Travesty Of Justice

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By Mir Suhail

It hurts, deeply. Pellets . Serious crimes.

killings. Allegations .
I wonder if we’ll ever live without this
sense of
fear – the fear that you or your loved one
will
never return as they step out of the house.
There have been times when I’ve been
struck by
this anxiety and seized by apprehension.
What if they blows us up?
What if
forces burst in? Where is the nearest exit
that
I will be able to push my loved ones ? How
can
I hide them? No, it’s impossible . We
shouldn’t be here. What if something
happens?
What if…?
I wonder. I worry.
I worry that somehow even the homes
or other hospitals and cultural
significance might get targeted.
Nothing is sacred anymore.
I worry my cultural heritage will
irrecoverably be
taken away from me.
There are un-wanted sounds every now
and then.
Targeting our loved ones with the  Arrogance
of power.
Mockery and simply an eye -wash, which
they are not sincere and it is their ploy to
cool down the resentment of people.
I wonder how long we will continue to hide
in our own historic
mother land ,where our homeland burns.
After every incident, I thought it could get
more
worse then before, but after the spate of
brutality, I learned that what’s broken can
be
shattered further.
The current turmoil brought back memories
of
2008,10-unrest , a year that devoured 120
lives .
I thought travesty of justice has scaled up
the heights . I had hoped. I had
prayed.
The rising death toll . The call for blood
donations.
The full impact of the ridiculous policy .
The same old
condemnations and probe . The same old
rhetoric. The same
old statements. The same lies, Forming
commissions. Ordering
inquiries.
Thousands and thousands of deaths , And
still
counting.
We have come to a point where cities are
symbolic of the violence, loss and tragedy
they
have borne . Watching culture dying,
nevertheless
paradise or romantic place.
But a place of disabled and dying identity
Cities are no longer cities; they are
signifiers and
signposts of massacres. Of losses borne,
of lives
mourned.
These are tragic scenes in our collective
identity, and cultural and social lives.
Everything is a reminder of what we face.
There
is a distraction, but there is no relief.
I am at a point where I’m not able to
“Speak Up”.
when a radicalisation of generation starts .
But while I can
shut
down my social media accounts for a
while, I
cannot control the torment of my heart.
There are times when I want to escape my
mother land
perhaps not physically, but certainly
emotionally.
There are times I want to close my eyes,
my ears,
my mind and my heart to the suffering in
this mother
land, for my own sanity and survival. Only
to
realise that its suffering is inseparable from
mine.

(Mir Suhail is student of Business Student and hails from Baramulla)

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