary media attention seeking cries are aimed at a few lines in the print, a mention in the broadcast. Their rhetoric never goes beyond their secure, bunkered palaces. Here corpses are numbered by the brownie points they can earn, pain & misery of the tormented has no value. Each statement is craftily prepared with ingredients of ‘condemn’ ‘protest’ and a brief ‘cry for justice’ added in appropriate measure. The corpses are also used and mauled for boarding accusative flights between opponents. Media done, photo ops generated, the political adventurists wait for the next event and move to the next grazing pasture. Their occasional ‘chalo’ walks trample over our graveyards, they never walk us TO justice. Most commonly they sell us in TV studios write plagiarized pieces in papers & proclaim conscience prophet hood in the privacy of their secluded & disconsolate mind. While the murderer kills the physical body once, these political adventurists and power seat grabbers murder and kill our pain, agony again and again.


Oh speakers of mourn, awake from your sleep;
Tell me what do u see, a corpse or a seat?


These political opportunists having commoditized our tragedy are traders of our blood, brokers of our corpses and graveyard adventurists. They are murderers of a nation’s psychic, rapists of a human turmoil.

Is there any human listening to our cries, and painful wails?


We are a nation in immeasurable, perpetual pain and the mourning here never stops.





Srinagar, 5th of February 2011



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4 comments:

On February 5, 2011 at 1:39 PM , Anonymous said...

"We are a nation in immeasurable and perpetual pain, and the mourning here never stops.".. that is what i as a kashmiri has been resorted to since 1947
MS

 
On February 5, 2011 at 2:20 PM , © Faysal said...

Brilliantly Done. Very insightful!

 
On February 5, 2011 at 2:58 PM , Anonymous said...

Wonderfully written. captures the reality in kashmir

 
On February 17, 2011 at 11:57 PM , Anonymous said...

Well written-I hope it awakens the sleeping conscience of the world community and exposes Indian lies about the Kashmiri struggle for freedom