Living Through War

Perhaps if we were less advanced a civilization these days of war would have been easier. If we were less of a global village that McLuhan predicted, we’d know little of the pains of another; if technology wouldn’t bring the devastating pictures closer to our psychology; if writers had less of a craft of visualization and symbolism; if we were less addicted to pleasure; if the theories of communication weren’t as exhaustive; If Philosophy of Science since Popper had been less clear about falsifying bad theories and if nature was less exquisite. The problem with this world is that it doesn’t allow a simple majority to believe in a limited slithering capacity of the human mind and its universe. Otherwise just a few pictures in my mind are well within the margin of an evil fate of the world.

Take for example the one painted for me in the words of Robert Fisk in the British paper, The Independent describing a girl in Iraq staring at her spilt out guts. Even that doesn’t fail to intrigue me, though it insomniates. I never knew before this, that it was possible to stare at spilt guts. I suppose, physiologically, it is meant to give the human body as much room as possible to stay alive. Alive. The significance of the world has shifted in these ten days from a beating heart to poetry. Being alive is nothing short of poetry- sometimes surreal, at times funny, melancholic and even dry. Some bundle thoughts and actions upon the empathetic tracks of their ancestors, others can soar to walk the feet of enemies.

Before this picture haunted my dares to dream, one of an old Afghani man crying in helplessness did. He came to me through the frame of the network television. A proud Pathan, who may have once prided himself in the fact that Afghanistan has never been conquered, had then fallen from dignity. The fall of dignity and a mistaken identity are two of the funniest elements of a comedy. Yet I could not bring myself to laugh. I wanted to laugh but laughter wasn’t coming. A state similar to one I faced when I was ten and my father died. I’d seen his strong body weaken in cancer, and still possibilities of wrong combinations still fascinated me. When my neighbor asked what I felt, I said something like I wanted to cry but crying wasn’t coming.

Before the Afhani old man with helpless tears, the image of a man who jumped off the tower hit in various corners of my brain, and came right behind my eyeballs at the most inopportune times. Like when I looked at a fluttering blue butterfly, his tie in the air fluttered too. His fear became mine, his ride a reminder of the foam of life’s sea. I’ve held myself responsible for the attacks on September 11th 2001. I know that because even today when I walk through a crowd, I peek from my downward gaze to see if someone is pointing at me and yelling I’m one of them. When I speak I hear my own fear tremble in expectation that I will be recognized as a Pakistani Muslim. This clashes with my country’s pride. Pride that I’ve built brick by brick all alone in an anti-Pakistani environment. And that is why I speak each time I do over the noise of my frightened heart. Comically, I can see how it could be amusing. Both, my fall from dignity when a class-full of people stare at a tabular representation as Pakistan in the top few of the most politically unstable nations of the world, or when its categorized as a Totalitarian Secular Military country; and also with the mistaken identity. I can see how its all funny, but laughter isn’t coming.

But the world doesn’t let me sulk too long. Soon I step into the light and see that’s its best if I take charge over what I can control- myself- and be part of the progress rather than the destruction.