{"id":1922,"date":"2014-12-18T00:56:52","date_gmt":"2014-12-17T19:56:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/?p=1922"},"modified":"2014-12-23T12:34:03","modified_gmt":"2014-12-23T07:34:03","slug":"writeforjustice-peshawarattack-the-world-writes-back","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/2014\/12\/writeforjustice-peshawarattack-the-world-writes-back\/","title":{"rendered":"#WriteForJustice #PeshawarAttack – The world writes back"},"content":{"rendered":"

 <\/p>\n

On 16th December 2014, the Army Public School in Peshawar, Pakistan, was attacked by the Taliban. Over a hundred and thirty students\u00a0were murdered one by one. The principal of the school and members of the faculty were killed. A\u00a0teacher was set on fire.<\/p>\n

As Pakistan lifted itself, reeling, from the wreckage and prepared to fight back, we asked you to write. In a situation where no money was needed, where no compensation was possible, we asked for your words. This is what you sent in.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

You Ask Me Why I Am Quiet\u00a0<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

by Mubeshra J. Pracha (Lahore)<\/em><\/p>\n

You ask me why I am quiet.
\nYou question my silence,
\nAnd think of me to be indifferent.
\nPeople are crying all around me.
\nYou nudge me to express it too.
\nI stare back at you.
\nIt’s a cold crude night.
\nI shiver and take on the cloak,
\nThe cloak of mourning.
\nBut I stand aside,
\nApart from the crowd.
\nDistance myself from the tears.
\nWalk away from the vigils.
\nClose my eyes to the blood.
\nMuffle my ears to the sighs and cries,
\nFor I have been dead a long time.
\nMy heart once skipped a beat,
\nThen another and another,
\nOne after the other they left,
\nWith each mosque they blasted,
\nWith each church they destroyed,
\nWith each bullet they fired,
\nWith each suicide bombing,
\nWith all the breaths that escaped,
\nFrom souls young and old,
\nLives that bled out,
\nWhen terror first strike,
\nWhen it was but an infant,
\nThat is when my heart skipped a beat,
\nThen another and another.
\nI ask you,
\nWhy should the cry be loudest now,
\nWhen the monster is beyond our reach.
\nWhen we can offer nothing but our own grief,
\nTo the ones whose grief we cannot equal.
\nLet them at least cry in peace.
\nFor living in peace is beyond our reach.
\nLet us not burden their sorrow,
\nWith our own.
\nFor we did not cry the loudest,
\nWhen the beast was but an infant.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
A Gathering with Abraham<\/strong><\/span><\/div>\n
by Abdul Moiz<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
A while ago, a preacher (quoting the Prophet) said
\nThat children killed by savage men or children simply dead
\nAngels are bound to guide their souls from Earth, the scholar claimed,
\nTo Abraham, The Prophet grand, in some garden un-named
\nThe sketch of this divine congregation in my crude imagination
\nWas: a circle around the Prophet enjoying stories in His narration
\nBut, what if it were the children sharing why they came so soon
\nThe reason of their shortened stay, the cause that spelled their doom
\nChildren black and children white, there are a million faces
\nAs if hand-picked by God Himself from all times and all places
\nChildren killed by pharaohs cruel, in suspicion of Moses
\nDaughters newborn of Arabs who took pride in trampling roses
\nThen there are those of the Prophet’s house, denied one drop to drink
\nThen those of Jews from gas chambers, stifled in a blink
\nThen standing scared and shy are those whose pain is still fresh
\nWhose drops of blood are still not stale and warm is still their flesh
\nAnd when they would narrate their tales, how much would Heaven quiver?
\nWill the angels weep for them, how some of them would\u00a0shiver
\nFor they know what anguish is like, the meaning of torment
\nFor Abraham God intervened, for them no lambs were sent.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

