Cold-blooded Politics

wright-yemen-1200

Picture Credits: http://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/yemen-then-and-now-the-sad-chronicle-of-a-failed-state

For you, it’s like a ball,

You strike and throw it to others’ field and then wait for the strike back.

It is a football game between few world powers.

‘Oh well, it’s political’, you would say.

‘We have nothing personal in it’, I hear you add!

But all those beings, losing lives,

The mothers who lost their children,

The kids who lost their teddy bears and Moms,

The blood!

The tears!

The wounds!

The cries!

Destroyed Humanity!

Don’t you look at it?????

But aaaah why would you?? Why should you??

Because you are right…It is Actually, NOT PERSONAL!

Ooooh no, not at all!

Those dead children and mothers who are rendered childless,

Those lost kids sans their teddy bears and Moms

They do not belong to you.

IT IS NOT PERSONAL…you are right. IT IS MERE POLITICS…Cold-blooded, Fucking Politics!

In the Name of Honour (Dis)

You were,
My trust, my belief, my devotion.
Each day I lived, I lived for you,
On your terms
I carried your child in my womb
Not once I had done it twice.
I thought we could do it,
I thought we were ‘family’
I thought by entering my body You entered my soul.
I thought it was love…
And then One day,
when they told me You were enraged on something I didn’t even do
And That you would kill me I said, “no matter what, he can not kill me”.
I trusted you, ENOUGH!
That night You came to me With that look in your eyes
and I said to myself I was right and they were wrong You loved me, you wanted me…
I had let you in With warmth in my heart
I entrusted my body, my dignity, my trust,
To you, like always and yet again…
You had loved my hair…long and in the braid or So you said, often.
You encircled my neck with what you said, you loved.
Aaah, the object of your love became executed my life.
But O my murderer, my trust, my belief, my devotion
You did not murder me
It was My trust that bleed to death
My love breathed its last
And those two lives I had carried in my womb, once…withered, forever!
 
To honour the lives of those who died in the name of Honour (dis), For Fouzia—Her true story soaked in her own blood!

To the mongers of violence and war…

Do not you hear the screams of the child who just heard the series of bomb-shellings of your war planes or the blasts by your suicide bombers??
Do not you see the blood, the chaos, the lifelessness, the death??
Did not you watch the footage of the child who lost his father in one of the bombs you sent??
Did not you even have a glance of the tears of the mother when her only child was killed ‘accidentally’ by a stray bullet shot by your ‘soldier’??
Do not you see the wife of the ‘soldier’ who asks why my husband had to go to the useless war??
Do not you know that your targeted attacks kill more innocents than the culprits??
Do not you know that violence always begets violence??
Do not you know that war does not, can not and will not bring peace??

Wandering Corpse of Humanity’s Soul

Bhoro Bheel was a wanderer (khana badosh in udru), who spent all his life in Sindh, wandering from one place to another, never claiming a piece of land as his own. He was an artist who used to entertain crowds for almost no money, he died by accident and was buried in a graveyard in Sindh, but the vultures, the blood suckers, could not fathom the fact that he is resting now, in peace. They ripped opened his grave, dragged his body out of it and left it…
What had he done??
Well, he was born a Hindu and that’s a crime…he must have known that. Alas! 
I remain a wanderer, even in my death…
I was born near Indus
I took my first steps in desert
I walked from shore to shore, into the mountains, desert, pastures…
Smoked first borrowed cigarrete of my teens in sunset of Hyderabad
I fell in love near Karachi
I kissed her goodbye there
As I was a wanderer, afterall…
I found my shelter in the sky, so blue
Limitless boundaries of the land were walls of my house
I dived in waters of the divine river to take bath
I slept on the beautiful bed of sand
My hands were my pillow
I wore mud as my clothes
I wandered in my home from limitless east to west, north to south and back
But in my death I ask, “Was it my home??”
Because,
When I died..
I was dragged out of that little piece of land; I had finally found rest in
I was dragged out ruthlessly
My naked body bruised, my trembling soul scarred
I remain wandering on a merciless, strange land in my death…

