PSG are still involved in the Champions League in what could turn out to be the club's finest ever season
football9 hours ago
In the epicenter of terror, I dwell. But I am not just a fortunate breathing being; mercifully, my whole body is intact as well — I have not yet gone lame, maimed, blind or deaf.
Miraculously, I never boarded a bus that blew up with a big bang, sending many into eternal slumber. I had just gone past the place that witnessed a gun-and-bomb attack, causing numerous casualties. I could not make it to the very rows of a Friday congregation that had a suicide bomber in its midst.
And, thank God, I live hundreds of miles away from the mountainous tribal region in my homeland otherwise a murderous missile fired from a deadly drone might have already knocked me into nothingness.
Death and destruction are rife in my part of the world. It’s where cries of death abound, stench of rotting human flesh hung and streams of blood flow. But in what may have been a fruit of my mother’s prayers, I still don’t figure among those 40,000 innocent countrymen of mine who have lost their lives to the vicious violence that occurs as frequently as the newspaper hits my balcony.
There are safe havens for those inflicting the brutal bloodshed, but none for those on the run from it. Difficult to mention is a place on my once-peaceful abode, which is free from the horrors of terror. Sheer luck, I am still not among the dead!
But how long will the lady luck keep smiling on me? How often will the blessings be on my side! Maybe some day, I don’t have the fortunes to miss the bus that has a bomb fitted to it. There may be a day when a drive-by grenade attack fails to find the man sitting beside me at a roadside hotel, and targets me instead. One fateful day, I may chance to spare some time off work to make it to a shopping centre, only to meet the angel of death in the garb of a suicide attacker.
With sections of the clergy endorsing the radical ideology claiming to represent the mainstream faith, and many a politician standing for the reckless radicals, the game of death continues unabated — and with diehard conviction.
And here I stand, weak and vulnerable to the beastly acts — a goner, waiting for my turn to fall to the horrific hostilities committed in the name of religion or on the pretext of reacting to a flawed foreign policy.
To the divine death merchants, I am infidel and, therefore, deserve the terror treat. My fault? I don’t side with these holy warriors against their enemies that are comprised of my very own rulers and the rulers of the world, the superpower to be exact.
Conversely, those I am said to be siding with are no refuge either. In fact, their attempts at banishing the bogey of terror have only served to push me further down the morass.
My rulers — both civilian and military — have failed to fulfill their foremost duty of ensuring me life security. For them, the choice is between their terror-stricken subject and strategically important territorial depth. While my uniformed custodians opt for the latter, the civilian ones can’t dare challenge them.
For the superpower too, the death of nobody like me makes no great shakes. After all the super-duper state has to perform the moral duty of ridding the world of the menace of terrorism, and mine is just a small sacrifice in pursuit of the big cause.
Of the rest in so big a world, nobody cares a fig about me, with most believing that I and my countrymen are getting the taste of our own medicine, and lots of others calling us a part of the problem, rather than the solution.
Who shall I, then, look up to? Are there any saviours out there? Anyone who could help me with the rising tide of terror… with the raging fire of death? Anyone around to heed to my call? For God’s sake listen to me… get this bloodbath halted… I want to live on!
Syed Asif Ali is a Karachi-based senior journalist
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