What happened at Iqbal town Lahore must have shaken up the man whose name the town bears. Iqbal the poet comes out crying from his grave with his own words.
Ho Gaya Manandi Aab Arzaan Musalman Ka Lahoo (The blood of a Muslim has become cheap as water).
Men, women, children blown up to smithereens. Each lump of flesh that goes bursting in air is a tribute to our own selves as the architects of an imaginary republic. The seed we have sown is bearing fruit. No surprise. We know we don't teach to kill an innocent, we know we mean peace, we know bloodshed is unislamic. But the way we have carried out the project of intoxicating minds can result in nothing less than this. A combustible cocktail of religion and power politics is playing hell with us and there is no escape now. Not to deny the imperial influence of the big and the mighty, the domination of the West, but the buck stops here. If they kill us, we kill ourselves and that doubles our tragedy. This `pushed-to-the-wall' theory has been a convenient – long worn-out and threadbare – excuse behind which we hide all our mental and ideological corruptions. By the way why should the world conspire against us when we are already at each others' throat. Why should our enemy lose sleep when we are our own enemies.
If there is hatred against religion, we are responsible. Let's mince no words, pull no punches to call ourselves faith-criminals who have stripped faith of all spiritual and left it to become a naked spectacle of terror and gore. This is sadism at its ghastliest.
What is happening in Pakistan – and the world over – is unimaginably devastating. But ironically it all started off with good intentions. Good, noble, sublime intentions to change the world for better. We didn't do anything, we lit a match and threw it to set ourselves to fire. The spark of self-consciousness (like an animation graphic) morphed into a massive fire of self-destruction which has engulfed us all. By the time we think of dousing the flames, we are ashes. Our shots have gone out of control and here we are – sitting on a volcano. We don't need a God to destroy the world now. He has outsourced the job to us and we are doing it honestly.
From the bombing site, charred hand of a child with tender little fingers pointing quizzically up seemed to ask. `How different are you from those pagans who would propitiate their gods by sacrificing their children'.