Blasted, again
27 May 2009. 10:30a.m.
Just when a semblance of normalcy seeped back into our lives, another bomb blast shook Lahore down to its roots. We heard about it on the phone. We saw it on television. We received messages of ‘be safe’ and ‘hope you are fine’. Accounts of shattered glass, dust clouds and earthquake like tremors are still pouring out from the proximity of the blast. The terrorists have struck again. Now it’s our turn to react and count lives lost.
We cannot mitigate the affects of these disasters. Each blast compounds on the memory of its predecessor and reminds us that we carry a host of similar memories within us. The city will succumb to a downward spiral of mourning again. Placards will be raised against the atrocity. A fresh pool of graves will be prepared for martyrs of chance – caught at the wrong spot and at the wrong time. All this sounds far too trite to stir emotion, but it still does, because blood spilt each time is innocent and belongs to an entirely new set of people.
The strategy of ‘the terrorists’ has been uncannily consistent for Lahore at least. They strike first thing in the morning, capture a great portion of our minds and paralyze us for the rest of the day. In a blink we are seen as pathetic, worrying vegetables as packets of anxiety huddle over our brows and fight for every inch of its space.
In its wake, the blasts leave us with a plethora of unhappy options. Some ponder over immigration laws in safer countries like Canada. Some wish to enroll with armed forces or better yet fight terrorists with their bare fists. Some sulk, tone down routine lives into abeyance, and abandon the need to laugh. And some write, to paint the ugly picture, so that the anguish within is purged and let out.
Is progress pointless? I’m afraid I don’t know.
Just when a semblance of normalcy seeped back into our lives, another bomb blast shook Lahore down to its roots. We heard about it on the phone. We saw it on television. We received messages of ‘be safe’ and ‘hope you are fine’. Accounts of shattered glass, dust clouds and earthquake like tremors are still pouring out from the proximity of the blast. The terrorists have struck again. Now it’s our turn to react and count lives lost.
We cannot mitigate the affects of these disasters. Each blast compounds on the memory of its predecessor and reminds us that we carry a host of similar memories within us. The city will succumb to a downward spiral of mourning again. Placards will be raised against the atrocity. A fresh pool of graves will be prepared for martyrs of chance – caught at the wrong spot and at the wrong time. All this sounds far too trite to stir emotion, but it still does, because blood spilt each time is innocent and belongs to an entirely new set of people.
The strategy of ‘the terrorists’ has been uncannily consistent for Lahore at least. They strike first thing in the morning, capture a great portion of our minds and paralyze us for the rest of the day. In a blink we are seen as pathetic, worrying vegetables as packets of anxiety huddle over our brows and fight for every inch of its space.
In its wake, the blasts leave us with a plethora of unhappy options. Some ponder over immigration laws in safer countries like Canada. Some wish to enroll with armed forces or better yet fight terrorists with their bare fists. Some sulk, tone down routine lives into abeyance, and abandon the need to laugh. And some write, to paint the ugly picture, so that the anguish within is purged and let out.
Is progress pointless? I’m afraid I don’t know.
posted by khiju at 11:35 PM
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