 <\/p>\n

Untitled<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

by Myrah Edwin (Peshawar)<\/em><\/p>\n

Entangled in a whirlpool<\/p>\n

Of senseless lances<\/p>\n

I am a mass<\/p>\n

Of blood-dripping wounds<\/p>\n

Hush! Not a single whimper.<\/p>\n

A pile of silent woods<\/p>\n

Ready to be blazed<\/p>\n

In an inferno of my own making<\/p>\n

Like an unsung dirge<\/p>\n

Like a bird who dies before a song<\/p>\n

Like a city drowning in darkness vainly waiting for dawn.<\/p>\n

Like that unshed tear on the tip of your eyelash,<\/p>\n

Like that unspoken word on the brim of your mouth,<\/p>\n

Like that inexperienced emotion, that unbloomed flower, that unborn child<\/p>\n

All that was, all that is and all that\u2019ll never be,<\/p>\n

All a part of me<\/p>\n

And I, a part of a bigger Being, that celestial light<\/p>\n

Which will burn through eternity<\/p>\n

Consuming me along the way<\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\u06a9\u0633 \u0637\u0631\u062d \u0645\u06cc\u06ba \u0686\u06be\u067e\u0627\u0624\u06ba \u060c \u0645\u0627\u0644 \u0648 \u0645\u062a\u0627\u0639 \u060c \u062c\u0627\u0646 \u0627\u067e\u0646\u06cc<\/div>\n
\u0686\u0627\u0631\u0648\u06ba \u062f\u06cc\u0648\u0627\u0631\u06cc\u06ba \u0645\u0631\u06d2 \u06af\u06be\u0631 \u06a9\u06cc \u062a\u0648 \u060c \u0679\u0648\u0679\u06cc \u06c1\u0648\u0626\u06cc \u06c1\u06cc\u06ba<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
(Javeria Khan)<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

 <\/p>\n

Aaraz-e-Berang<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

by Saroosh Shabbir<\/em><\/p>\n

Every few days I have to brave the difficult task of clipping my baby’s nails. They grow razor sharp and a slightly painful element is added to every soft cuddle. So I regretfully find her nail cutter and hold her little plump finger in mine. She tugs and wrenches. I try to predict her random sways. Another chubby paw lands on my hand, tracing red, jagged paths. Amid the pain an overwhelming truth glimmers for a second in the corner of my mind; I made this tiny finger from scratch! It did not exist a few months ago and now I hold it in my hand. I brush away the thought and carefully place the clipper against her nail, trying not to take too much of it. But every now and then there’s a cut too deep. And I worry. I worry whether I’ve nicked the skin, whether it hurts her, whether I’ve made the pinks of her nails too small?<\/p>\n

This, then, is how it is to raise a child. One learns the geography of love. Each adored millimeter is inspected and memorized. Every scrape of the skin, every wound and every pain registered. Each tiny wail and whimper accounted for, and every ache tried to kiss away.<\/p>\n

I bring the tiny finger closer to my eyes. There’s a barely visible cut next to a skewed mini nail. A slightly bitter wave of regret surges inside me, but a second great realization washes over with relief; she will grow up and her nails will be fine. She will be fine.<\/p>\n

But in the land of my birth some mothers do not have the comfort of this thought. Their babies will not grow any more. Someone decided their wounds should be permanent. 132 children were murdered inside a school. Hundreds of beloved fingers suffered unimaginable wounds that could not be kissed good. No loving ear witnessed their last wails. And who is to blame?<\/p>\n

We all are. We are all culpable and complicit. We’ve buried our heads in the sand about certain iniquities in our society in the name of culture and religion for so long that-and there’s no sophisticated way to put it-they’ve come to bite us in the ass. In this country a 9 month old can be booked for murder [1] but no concrete laws exist for prosecuting an adult for child sexual abuse [2]. If that is not a hallmark of a failed society I don’t know what is. And then there are other trivial and mundane facts; hordes of children slaving away in middle class homes while we praise ourselves for giving them an opportunity for a better life. That is our standard of justice. Is it a surprise then that the marginalized and the violated are so easy to radicalise?<\/p>\n

