By Nadeem
This sound coming from the ambulances — carrying injured, dead, blind, sometimes just body parts. And this sound coming from the Police vehicles.
These are my own people being killed, raped, blinded and injured, I know. But what on God’s bleeding-red Earth can I possibly do?
Everyone knows who is being killed and why, and who’s killing who, and why. Our textbooks won’t teach us why this is happening and how to end it. Our teachers won’t teach us what to do to end this suffering and chaos. But seriously, what can I do?
Write?
I know writers who openly write about this tyranny and the next day they are on the list of ‘censored writers’ and constantly under surveillance.
I’m not brave like those writers to openly call the queen a slut. A queen surrounded by eunuchs, only concerned about her power and sexual needs. Not giving a damn about who’s dying and who’s not, yet, dying. The more she kills, the more powerful she becomes.
I’m not brave like those writers who call ‘the king’ a dull-dancing-bull. All he knows is to sing, dance and drink with girls 50 years younger his age.
I’m not brave like those who write about the corrupt politicians. These politicians, all they care about is money, sex, and their chair. They are the traders of the dead. They sell the pure, sacrificial blood and buy property abroad. I am not even brave enough to call them a zombie. These politicians romance with the oppressors and beg them for love and graciousness. They are the real whores of the tyrant oppressors.
Become an artist?
I see artists and singers making songs and art. And I see their songs getting banned, their studios raided, their paintings being burnt.
Well, I used to get A+ always in drawing classes on Fridays at school. And all my diagrams were always more accurate than others in Math B (Geometry) and Physics. I could have pursued my career as a cartoonist but they banned the Facebook page of a cartoonist after he made some fearless cartoons depicting the true scenario of our situation. He lives in exile now. I don’t see much of his work anywhere nowadays.
Be a poet?
I see poets, thousands of them, writing protest poetry on Instagram. One scroll up and the poems become the past. One reads them, likes, shares and both the poet and readers forget about it. Then the next post, the poem, and the next whatever. And, how may one read these poems when there will be another e-curfew for the next six months?
Be a journalist?
Hundreds of newspapers and magazines write so much about this mayhem. Next day, Gull Kaak artistically makes a cone and puts wet tobacco in an article written by a Harvard returnee.
Mattarwalla sells peanuts in a write up written by a famous scholar. Only Monjiguel and Masala-sellers benefit from these newspapers filled with stories about culture, heritage, alleys in 90’s and nostalgia of the past while the present and future remain in ruins. They treat the reality like it’s an ancient myth! And, yes, if you are honest, they kill you.
Photojournalist?
I’m not brave like those who risk life to cover an encounter. I see them clicking how aliens kill us, and then, they are put behind bars and their own organizations label them as terrorists.
What can I do? Become a rebel?
Those who pick up the arms are martyred within months after they leave their warm beds and start living in the caves. They are sold by their own folk for a few bucks. Honestly, I am not brave like these heroes.
Become a Police Officer?
And do what exactly? Assist the aliens in killing, abducting, blinding, and torturing my very own people? You know what I sometimes think? I think these aliens haven’t killed as many innocents as our own uniformed goons have. They are the same as the Renegades of 90's with more sophisticated license to catch and kill.
A leader?
I don’t see leaders getting arrested anymore because of their struggle and sacrifice for freedom. They are busy being interrogated about where they put the Hawala money. They receive money to help those who sacrificed their loved ones to the Movement instead of these leaders, they spend the money making Shopping Malls and Resorts, buying luxury cars and big houses.
My old parents want me to do some business and support them financially. But I see curfews and e-curfews every other day. Hell, like it’s certain tomorrow is not hartal and I can merrily go to work and bring dollars to pay bills and buy medicine for my ailing parents.
So, what can I do?
I can go to the UK and publish a Kallekharaab novel. In New York, I can publish a memoir about how this conflict ruined my life and how I became one among the ten richest people in the Valley. From London, I will post my protest poetry on Facebook. There is no internet ban there.
I applied for a passport and they didn’t issue it. I was a stone-pelter once.
I try to escape into books but these sirens make it difficult to keep concentration on the words. So I put my headphones on, close my eyes and listen to the music.
Oh, it’s Bob Dylan! My favorite!
“How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand
Yes, ‘n’ how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they’re forever banned...
…Yes, ‘n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”
Next.
Great! Our own MC Kash, his studio was raided by police after he sang this song:
“…I protest
Against the things you’ve done
I protest
For a mother who lost her son...
…I protest
For my brother who’s dead
I protest
Against the bullet in his head
I protest
I’ll throw stones and never run
I protest Until my freedom has come.”
Next.
“Al Jihad o Wal Jihad
Khuda Kay Deen Kay Liye
Ye Sarfarosh Chal Paday…”
Nope. Skip this one. This is a seasonal song — to be played in the Masjid during hartal and curfew seasons only.
God! What a depressing playlist! Don’t I have any Bollywood romantic songs in my damn mobile!
After a song ends and before the beginning of a new song- between that 5-second pause, I still hear the siren — as if reminding me that the next bullet can be in my head; I’m the next blind person with 300 pellets in my skull; I’m the next censored writer, painter, singer or the next dead body being carried away in the ambulance. Maybe then, and only then, when I am dead — these sirens won’t bother me anymore.
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