Pain is very personal
A few brief glimpses -- among hundreds of thousands more -- from the camps inhabited by people now called internally displaced
By Naeem Safi
Pain--has an Element of Blank--
It cannot recollect
When it begun--or if there were
A time when it was not.
Emily Dickinson
Pain is personal -- a deep, dark emptiness -- may be some part of which can be traced in the blank eyes of those who are feeling it. But that is the thing with feelings -- it is hard to express the best and, unfortunately, the worst with words. It's beyond the faculty of language. No wonder observing a few minutes of silence is the best way for nations to express feelings.
Can one write about the blankness in the eyes of a mother from Swat who has left the dead body of her husband on a bed behind locked doors, and fled the area with her children to survive -- physically, of course. She, carrying the newly acquired title of the widow… Can all the gory metaphors really make one feel what the children, women, and men of Swat are actually going through?
What words would you choose when you meet an old man, who is bent down with age, carrying his entire refuge in a plastic bag on his shoulder, empty gaze fixed on earth and mouth slightly open with fatigue, with rubber slippers that are stitched together with multicoloured threads, dragging his feet which have become one colour with dust, as if the dust is slowly taking over his body.
"We were 17 in total when we left Chinärgè," Muhammad Zaman, 73, narrates, "but at Barikot we realised we were walking through a curfew zone. Everyone around us panicked and ran for their lives in the mountains to hide from the army... It was late at night, when I climbed down to Dargai with strangers, and then walked all the way to Mardan in the hope that I might find my sons, Munir and Nazar Hussain, among the crowd. Spent a night there and came back to Jalala. It's been four days and I'm still looking for them."
A very old man handed over his two granddaughters to some strangers, pleading to take care of the little girls -- for God's sake. If this is not the only case, then the history of the lost children of Balakot might be repeating.
A family left a boy, who had polio, back in the valley inside their locked home, because they had to cross the mountains on foot. They left some dry bread and water by his side. Now the mother is a living dead, praying for his life but with very little hope.
These are just a few brief glimpses. There are hundreds of thousands more. One does not even have to use one's imagination to lose it. It takes thousands of years for cultures and cultural landscapes to develop. These IDPs are the victims of pride.
The damage done to a people and a culture is irrecoverable, but no one seems to be aware of that. The government is asking for more from the donor countries, but the majority of IDPs and their hosts yet have to see the first sign of any government presence. On the other hand, the government is refusing to acknowledge the total failure on its part for not being able to plan things properly. It still has to own this mess along with everything that is going on. Even the All Parties' Conference was just another drawing room meeting, some participants denying the government's announcement of their support for the military operation. It is not surprising that the overwhelmed locals and volunteers in Mardan, Charsadda, and Swabi find it hard to believe that the government was not aware of the scale of the catastrophe. Chomsky has rightly observed, "Hypocrisy is the standard. It's ugly, but it's the standard."
The media has got something new to sell. The TV channels are feeding their huge 24-7-transmission bellies, and some even have the courage to make skits on the scarcity of naswaar in Mingora. TV talk shows are a good pastime. And an FM radio correspondent, reporting about the plight of pregnant IDP women in Mardan, thinks it would be a good idea to add, "…and since khan saab is seldom satisfied with fewer kids, so we have a lot of such pregnant cases here." After all, it's all about entertaining the audience.
And the audience, in this theatre, is playing its role. There are stalls on every other crossing, with loud speakers screaming and banners showing in big bold letterings the names of the 'concerned' individuals and organizations.
If it were not for the people of the immediate districts that absorbed the major load of the IDPs, the world would have witnessed a disaster of much greater proportions than what it is coping with now. The locals are mostly farmers living in farmhouses. They still have not shown any sign of displeasure or fatigue to their guests. But they too fear the time when there will soon be no grain in their stores.
It is true that some of people supported the Taliban. But regardless of the time and the context, has not movements throughout history gained sympathies of a few common men? Masses are like a herd of sheep, they will cheer and dance if ushered towards a sports festival, and will support any gun that promises a better future (and is frequently pointed at them). May that promise come from a red banner, a green banner, a white one, or the bright blue; along with them -- no God, one God, or more than one gods, there will always be a few to follow them.
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Published in The News on Sunday
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