I hope when all the analysis is over, when the fingers tire of pointing here and there, when the uproar of the conspiracy theories about who is the sponsor and mastermind of these incidents lulls down, we gain some ability for introspection. I hope our people realize that certain ills cannot be prayed away. I hope our leaders realize that one doesn’t eliminate terrorism by bombing people wholesale, but by not letting it breed in the first place. It is done by guarding the weak and the most vulnerable. It is done by safeguarding the future of the society; by protecting and honouring our children.<\/p>\n

But perhaps it is much, much too late. Perhaps we are already lost.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tujh ko kitnon ka lahu chaheeye aye Arz-e-Watan<\/em>
\nJo tere aaraz-e-berang ko gulnaar karay<\/em><\/p>\n

Kitni aahon se kaleja tera thanda hoga<\/em>
\nKitne ansoo tere sehraon ko gulzaar karay<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[1] http:\/\/www.theguardian.com\/world\/2014\/apr\/08\/pakistan-baby-charged-attempted-murder-hiding<\/p>\n

[2] “According to charities which work to protect street children in Pakistan, up to 90 per cent are sexually abused on the first night that they sleep rough and 60 per cent accuse police of sexually abusing them.”<\/p>\n

\u201cA draft bill for child protection has been pending with the interior ministry for two years.\u201d –\u00a0http:\/\/www.dawn.com\/news\/654690\/children-sexually-abused-on-pakistans-streets<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

My Name<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

by Aaleen Shafaat<\/em><\/p>\n

The white metal bird that dominates my skies is not my bird<\/p>\n

I am told it sees and hears all.<\/p>\n

They call it a drone.<\/p>\n

I think anything without a conscience mustn\u2019t have a name.<\/p>\n

Me? I have a name but who I am is more important than my name;<\/p>\n

I am not self-sufficient enough to be an atheist<\/p>\n

I am not confident enough to reclaim my home<\/p>\n

I am not a disbeliever; I am only a harmless sinner<\/p>\n

I am forced to fight a war that is not my war.<\/p>\n

I hope to find my freedom in the revolution square<\/p>\n

And my revolution in the freedom square<\/p>\n

I run back and forth between the two<\/p>\n

I am shot one day and buried in an unmarked grave<\/p>\n

I have a name, it just wasn\u2019t important<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"10858458_354195334760620_5994517030113136073_n\"

To Peshawar, with Love. By Kirthi Jayakumar, Chennai #IndiawithPakistan via @aaodostikarein<\/p><\/div>\n

\u00a0Untitled<\/strong><\/p>\n

by Zainab K. Agha (London, UK)<\/em><\/p>\n

I wonder if you woke up today<\/span><\/div>\n
With sleep cobwebs strung through your eyes<\/span><\/div>\n
Reached out and clenched my kameez<\/span><\/div>\n
With your innocent fingers not yet a guilty adult size<\/span><\/div>\n
“I don’t want to go to school today mama<\/span><\/div>\n
I feel old and tired”<\/span><\/div>\n
And I with my weary bones laughed<\/span><\/div>\n
said “but you should<\/span><\/div>\n
“For how else will you grow up<\/span><\/div>\n
Live your dreams<\/span><\/div>\n
And mine too, love<\/span><\/div>\n
We have to reach high, higher<\/span><\/div>\n
And rise above”<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/div>\n
I wonder if you shivered<\/span><\/div>\n
In the cold December sun<\/span><\/div>\n
And I gave you a scarf and warmed you with soft kisses<\/span><\/div>\n
Promising you an evening<\/span><\/div>\n
Warm with food and fun<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/div>\n
“A few hours mama?” you asked<\/span><\/div>\n
And I nodded in promise<\/span><\/div>\n
“A few hours and you will come back to me<\/span><\/div>\n
And then both of us will Be<\/span><\/div>\n
Free”<\/span><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/div>\n
I wonder if it was even minutes and then<\/span><\/div>\n
The knock on the door<\/span><\/div>\n
And you were returned to me<\/span><\/div>\n
Your body cold<\/span><\/div>\n
The scarf -bloody- hadn’t kept you warm<\/span><\/div>\n
Your body so drowned in hate<\/span><\/div>\n
That it didn’t seem one of mine<\/span><\/div>\n
Until I spotted tiny sparks of light shining through<\/span><\/div>\n
They were my kisses from the morning<\/span><\/div>\n
And then my love I knew it was you.<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
\n<\/div>\n