Tum andhay bhi ho aur behray bhi…

Iss khoon ki holi khailtay khailtay
Kitnay hee ghar ujaray tum ney
Kitnay hee loag maaray tum ney
Maasoom bachon sey baap ko cheenna
Aur maaon sey unkey jigar goshon ko
Kis liay, aakhir??
Ik jhootii jannat key liay,  jisko kisi nay nahin deakha
Kuch paison key liay
Aur kuch na khduaon key isharay per
Kaisay tumhain kabhi bilaktay sisaktay wajood
Sonay daitay hain??
Kaisay tum aaina deakhtay ho??
Tumhain apnay khoon main luthray haath nazar nai aatay??
Kabhi tumhain bhi siskian aur aanhain sunai daiteen hain??
Nahin na…
Shayad tum andhay bhi ho aur behray bhi…

Her Last Sight…

I wonder every day, as to why the ones who orchestrate the bloodshed do not see the brutality that they inflict on humanity. They scar the already bleeding , even more…what do they want? Do they want it to die with excessive blood loss? If that’s so, don’t they know that in this death…they will die too??? 
In solidarity with hazara people, particularly the mothers, the children, in solidarity with the family of Dr. Ali Haider, who was killed on monday alongwith his little son, Murtaza Haider and in solidarity with all those innocents who are killed -out of no crime of their own- every single day, in this Land of Pures…
 
A moment ago..
The child on the shop wanted ice cream
“It is cold, you will catch fever.”
The mother dragged him away
Not listening to his wails
She kept on walking
“I want the ice cream, mom”
He, jerked free his hand and ran back to the refrigerator
Boom
The earth shook…
Storm of dust and smoke was all over
Shrieks, cries … blood
Blood was going down on her face
She called for her son
Summed up courage and raised her head from ground
Son, my son, where are you??
In the pool of blood
There he lay
Eyes shut
He moved a bit, opened his eyes…turned his head to refrigerator
And
Fell down again
And that was
Her last sight…
 
Kuch he lamhay pehlay…
Market main wo machalta bacha
Apni maan sey ice cream ki famaish ker raha tha
Uss ki maan ney
Sardi key durr sey
Bachay kii zid ko nazar andaaz ker dia
Aur jub dhamakay sey aik lamha pehlay
Bacha, maan sey haath chura ker ice cream ki fridge ki taraf bhaga
Tou aglay he lamhay jaisay aik zalzalay sey
Zameen larz gaee
Aaah-o-baqa thee
Aur khoon main lat pat lashain
Maan ki ankh ney jo akhri manzar deakha
Wo apnay bachay ka zameen sey uthta hua sir tha
Jo aik baar refrigerator ko deakhnay key liay utha
Aur phir gir gaya
Hamesha key liay…
 
Photo credits: www.asiafinest.com
hazara children
 
http://tribune.com.pk/story/509894/quetta-massacre-hazaras-agree-to-bury-dead/
http://tribune.com.pk/story/509730/hazara-massacre-protests-to-continue-until-all-bodies-are-buried/
http://tribune.com.pk/story/509898/hazara-town-carnage-sc-questions-role-of-intelligence-agencies/
http://dunyanews.tv/index.php/en/Pakistan/160315-Dr-Ali-Haider-son-laid-to-rest-in-Lahore
http://dawn.com/2013/02/19/eye-surgeon-son-shot-dead/

