Travesty of justicle scaled up the heights. It hurts, deeply. Pellets. Serious crimes. killings. Allegations. I wonder if we’ll ever live without this sense of fear – the fear that you or your loved one will never return as they step out of the house.
There have been times when I’ve been struck by this anxiety and seized by apprehension. What if they are blown us up? What if forces burst in? Where is the nearest exit that I will be able to push my loved ones ? How can I hide them? No, it’s impossible . We shouldn’t be here. What if something happens?
I wonder. I worry.
I worry that somehow even the homes or other hospitals and cultural significance might get targeted. Nothing is sacred anymore. I worry my cultural heritage will irrecoverably be taken away from me. There are un-wanted sounds every now and then.
Targeting our loved ones with the Arrogance of power. Mockery and simply an eye -wash, which they are not sincere and it is their ploy to cool down the resentment of people. I wonder how long we will continue to hide in our own historic mother land ,where our homeland burns. After every incident, I thought it could get more worse then before, but after the spate of brutality, I learned that what’s broken can be shattered further.
The current turmoil brought back memories of 2008,10-unrest , a year that devoured 120 lives. I thought travesty of justice has scaled up the heights . I had hoped. I had prayed. The rising death toll. The call for blood donations. The full impact of the ridiculous policy. The same old condemnations and probe . The same old rhetoric. The same old statements. The same lies, Forming commissions. Ordering inquiries.
Thousands and thousands of deaths , And still counting. We have come to a point where cities are symbolic of the violence, loss and tragedy they have borne . Watching culture dying, nevertheless paradise or romantic place. But a place of disabled and dying identity Cities are no longer cities; they are signifiers and signposts of massacres. Of losses borne, of lives mourned.
These are tragic scenes in our collective identity, and cultural and social lives. Everything is a reminder of what we face. There is a distraction, but there is no relief. I am at a point where I’m not able to “Speak Up”. When a radicalisation of generation starts . But while I can shut down my social media accounts for a while, I cannot control the torment of my heart.
There are times when I want to escape my mother land perhaps not physically, but certainly emotionally. There are times I want to close my eyes, my ears, my mind and my heart to the suffering in this mother land, for my own sanity and survival. Only to realise that its suffering is inseparable from mine.
Mir Suhail student of business as well as a student activist hails from baramulla district of kashmir .