I am sick. I am terribly sick. I am terribly sick of wanton killings. I have seen too much of blood on streets. I have seen enough of mothers in mourning robes. I have witnessed so many families getting wiped out altogether. I am sick now. Every morning comes with a sad news. Each night begins on a note of desolation. Today a killing occurs. Thus follows the shutdown for a few days. Everything slides into ruin. Nothing escapes unscathed. A few days later things return to externally induced normalcy only to be followed by same ominous spell of desolation. Permit me to tell you, now I am terribly sick of all this horror.
Every time killings occur, I am reminded of the anguish undergone by a tender & sensitive heart living somewhere in Srinagar and many others of her ilk. I can visualise her turning silent all of a sudden, speaking to none, cursing her lofty ambitions. I can see her telling the newspaper guy to stop delivering them local dailies. I can see her telling her family to skip news channels. She can't bear all this bloodshed. She needs peace not this turmoil. She breaks down easily. She sobs. She cries, for she is tender-hearted & delicate. Permit me to tell you, now I am terribly sick of all this horror.
I wish this macabre dance of death and devastation to end but I know these things happened in past, happen now and will continue to happen as long as Kashmir is in the grip of Indian occupation. As long as tyranny is is here, images of half orphans, half widows, grief-stricken mothers, deserted houses, desolate streets will continue to haunt us. Permit me to tell you, now I am terribly sick of all this horror.
Will rulers at the Centre please stop talking of development, jobs and all that and bring an end to this bloody conflict that has wreaked havoc? When will it dawn upon their minds that oppression is destined to end sooner or later? What is UN there for? Don't the agonising ordeals encountered by Kashmiris stir them to action? Can't they seriously intervene into the matter instead of paying a mere lip service and that too once in a blue moon? Will they continue to act as mute spectators till nothing remains of this wretched vale? Permit me to tell you, now I am terribly sick of this horror.
Lastly, nothing comes to my mind which can serve as an apt ending to this piece except that of a few lines from Great Mehmud Darwish's poem 'Identity card ':
'I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh'll be my food
of my hunger and my anger'
(Imtiyaz Assad hails from Drussu Pulwama)