Peshawar<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

by Yash Raj Goswami (Delhi, India)<\/em><\/p>\n

Gunning, into a school through a graveyard you marched
\nCould your hearts have been any less parched?<\/p>\n

\n

How ruthless that heart must have been,
\nSteeped in volumes of venom and spleen,
\nThat harboured hatred so grave
\nAs to deem killing young ones, brave?<\/p>\n

The devil today is put to shame;
\nTo his title you’ve laid your claim!<\/p>\n

The saplings which could have borne fruits sweet,
\nYou have mercilessly crushed under your cruel feet.<\/p>\n

How many more lives will have to be sacrificed before this insanity ends?
\nHow many more mothers ought to wail so that you may reap heavenly dividends?<\/p>\n

What good will be your imagined paradise,
\nBuilt out of bleeding hearts and crying eyes?<\/p>\n

With those bloody hands how will you knock that heavenly door?
\nNo God is God enough to condone such gore!<\/p>\n

No God, no dogma, no doctrine, no revered book,
\nCan ever withstand the weight of the innocent lives you took.<\/p>\n

When will you understand, O savage beast!
\nThat no piety should ever supersede humanity.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

For the day after tomorrow<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

by Syeda Samira Sadeque (Dhaka, Bangladesh)<\/em><\/p>\n

Oh you,<\/p>\n

Children of war.<\/p>\n

I promise – one day<\/p>\n

You will be remembered<\/p>\n

As a story.<\/p>\n

By the descendants of your torturer.<\/p>\n

“The last thing people are generally very good at is taking responsibility for what\u2019s going on in the world,<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

They\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

Someday soon.<\/p>\n

I promise – one day,<\/p>\n

You will be overcompensated for<\/p>\n

With adjectives and words.<\/p>\n

By a tour guide.<\/p>\n

“This is proof of how history works – or doesn\u2019t work<\/em>,\u201d<\/p>\n

They\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

Someday soon.<\/p>\n

I promise – one day,<\/p>\n

You will become a\u00a0glaring<\/strong>–staring<\/strong>\u00a0number<\/p>\n

To explain \u201cextent of atrocities!\u201d<\/p>\n

By a historian or lawyer.<\/p>\n

“This must never, ever be repeated<\/em>,\u201d<\/p>\n

They\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

Someday soon.<\/p>\n

I promise – one day,<\/p>\n

All the whispers you shared in this room\u00a0under its desks,<\/p>\n

Will be walked upon<\/p>\n

By children eager to learn.<\/p>\n

“Can\u2019t believe humans could be such animals,”<\/em><\/p>\n

They\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

Children,<\/p>\n

Blissfully-blatantly<\/strong>\u00a0unaware<\/p>\n

Of the naivete of animals and brutality of humans in reality.<\/p>\n

Children,<\/p>\n

Born on this side of the rain<\/p>\n

On the safer side of history.<\/p>\n

Someday soon.<\/p>\n

Some day in history<\/p>\n

Of day after tomorrow.<\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  On 16th December 2014, the Army Public School in Peshawar, Pakistan, was attacked by the Taliban. Over a hundred and thirty students\u00a0were murdered one by one. The principal of the school and members of the faculty were killed. A\u00a0teacher was set on fire. As Pakistan lifted itself, reeling, from the wreckage and prepared to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1936,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[360,451],"tags":[453,454,452,254],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1922"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1922"}],"version-history":[{"count":22,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1922\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2014,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1922\/revisions\/2014"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1936"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1922"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1922"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/desiwriterslounge.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1922"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}