From a two-month old rebel
Am I witnessing the spectacle of Mourning or Militainment? Is it the celebration of death or the glorification of combat?
I see them. Conspicuously. I realize they have come for me. In mysterious darkness. In muted silence. When roads are empty. The jackboots sneak. A few stray dogs howl. A few lights flash. Now and then. Disturbing the doom that is about to blow up. Death is closing in. Slowly looking straight into my eyes. I ain't scared.
I am just a two-month old rebel. The son of the soil. Pushed to the wall. Unheard. Unattended. To be a 'rebel' is a Hobson's choice, hence. The stories of suppression supply me strength. My alienation is my ammunition. My trauma is my training. My disillusionment is my defiance.
A midget challenger, I face the huge onslaught. Of their opposition and operation. Of their might and military. And I mark their 'great day'! I become their badge of 'bravery'.
I am an 'enemy construct'. I nourish their narrative. I explain their continuation. They come for my frail body. Lay a massive siege. And take away the faked bounty. My killing embellishes the crowns of them all—of hyped counter-insurgency and callous polity.
Somewhere in my mindful fatalism, I expect to die. Any moment. My comprehension is yet not clear. That sounds hopelessly inadequate. But, ironically, my 'conviction' carries me on. I harbor no reason to retrieve. The sun finally dawns. I give myself up to the composed care of passing. Diving into the vivid worlds of 'martyrdom' and 'mortality'— both of which seem seminal and subjective.
Another night is over. Another life is gone. However, my soul still allows me to see this day. The morning of which squirms under the mammoth memory of screams and slogans. My death is widely mourned. I walk in the midst of mourners. Peek over their shoulders as they face pellets and bullets. Again. Blood. Guns. Soldiers. Dead bodies. I look on….shocked, with deluge of grief hitting me.
Am I witnessing the spectacle of Mourning or Militainment? Is it the celebration of death or the glorification of combat? I am no more. But I want you to be more. To live on. To read on. To recognize the value of life. You all, the Gen Next out there!
Tell you what, there are ways to redeem your suffering other than becoming a fodder for any military-politico complex—the nonstop killing industry replenished by certain political cohorts, intellectual pygmies, belligerent braggarts and wicked players of conflict.
Believe me, nothing is so intriguingly inscrutable here. I knew many versions of history. But their interpretation to me was served by others. I was too raw to draw my analysis. I don't want you to be led by others—Lead yourself to live for the cause, not to die for it!
My agony is same as yours. It would never leave me. None of us! I died to live. You live to die. In both ways, the brutalization is quite immeasurable. It is the vortex of vicious violence. My murmurs and musings harken me back to the world whose part I am no more. It pains. But what's more, it placates. Because my two-month rebellion biography is gripping enough to ruffle many a fact and serve as a serious reminder to those at the helm of affairs.
Before our collective memory is plagued as well as 'systematized' by another death ala mine, I dare question my understanding. I dare confront it even if it makes me cry and makes others fume. I dare challenge it though it displays unlearned lessons of annihilating past. What my "understanding" took from me cannot be an archetype for many others to emulate and get offered on the altar of sheer politics. Defeat or victory doesn't hang on the fulcrum of 'getting killed' or 'to kill'. I am a fleeting testimony to it.
I leave you there….