We have been rendered hopeless. Ours is a civilization bound in turmoil − maimed, bruised − left to rot. Our healers are desperately searching for a cure. They could have procured, and provided it to us. But weren’t allowed to venture out or even make from scratch using materials dismantled on ground. Thus, forlorn we sit and pray for an end.
When have we seen peaceful mornings or driven along the Boulevard full of mirth and ease? I don’t recall a day when my parents indulged in blissful conversations about being blessed to have children born in Kashmir.
Witnessing bomb blasts, blood, chaos, loss, and anxiety throughout years, fear has reached our depths. This fear exhibits itself as adulthood depression, xenophobia, or in extreme cases −addiction to drugs.
Non-Kashmiris don’t understand why we want true peace or a hint of normalcy. They feel being able to live in a blessed land full of rivers and mountains is freedom enough. It’s not. Because this excruciatingly beautiful cage is suffocating and emotionally draining.
We want to shake off that negative energy looming over us every time we step out to buy groceries. To enjoy quiet evenings without army alarms blaring us out of peaceful oblivion. To let our parents rest at ease when we go out with friends. And to let our children grow up in a world where coffins are not sold hotter than cradles.
The story of those three young boys, their distraught families, bathed in blood and misery, should not go unnoticed. If people outside Kashmir pay no heed to this news, probably busy thoughtlessly swigging down dazed communal cockfights, I will raise my voice to let this story be known. Eventually the trauma catches up, so let us be ready to face it together. Let the people outside know and try to, at least, act in solidarity. So that they, too, remember this day. And realizehow we let the world know about this unwelcome affliction spilling our innocent blood.
Remember we are in this together and will forever remain.
