It is easy to love a country when it has done you no harm, but for the neglected kid, loving a parent is perhaps a whole different story.
As much as I love the urge of saying things have begun to change, I keep protesting towards the end of an era of inferiority, suppression, poverty, hopelessness, deceit, and despair.
A scar stabbed over and over by any power in the arsenal that comes in handy to make it bleed worse is the reality too venomous to be engulfed. This remorse of torment of unending autumn in my province Balochistan has left no leaf, and no tree turns green.
More people are seen suffering from woes every day, worsen hours are breathed in, chocking not from food, but from hunger is witnessed every year, mourns are the new normal to come across and sorrows are seen as a familiar friend, enduring agony and being silent about it just not to create chaos is thought as a reliable asset, and surviving on basic human needs from the minimum is not even talked about.
However, I have heard people say “This decade comes forth as a challenge”, but what is a challenge for the ones who have mastered the art of suffering?
Wrapped from the beauty bestowed by nature, the ugly reality is hidden which no soul emerges to believe in. It refuses to weary me say for the hundredth time that the inhabitants of Balochistan have been asking for the things one laughs at in the year 2021 and ceases to believe that people are insufficient of these.
Asking for shelter, water, electric power, and food have vanished in the world and every country, rich or developing, growing their levels on IMF have long before provided these needs. In this vast abyss of emptiness, people strive for an answer, but all they are responded to is a denser silence.
However, for the past several bygone years, every attempt to be heard has been done, all the rules have been abided, all the foundations have been followed and solemnly accepted, each dust from the emerging steps of hopes have been chased, every door has been knocked, and all policies have been found as credence. Though the return of the responses has been the same and the await keeps getting longer with the promise of an unseen light through the end of the tunnel.
The audacity to compare my province and the shadow of an unjust it is bewitched from sinks my thoughts, but to see the lagging; one must do what one does not find the courage to in order to understand more precisely what is going on. On the chart of IMF, Pakistan does not stand but is rather loaned, heavily dependent on imports. When a country retreats to listen and ignores unemployment, education, facility, gas, and other necessary supplies in its biggest province, the results are more Balochistans.
Saddening, but cities in Balochistan are merely tools to be used under different provisions passed on a daily basis, and the natives are treated as none. For example, residents of Gwadar do not value CPEC (that the world adores) not because they are unaware of its worth, but because they get nothing from it and the thirst for the shortage of water gets harsher.
Same are the inconveniences of Pasni, and as for Turbat; its electric load shedding only progresses and people are tormented with the unpleasant weather issues. There are, however, countless examples to be followed, through which one is sadly touched, but the solutions to them are a myth.
Thus, standing still at the edge of something that has a peak sharper than a cliff, I on my half tore and crumpled paper jot this down that my pen denies being sold, unlike pens that have far earlier dimmed the lights of their hopes, mentally answered by the fact that there is no end to the tunnel and reaching the light is an impossibility. I believe, as dreadful as the fall seems, there’s always something blooming after it halts to be. These problems too shall wither away.
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