A Cripple

Sometimes the words don't flow, but you have to write them. Its not always so easy to say something, but there are times when you feel you have to say it. Finding the words aren't easy, especially when they're tinged with raw emotion. But we have to. Its in art that we life on. If no information is ever destroyed, then hopefully the emotions that we try to convey live on in the cosmos, that someone may learn something, gather something from them, and be more compassionate than we are.

Four years ago I saw a street cleaner. I sat next to him on a bench outside a Starbucks, each of us sipping on our coffees, in our own solitude. His appeared more permanent than mine. I didn't speak to him. He finished before I did; spoke to no one, got up and carried on with his work of picking garbage up off the streets. One of his legs was slightly bent and twisted, and he walked with a limp. Some part of that brought a lump to my throat. His solitude, his lonely coffee, his disability, his line of work. A multitude of factors immersed in each other, creating a heartbreaking picture of how sad life can be. More than the sadness, his perseverance despite his condition is what brought a lump to my throat. To see a man unable to walk properly, engaged in manual labour that required him to walk an entire road, and more. To spend the better part of his day on his feet, in his coloured overalls, collecting the rubbish that we didn't have the decency to throw in the dustbins. Walking a road filled with shops, and cars, and people; people engaged in conversations, busy with life, on phones, despite his solitude. It was poetic, almost like a punishment meted out to those that displeased the gods of ancient Greece, it was ironic. I'm not one for irony though.

A few days ago I saw him again, all this time later, a reminder that none of our lives change so much. His less than mine, but seeing him, and feeling those same feelings, perhaps not so much either. Four years on, and he's still there; with the same bright uniform, the same black skin, the same wrinkles in his face, and the same limp. Still walking down the road, picking up our garbage, consigned to a life of manual labour despite himself. Maybe he's happier than I am when I see him, than the emotions he evokes in me. Maybe, but still it makes me sad. That we are all required to toil and struggle, some with handicaps, and extra hurdles. I see in him the futility and repetition of life, the universal laws that govern us all. I see in him the weakness of all that we are, our disabilities, and our lonely walk through a life overflowing with people, all walking on the same road, about their lives in their own bubbles, ignorant to the existence of others. He makes me forget to ask whether the moon is still there when no one is looking. I see in him all humanity, which sounds rather grand and delusional, but I see so much in him and he breaks my heart.

Maybe he's God, or a god, or even a prophet. Now that would be poetic. Perhaps even and angel. Maybe I see him for a reason, when everyone else just seems to carry on. Not yet possessing the voice to speak to him; to reach out and not just be another life on the road. Another being. Perhaps he can be more than my mirror. Maybe I just don't know the prayer.

The Dream

This morning I woke
From a beautiful dream,
Filled with a life
I'd never seen.
Of love, happiness,
And music so serene
No wonder then,
That I went back to sleep.

Death of a Statesmen

I don't think I've seen as many Facebook status updates from people talking about how Pakistan has gone down the drain, or how the country has gone to the dogs, as I did last Tuesday. Updates warning about the fall of civilisation in Pakistan. Condemnation and disgust. Sadness, outrage, fear. The outpouring of emotion was immense, for the death of a statesman, a governor. Salman Taseer's death was no doubt frightening, in that it showed that the extremism has infiltrated every sphere of being in Pakistan. It was scary because now we know no one is untouchable. Its one thing when Benazir Bhutto is killed by lax security measures, but quite another when the security itself is doing the killing. But its ironic, that once again, only the killing of a name matters to people. Only when someone is a celebrity, or even a pseudo celebrity, when someone is someone, that their death signifies the beginning of the end of civilisation. Only when a healthy, privileged, man or woman, who by general standards of mortality in their country have lived a reasonable length of time are the people brought to tears by the tragic robbing of the rest of it. The masses hold vigils, light candles, march on the street, dedicate articles and columns, even obituaries in western publications like the economist and financial times (no less). For surely the death of a statesmen is a forewarning to the death of the state itself. A 66 year old man selected for his post by one of the most corrupt men the country will ever know is murdered, and so is the notion of a state along with him.

Never mind that children are dying daily in that same country. But living in poverty, they have no names. They are too young to die early, and so their deaths are not tragedies of lives cut short, worthy of newspaper columns, or facebook statuses. Not even a 140 word tweet. But why do they even need a tweet; unlike Mr. Taseer they don't have their own Twitter accounts, or followers? The country itself has not gone to the dogs when the blown up limbs of innocent women and children are fed to those same dogs, because the country is not in the rural masses. It is not in the impoverished majority who have been overrun by the forces of extremist and intolerance. Democracy does not reside in the spirit of the poor, the undercast, the non-muslim, the weak, the uneducated. Morality is not theirs to defend. We shouldn't mourn the death of the village, only the knights that were sent there to protect it, or in most cases to plunder it. No facebook status updates when CNN reports that the Taliban are buying children in Pakistan for suicide bombings, or editorials of outrage. No need to claim the country back, because we have no names to print in the articles. The soul of the country is still intact when 700+ people witness a public execution in Waziristan, but the minute a successful businessman, entrepreneur, governor, and chosen representative, a favourite of one of the most corrupt families ever to grace the country, who have robbed the scant wealth of the country for their own gain, we are in need of an exorcism.

Yes, he was an opponent of the Blasphemy law, one of a very few in political office who openly did so. Every man's good deeds should be recognised, and above that, any death is a tragedy, especially a murder. But this was not the moment the country lost its soul. With his passing the floodgates to doom did not open. That happened a long time ago. It happened in the villages and towns. It happened when the Taliban restricted women's education in Pakistan. It happened when men weren't allowed to shave their beards, or people weren't allowed to practice their faith the way they wanted to. It happened when people felt that blowing up holy places was ordained by their Lord, which was different from your Lord, or anyone else's Lord. It happened when people hijacked a Prophet, who was not the same as your prophet, and then claimed he had to be protected by his own captors. It happened with the blood of the innocent weak. It happened while all this was going on and we watched. The death of a nation does not come with the death of its warriors, but with the first death of a child.