Lamenting Scars of the Soul – A rejoinder

Sometime back, I narrated a real story that carried in itself the hidden cries of a young woman, Yasmeen (who once worked in our house as a maid), the cries she tried to hide. But there were times that when her anguish could be visibly seen and felt. She would invariably break down and cried in front of my wife. Although my wife would cajole her and try to comfort her, it was she alone who was to bear the grief and sorrow that befell on her and her family on 8 October 2005 – the day a powerful earthquake struck the northern areas of Pakistan. Her lamenting tale was but one of the many such heartbreaking realities that still echo in the valleys and villages where life is now returning to normal.

We had hardly recovered from the shock of that dreadful earthquake, that yet another calamity fell on us last July. Though far less deadly (in terms of human losses) than the earthquake, it is far more devastating in terms of damages to communication infrastructure, houses and buildings. Other than that, it has affected over 20 million people all along the length of the Pakistan from the north till the southern edge of the country at the mouth of the Arabian Sea. Of the over 20 million people that have their fragile houses washed away along with their lifelong possessions, are some six million children whose laughter has also been drowned in the ravaging muddy flood waters.

Recently I heard a story of a boy who saw his house crumble like a pack of card right in front of his eyes and then vanish forever. Riazuddin, a boy of around 10-111 had a one room house on the bank of Swat River before the July floods, where he lived with his parents happily. He played with other children of the area, threw pebbles in the river and brought water for domestic use. Life had been happy for him since he was born. Though very poor, he was happy like any other child, always hopeful of the future and had fewer expectations from life. He didn’t have many possessions as a child, but a bat and some other broken toys he collected from the garbage.

Then July 2010 came. There have been unusual rains and he along with other children bathed in the rains and made merry. But at the same time, the water in the river started to swell and rise. He heard his father saying that the river seems to be in floods. Then the otherwise clear water of the river started getting muddy and muddier with its level rising very rapidly. But no one had any idea how wicked it would turn into. Soon the water was touching the brims of its banks, but little Riaz’s one room house was still a few feet higher. The night came but the roar of the gushing water made everyone sleepless. From a friendly river since his childhood, the river had become monstrous. He along with his father went out and saw the foamy water was almost touching their door. Alarmed by this development, his father ordered everyone out and with all they could grab, they left the house and moved to the higher ground above their house. And then it happened. The water became more violent and soon Riaz’s house was inside the water and the very fast current pounding on all its sides. Right in front of his innocent eyes, suddenly his house gave in and crumbled like a pack of cards and in seconds was washed and eaten away by the river – leaving none of its traces back.

For Riaz, it was as if his best had been lost. A friend, who nurtured him, protected him and his family from weather hazards since he was born, and perhaps was his best childhood friend. With the house, his bat and broken toys were also washed away – leaving him nothing but the memories of the good days. Today, he lives in a tent village, hoping to get back one day, where his father may rebuild the house once again. But his toys will never come back. And he will remember the days before the floods and the flood day that took his dreams away.

This is just one story – there are countless stories of similar kinds buried in the hearts of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and husbands, who lost their near and dear ones. Though they continue to live on, the scars of the soul will never be healed for God knows how many years.

Related Reading: Lamenting scars of the soul

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Don’t Ever Lower Your Guard

Today was a very sad day for the people of Pakistan in general and residents of Rawalpindi / Islamabad in particular.  The terrorist attack on the mosque in one of the most secure and sensitive areas of the cantonment, that left almost over 40 dead was hair-raising and tragic. Soon after the incident, my telephone started ringing, and news of friends, and their children who fell prey to the attack started pouring in. With tears falling, I heard each news with a very heavy heart – I knew some personally or some were known to my children. A young man hardly in his early 20s, who played cricket with my sons last Saturday, did not come back alive. A “Hafiz-e-Quran”, who perhaps was a better Muslim and a follower than those who claimed to be Muslims killing the less-Muslims.

One of the fallen child welcomed his father who just arrived from Hajj today – perhaps the father asked for something big for his family in Allah’s Home at Makkah and Allah rewarded his blessed son to Heavens – what else could be a better reward and answering of the prayer?

There would be countless anecdotes today to be told, shared and remembered – of the assailants, of the fallen and by those who survived.  But like all other previous attacks, the scars on the souls would take a long time to heal – mothers lamenting death of their sons, brothers and sisters crying for their siblings, sons and daughters remembering their fathers and wives secretly shedding their tears for they lost their bread earners and the life partners today.

But if we sit back and ponder why this happened – the only things comes to my mind – when one is in the boxing ring, the moment one lowers one’s guard, one gets the fatal blow that knocks one out.  What happened today was an act of lowering of guards and allowing the faithful to come and attend the Friday prayers – not realizing that in present times, there are a few who don’t come to pray but to PREY. And the lowering of guards just provided them the right kind of opportunity to knock out dozens with just one blow.

So please don’t lower your guards – ever.

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The Lamenting Scars of Soul

I write this new post with a very heavy heart as it carries in itself hidden cries of a young woman, Yasmeen ( who happens to work at our house), which she tries to hide but when she cannot anymore, her anguish can be visibly seen and felt – but its only her who bears the grief and sorrow that started on 8 October 2005.

She was happily married with two cute doll like daughters aged 5 and 4. She lived in a small mud house somewhere near Balakot. She loved her husband and he loved her too or so to say. On that fateful day, when her husband had had his breakfast and went out for work, she cooked chapattis for her daughters and asked them to come and eat. But the elder one refused as she wanted “paratha (chapatti greased with ghee or oil” – seeing her elder sister, the smaller doll also refused to eat plain chapatti and insisted on having paratha as well. The poor mother, who couldn’t afford the luxury, refused. Both dolls, then boycotted the breakfast and went inside the house protesting. And it was 8:55 AM. Suddenly the entire landscape too grumbled as a protest and like everyone else, her house also collapsed on her two young siblings. The heartbroken mother ran to the rubble and tried to dig out her daughters – but they were to be no more. They were there lying sound asleep – no more wanting to eat parathas. Yasmeen cried in pain, but her daughters could not awake.

Having buried her daughters, she thought the ordeal was over. But it was just the start. Yasmeen’s mother came and took her grief stricken daughter with her, with the permission of Yasmeen’s husband, so that she gains control over herself. She in fact was mentally shocked over her loss and wanted a break from the scene of tragedy and get to gather herself. But her husband, who got the wind of her partial nervous breakdown, could not wait any longer and one day sent her the divorce.

I am not a good writer to put together the true agony and the suffering of this young woman but every few days, she talks to my wife telling her two she badly missed her home, her daughters and the man she thought loved him. Just today she told my wife that she dreamt having seen her daughter last night who was asking as to why she was sad and morose since you are living with your mother. Look at me who is away from you……..

Life for Yasmeen is not and will not be same again – although her mother is trying to marry her off once again, but the memories the day which scarred her life for ever, would always haunt her. This is just one story – there are countless stories of similar kinds buried in the hearts of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and husbands, who lost their near and dear ones. Though they continue to live on, the scars of the soul will never be healed for God knows how many years.

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