If Pakistan were to be given a voice, she would sing hymns of all the sacrifices that have been made for her. She would tell you that her land has been fought over by thousands of faithful, faithless men. She would tell you that she has been washed with blood and irrigated with fire. She would tell you that she has been won, fair and square, so that those that live in her can be safe. Her organs have been severed and distributed. Her heart that she calls Kashmir has been ripped from her body.
But Pakistan is a strong, resilient mother. She has been ploughing on with her life regardless of her sons and daughters drilling holes in her every day. Despite her children pointing guns at each other and planting bombs under her feet, she has lived for sixty eight long years. She does not like one son over the other; she treats each family member the same. She doesn't care if one son likes to wear a turban while the other a long beard. She doesn't tell one daughter to dress like the other. She is patient; she is kind. She lets them live in their houses of choice, whether they be under minarets or under crosses.
Her children have lost patience with each other though. They have grown so violent and hard that they have exiled each other to separate pieces of land. Pakistan is a mute; but she wishes she wishes she could speak so she could scream at them to stop fighting. Just stop fighting. I love you all the same. You all have a right to be here. Is this not what I was promised when I was ripped limb from limb? Was I not told you will all behave yourselves; that there would be peace and tolerance? Was I not told we would all live together over my land and under my roof?
Pakistan is a mute; but if she could speak she would tell you that she was torn apart by faithful, faithless men. She is a survivor. She will not surrender. She would tell you to stand strong from within so that when they come over to take her away, you can defend her. Fight for her. She would beg you to protect her. She is now sixty eight, old and weary, and she needs many hands to rub her sore joints. Pakistan is just a mother, who wants a little less smoke in the air, and a little more love.
But Pakistan is a strong, resilient mother. She has been ploughing on with her life regardless of her sons and daughters drilling holes in her every day. Despite her children pointing guns at each other and planting bombs under her feet, she has lived for sixty eight long years. She does not like one son over the other; she treats each family member the same. She doesn't care if one son likes to wear a turban while the other a long beard. She doesn't tell one daughter to dress like the other. She is patient; she is kind. She lets them live in their houses of choice, whether they be under minarets or under crosses.
Her children have lost patience with each other though. They have grown so violent and hard that they have exiled each other to separate pieces of land. Pakistan is a mute; but she wishes she wishes she could speak so she could scream at them to stop fighting. Just stop fighting. I love you all the same. You all have a right to be here. Is this not what I was promised when I was ripped limb from limb? Was I not told you will all behave yourselves; that there would be peace and tolerance? Was I not told we would all live together over my land and under my roof?
Pakistan is a mute; but if she could speak she would tell you that she was torn apart by faithful, faithless men. She is a survivor. She will not surrender. She would tell you to stand strong from within so that when they come over to take her away, you can defend her. Fight for her. She would beg you to protect her. She is now sixty eight, old and weary, and she needs many hands to rub her sore joints. Pakistan is just a mother, who wants a little less smoke in the air, and a little more love.
I like the last few lines :P
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