By: Aisha Aijaz
‘’Haspataal puhancha day yar, mujhay haspataal to puhancha day’’
‘Take me to hospital, my friend, please take me to hospital’ were my last words.
And why would they take me to hospital when they shot me like an animal. Had they considered me a human being, they wouldn’t have treated me like this. I would have been given the opportunity of proving myself innocent.
I am a 17 year old, youngest of five brothers, a matric student. I go out to a nearby park as it was unbearably hot at home without any power for the fans to work. I get involved in a scuffle at the park and one of the men pulls my hair and takes me to some uniformed men. I’m labelled as a dacoit. Six giants corner me and I plead for mercy and beg them to listen to my part of the story. I have hope that they would listen to me, probably arrest me and put me behind the bars but not in my wildest dream I have thought that they can take my life.
They are mighty and armed and I’m weak and helpless. They do not let me speak and their metallic hearts do not mould. They remember no law, no jails, no courts and of course no mercy. They find no other way to handle the situation and they shoot at me.
But why? Was I a threat? Was I armed like they were? Or did I look like them, mighty and fearless? Did I have a suicide jacket on? None of these, but yes, they were inhuman and they had weapons in their hands and I was a target to prove their bravery and chivalry.
I fall on the floor. My hope begins to fade but there is something in me that keeps me going and I beseech for help
‘Please take me to the hospital’
They keep wandering around me telling someone on the phone they have caught a ‘man’ while I exsanguinate to death. I’m helpless and slowly passing to the next world right under the nose of my own so-called ‘brothers in faith’. I am not in in Palestine, I am not in Kashmir. I am a Pakistani, a ‘La-Waris’ Pakistani, and I belong to a state whose rulers lick the boots of their western masters, whose armed forces watch their men die in drone attacks and whose law enforcement agencies strictly follow ‘jungle ka qanoon’. Yes! That’s how I define myself, ‘an orphan, lonely Pakistani’ and I close my eyes.
I die and a story comes to an end, but many stories erupt after I pass away to my Lord.
The world mourns after me. Eyes get tearful and there are screams in my house which I left a few hours ago and my dead body now lies in the lounge. The hands that rocked my cradle are up for supplication, asking for Lord’s mercy and justice. My father suffers from a heart attack and is rushed to the hospital. The people who asked the police for help in the park and told them that I am a dacoit, have disappeared and are now untraceable. An FIR is registered at the police, which tells the world that I was a robber and I was killed in a Police crossfire ‘the ever famous Police Muqabla’. Then this video appears on TV channels made by an independent cameraman covering an event in the park. So another FIR is registered with some amendments. They now say I had a 30mm bore pistol with me. This cameraman receives threats and is now running for his life. My family remains unable to register an FIR for hours after I have left you all, which is nothing but normal in my country.
Should I tell you the moral of my story?
Have someone in your friends or family who can yell and tell the people that you were killed in cold blood for no reason when your life could be saved very easily. Probably my merciless killers did not know that my brother is a reporter at a local news channel.
And, also when you move around, ask someone to keep their mobile cameras ready in case you are shot at. Because unless proven otherwise, you are a terrorist and a ‘potential suicide bomber’ like Kharotabad incident victims or dacoits like Sialkot lynch mob preys.
May Allah have mercy on you all and this land where I leave you today amongst barbarians and butchers.
Fee Aman Allah.