Be counted.

by Makola

They are treating you like a mere statistic anyway.

Quetta May 17, 2011. – Photo by AFP

 

His name was Sarfaraz. He was killed. They shot him. But his hand was raised.

Her I don’t know. She was killed. They shot her. But her hand was raised.

She was killed before him though. The newspapers tell us she was carrying a child. They thought she was a “terrorist”, so they got rid of her. Infront of a mosque. A mosque, for God’s sake. But she was innocent, they tell us later. And so, she is forgotten.

Him I don’t know about. The reports will come. He’s innocent, I can feel it in my bones. Why? Because I’ve seen this happen so many times. It’s a story we all know who has written and how it ends.

Wake up Pakistan. Your people are dying. You are dying. This isn’t suicide though. It’s murder. Or maybe it’s both because your death is killing others.

It kills me. See the gash on my heart. See it. Don’t avert your gaze. Strange at how you can ogle at the flesh of strange women yet cannot bear to see the truth stripped to the bone.

And Pakistan bleeds. Obviously.

So you there. Yes you with the identical gash on your heart. Raise your hand before they kill you or you kill yourself. Be counted.

And all this time I was thinking of what this reminds me of

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