MURDER IN ZAMAN PARK
Feryal Ali Gauhar
This year, Spring did not come to the city of my birth, Lahore. Yet, in Zaman Park, the sumbul and chirri chonch have bloomed, setting the sky on fire. This year, the fragrant bur of the mango trees flowered earlier than usual, portending a long, stifling summer. Yet, there is a chill that falls every time the intent of murder is repeated, from one fearful mouth to any listening ear. This year, the lungs of my city are choked with dust and despair, yet the hearts of men and women are full of hope as they stand, shoulder to shoulder, vowing to protect the man who has captivated the imagination of millions in this, my beloved, blighted country.
I am now amongst these people, ordinary men and women who dared to dream of a society free of injustice, free of corruption, cleansed of malice towards the weak, strengthened by a sense of self-worth, unhampered by the machinations of intrigue and insidious agendas empowering tyrants, emasculating truth. I am now one of these people, pushing forward in the face of gross injustice, a fractured polity, broken economy, the blatant, brazen crushing of democratic dreams. I am one of these people, ordinary sons and daughters of this soil, fighting through the shelling of poisonous gas, choking back the tears, breathing despite the rank air of contempt and fear which surrounds the operation to put out the fire that blazes now.
I am one of these people, facing the wrath of an embittered, emboldened dispensation which is neither civil nor military, for even in war there are conventions.
I am one of these people who run into the side lanes, into the open driveways of neighborhood houses, running towards the drums of water where others like me wash out venom from our eyes and throats and lungs. I am one of the women who cry out that my skin is burning, do not go near the water cannons, the water is toxic, I am one of the people who run back and then forth again, into the eye of the storm, believing that this moment in history is one which will live for both the ignominy of a fearful regime, and for the courage of ordinary sons and daughters who stand up for the dream of a just society.
I am proud to be one of those people, for even if they come tonight, in the dark of night, to take away our dreams, they will not prevail, for dreams live forever, while we can choose to awaken from the nightmare of seventy-five years of rape and plunder, lies and lassitude, murder and mayhem. The air is thick with noxious fumes, but there is also the admirable energy sparked by the courage of a people who have stood up to protect that dream. I can hear the shelling of tear gas as I run for safety, gasping for breath, grasping the moment for what it is: a war by the state against its nation, nation-wide, until good shall prevail over evil, until justice protects the law, and the law protects justice.
We push forward again and again. Young men from Swat and Swabi, old men from Shalimar and Shahdarah, women declaring that they are ready to give their lives to protect their leader. Before us stands the apparatus of a shameless edifice propped up by the false courage of cowardice. We continue to press forward; the sky bursts with the firing of shells and canons. From our ranks, we cry out Allah o Akbar in response to the call for Takbeer. We continue to push against this malevolent dispensation, we continue to fight for the right to live in a just society, free of fear, free of hunger.
As I write this my eyes are burning, the tears flow freely, for I am witness both to the birth of an undying dream, and to the greatest murder of all: the murder of the aspirations of the people of this land, the murder of a path towards a society free of want and wanton greed… tonight, on the eve of the Ides of March, I am witness to the murder of democracy.
Zaman Park, Lahore
March 15, 2023
2:30 am
Feryal Ali Gauhar
This year, Spring did not come to the city of my birth, Lahore. Yet, in Zaman Park, the sumbul and chirri chonch have bloomed, setting the sky on fire. This year, the fragrant bur of the mango trees flowered earlier than usual, portending a long, stifling summer. Yet, there is a chill that falls every time the intent of murder is repeated, from one fearful mouth to any listening ear. This year, the lungs of my city are choked with dust and despair, yet the hearts of men and women are full of hope as they stand, shoulder to shoulder, vowing to protect the man who has captivated the imagination of millions in this, my beloved, blighted country.
I am now amongst these people, ordinary men and women who dared to dream of a society free of injustice, free of corruption, cleansed of malice towards the weak, strengthened by a sense of self-worth, unhampered by the machinations of intrigue and insidious agendas empowering tyrants, emasculating truth. I am now one of these people, pushing forward in the face of gross injustice, a fractured polity, broken economy, the blatant, brazen crushing of democratic dreams. I am one of these people, ordinary sons and daughters of this soil, fighting through the shelling of poisonous gas, choking back the tears, breathing despite the rank air of contempt and fear which surrounds the operation to put out the fire that blazes now.
I am one of these people, facing the wrath of an embittered, emboldened dispensation which is neither civil nor military, for even in war there are conventions.
I am one of these people who run into the side lanes, into the open driveways of neighborhood houses, running towards the drums of water where others like me wash out venom from our eyes and throats and lungs. I am one of the women who cry out that my skin is burning, do not go near the water cannons, the water is toxic, I am one of the people who run back and then forth again, into the eye of the storm, believing that this moment in history is one which will live for both the ignominy of a fearful regime, and for the courage of ordinary sons and daughters who stand up for the dream of a just society.
I am proud to be one of those people, for even if they come tonight, in the dark of night, to take away our dreams, they will not prevail, for dreams live forever, while we can choose to awaken from the nightmare of seventy-five years of rape and plunder, lies and lassitude, murder and mayhem. The air is thick with noxious fumes, but there is also the admirable energy sparked by the courage of a people who have stood up to protect that dream. I can hear the shelling of tear gas as I run for safety, gasping for breath, grasping the moment for what it is: a war by the state against its nation, nation-wide, until good shall prevail over evil, until justice protects the law, and the law protects justice.
We push forward again and again. Young men from Swat and Swabi, old men from Shalimar and Shahdarah, women declaring that they are ready to give their lives to protect their leader. Before us stands the apparatus of a shameless edifice propped up by the false courage of cowardice. We continue to press forward; the sky bursts with the firing of shells and canons. From our ranks, we cry out Allah o Akbar in response to the call for Takbeer. We continue to push against this malevolent dispensation, we continue to fight for the right to live in a just society, free of fear, free of hunger.
As I write this my eyes are burning, the tears flow freely, for I am witness both to the birth of an undying dream, and to the greatest murder of all: the murder of the aspirations of the people of this land, the murder of a path towards a society free of want and wanton greed… tonight, on the eve of the Ides of March, I am witness to the murder of democracy.
Zaman Park, Lahore
March 15, 2023
2:30 am