Pakistani Women’s Movement vs. NGO ‘Activism’…

Note: This was partly written on 12th February, 2013
So today is 12th February, another 12th February…three decades back, in the darkest times of the country’s history a group of women (more in number) and men (fewer) took the roads against the amendments in the criminal law of the land. The land and its laws were systematically Islamized under the ‘wisdom’ of a dictator, the then ruler, who changed the course of the country, for worse. But most importantly it turned the country into the most women unfriendly country of the world.
The mis-conception/mis-perceptions/dual standards with respect to women and their lives prevail all around the world, which validate that:
A man who smokes simply brings upon himself a health hazard
A woman who smokes is a loose character woman, too liberal, too modern to handle
So everything a woman does even to herself, only, becomes an implication on her family, on her husband and even on the nation and that’s around the world, irrespective of so-called west or east.
But then why to talk of Pakistan only? Because this land is one of those most unfortunate, God forsaken lands which has constitutionalized/institutionalized the woman being lesser human beings.
For instance, she is only a half witness (according to the qanoon-e-shahadat)
And the most famous Hudood Ordinances (a few would claim that it has been amended), cast the deadliest shadow on the lives of women of this land.
So while, at one hand, land of pure offers ready-made/by default designs for oppression of women ingrained in its customs and traditions, on the other hand to make it a whole these laws prevail to make sure the second grade citizen status of a woman remains intact.
Now, coming back to the topic; we commemorate this day the 12th February as symbol of women rising in the land, while at the same time we see millions of women denouncing the acts of the handful who speak out. The women’s rights movement couldn’t get the buy in by the common woman of the land. Therefore, it lacks the solidarity and support that it needs to get to the change it wants. The movement is so much detached from the grass-roots. The women rights agenda becomes rhetoric and that rhetoric, too comes to the limelight only when such days are commemorated.
The torch bearers of women rights or human rights are often outcasts, targeted by everyone in the society, most commonly terming them as NGO workers/civil society. Let’s face it today that the movements for rights have gradually become Non-governmental organizations and hence had to compromise the political angle of the whole picture along with the activism that is part and parcel of the movement. Hence NGOs formed its own parallel structure; civil society and that too very fragmented, dis-jointed and self/capitalist interest serving civil society. The activists of yesterday are consultants of today, or head of NGOs or working for UN (one of the biggest empires of the world).
Now, in this, I am not denouncing NGOs, or activists turned consultants, I am talking about the kind of work being done, which does so little to change the lives of women, or for that matter the groups they work with. And therefore, the criticism is so rightly directed, because the amount of money spent is often, do not yield the equal amount of result. Now, there are various reasons:
NGO money is not constant
The approach is project oriented rather than change oriented (so we see projects like 16 days of activism, where smaller organizations are given money by bigger organizations to commemorate the day in the name of awareness raising).
They don’t walk the talk… accountability, transparency, equality, women rights etc are shown as values in almost all the HR documents of NGOs but are hardly followed.
And also, NGOs are patriarchal, if we just have a cursory glance and seek answer to the questions as to how many NGOs are women headed, how many leadership positions are held by women (some people would say the situation is still better), and then we would need to look hard and ask, how many women actually are doing the decision-making and we will be disappointed.
So while, in theory, civil society says all the right things in the broader agenda of rights/women’s rights, they don’t really do it.
Well, I seem like an anti-NGO person, while I would just want to say that I am not. I have met some of the most wonderful people working in this sector, people who are humane and genuinely want to bring a positive change in the world, yes our breads are directly linked with prevalence of poverty and prevalence of all the above stated problems and we genuinely want to solve it, but we need to revisit what we do, we need to stop for a while and re-strategize and re-prioritise, in order to bring change we need to change ourselves first. How?
We need to walk the talk. ACT what we say! (that doesn’t mean, for instance, to start living in the huts if we are working for slums)
We need to build alternatives, we need to bring out solutions and demonstrate that other world is possible, and it doesn’t matter if it happens at the short scale. We can always begin small… And building alternatives mean doing something on the ground showing evidence, so that we can buy in the support, therefore, mere words or slogans of freedom are not enough..
We need to bring cohesion in efforts and instead of inventing and re-inventing a wheel over and over again, we should be looking at going a step ahead with each new project, we need to build blocks to get to the whole building.
We need to bring back the spirit of volunteerism
And above all, we need to connect with masses, we need to broaden the sphere of the movement and bring in the women from the grass-roots in the forefront, we need more Malalas and more Mukhtar Bibis and we need to give them real leadership roles rather than mere symbolic ones.