Is there a way?!?!

Well, this one is an essay written by my brother about the current situation in Pakistan...He's just 17 year old and it is interesting to gauge how a 17 year old teenager is reacting to the current dire situation in Pakistan...There might be spelling mistakes and/or grammar mistakes but it's a good effort :)

IS THERE A WAY?

I sit in front of the television and watch the steady stream of news. What was 15 is now 25.The death toll skips up, and the reporter mentions it with nonchalant casualness.Outside, sirens roar. A deathly silence overshadows the streets of Islamabad. It’s a cold and miserable night. I start to wonder about those dead, and can’t help but imagine the horror they would’ve felt upon coming across a terrorist. The sheer helplessness they would’ve felt, just before they would’ve been ripped to pieces. What would’ve been their last thoughts?

Today, deep in thought, I realize that my life, and indeed those of other Pakistanis, is not in my own hand. Its spiraling out of control.Today, I realize that not only is my life hanging on the press of a button, it’s in the hands of a crazy fanatic. They say fate, destiny has been predecided.Today, I can’t help but wonder, my fate is just a minefield.Today,I might be lucky,tomorrow,I might step on a mine, and even If tomorrow I live to see the sunrise, the chances that I survive the minefield are slim. What should I do then? Wait for the mines to blow up themselves? Sit comfortably home and let it all pass?

Somehow, both of these options sound right and wrong at the same time. Somewhere, in my mind, a cautious voice tells me to keep myself safe at all costs. Let them do what they want to. Let the bullets fly. Let the blood fall.Afterall, it’s not mine, is it? Why should I worry then? Why should I care?

At the same time, a ferocious, almost fanatical voice urges me to get out of my house and Fight. For my own safety. For my rights. This is my land. And these are my people. I should, rather, I must care. For 62 years, my people have stood in the way of bullets. For 62 years, they have fought, been injured, and killed, to ensure my own safety. What kind of a payback am I giving them by sitting at home; standing at a safe distance and observing the nation that they built for me crumble to pieces?

I get out of my house and watch the hordes of people pass by; I can’t help but notice their facial expressions. Each one carries a montage of panic on his face. Each one is lost in his own world. In between, someone falls to the ground. Everyone passes by, merely glancing, and slowing their pace momentarily, before briskly turning and getting lost into their thoughts again.


The sirens roar and the ambulances rush by as I stand on the road, Lost in my own thoughts like everyone else. It starts to rain. Which makes everyone hurry some more. I don’t know what I want to do anymore. All of a sudden, maybe because of the rain, or the deafening silence, or the sirens, I feel terribly depressed. My heart sinks, and I feel helpless. I look for something to do. To help, somehow, to make it better. Failing at doing so, I sit down, feeling appallingly powerless. How I would give anything right now to make it better myself. How I would love a gun right now to gun down each and every one of those fanatics. The urge is overwhelming.

Suddenly, it hits me. I recognize that I'm not the first one to feel this urge. My emotion, however overwhelming is the result of a single blast. My mind travels to Northern Pakistan. And I begin to imagine the scenario there. Here there is no suicide blast. The silence is still dominant. From the sky, a barrage of rockets comes and blows away nearly the whole street. There are pleas for help; there are screams of pain, and helplessness everywhere. Somewhere, a motherless child cries. From the rubble a little girl emerges, soaked in blood. From another corner, a father emerges, holding a lifeless daughter in his hands.Somewhere else; a man utters a last cry and welcomes death. The little girl cries for a while and then faints. Yet another air strike turns rubble to dust. A fire starts, and this time, no siren heads towards it. The blood flows; I can actually see it .I turn around and see a child on the pavement near me. He is relatively unharmed, and I move towards him. For a moment, just gazing into those blue eyes, makes me forget everything that’s gone wrong. This is for a moment only though, a single bullet rips through the air and hits the child square in the chest. This time however, I do not wish for a gun, I have it in my hands, and I swear to gun down and wound everyone who’s responsible for this.

Back in the street, I can’t help but think who’s right and who’s wrong.Us, for letting them being bombed and killed, or them for fighting back? Us for staying silent while they died or them for making their opinions heard? Them for resorting to violence or us for fighting in retaliation?

I realize that Pakistan is suffering, not because its inhabitants have chosen to fight, but because they’ve been forced to, by Americans, and by every other nation pretending to be a moderator of peace. Every Pakistani is fighting for his own reasons, against the wrong people. We’ve been wounded internally, with a wound that is affecting the whole body drastically.


It dawns upon me that the enemies of the nation have already achieved what they wanted to. Gone is the trust that kept everyone together. Gone is the blatant desire to help everyone else in need. Not only are they succeeding in ripping the nation apart from the outside, they’ve crippled it from the inside. Today, in the silent darkness, I admit, for the first time, I’m scared. For the first time, I’m not happy because college’s closed.Im not happy because I have all the time to play that latest game, or to play as much soccer as I want. I’m scared, because they’re winning and we’re losing. Because they’ve stolen that trust, and left us crippled. Because I’m on the losing side. And since for the first time, I cannot enjoy that in the blissful ignorance of childhood, I’m worried at what’s about to
come.

Back inside, I switch on the television. They’re broadcasting the funeral of one of the numerous soldiers martyred in one of the numerous clashes today. I’m surprised to see the amount of people gathered there. There’re literally hundreds of them. All of them united in grief. In sharing the loss with those related to the soldier. I scan the faces, searching for those related to the martyr, but fail to find them. Each face is contorted in sadness, each having a strange similarity to the other. I can’t help but notice, there’s a bizarre unison in the crowd.

I am about to switch off the television when I hear a shout of “Pakistan Zindabad!” from the crowd. At first, it’s just a person’s voice. Soon, the voice turns into a shout and the shout into a roar. A moment later the, whole crowd is following with feverish intensity. Even though I am a hundred miles away, I find myself mouthing the words. Even though I don’t even know the name of the person martyred, I find myself grief stricken. Even though most of those joining the chant don’t know the age or rank of the soldier, they are all united. By the ropes of passion, and patriotism.

It is amidst this moment of passion, that I find myself concluding, we still have a chance. We as a nation are no different to a human body. We have been cut. But to survive, we have to stick together, and clot those wounds that are edging the life out of us. Only If we can do that, then maybe, just maybe, we can come out of this mess unharmed, not only a single country, but a single nation.

I raise the volume of the television, and allow the chants to pierce the heavy silence of the night. There is a way, I think, and I smile.


“Pakistan Zindabad!”