Youth Voices

The Burning Paradise

By Hanan Asghar

The pathway stood silent and composed. The breath of icy meadows was transformed into a sky of black smoke that arose from the demolished houses and nature was witnessing the eminence of dream chasers whose ambitions were ripped off by the mighty bullets, bombs and missiles. The ground was bleeding, soil was painted red and there was a cascade that was trying to break the silence to encompass torn bodies. The constant chirp of the bird that sat on the branch of a tree overshadowed the landscape intermingled with the silence.

The damsel in the wind was complaining of the hidden beasts that have been breeding monsters with a sole purpose to put off candle. The world is bleeding and we are just helpless. There is nothing that we can do except to bear witness over the paradise trembled upon, torn down, and blown every single day. Yes, I am a coward, who is feeling the pain of people stuck in a mess, who hates to witness such scenes and feels for a child’s days of innocence; that marks up to ecstasy and lip lock curses because an egoistic leader has left them to rot in despair.

I, being the burnt paradise was sitting on my own rock and waited for the people to pass by so that I could mark the record of those people who die. Yes my joy has slipped away for the hearts that are looking forward to get healed because their fellows are bleeding. I wonder what my soil will express if given the opportunity to speak. Drops of blood fell on ground, cries of mother, worries of father, dismay of nascent child with a silent scream to bring an end to a regime…

It was the screen shot of a dream that disappeared as Maissa got scared of the jet plane that flew right above her head. A tear ran down her eye and a shiver went by her spine as her head was bleeding and bruises were hurting. She was shaking as her thoughts were trapped with the people for whom she holds a dream of serenity and peace. For a while she forgot that she herself was at “the burning paradise” and started experiencing the solitary notion that threw the ash of dream away and rubbed her knuckles into her clogged eyes. Her eyes went round the circle, from her brother, to her sister, to her mother, and finally to her father. There they were, at the side of the road, scratched, bleeding, and their best clothes torn like rags. No one spoke. There would be time enough for that. Yet they all felt it, the rising happiness and relief. They were alive, and most importantly, they were together. However, the invisible scars that silently pricked her soul will keep looking for contentment and tranquility and for her, two arms will not be strong enough to lift or support her because her wandering soul has got rotten aimlessly.

Note from the author: The Burning Paradise is written to support all those who are struggling for independent states. It depicts their emotional drainage that is governed by revolt and silent scream so that they can break the chains held by their very own people. A dedication to the people of Palestine, Syria, Libya, Kashmir, Afghanistan, Pakistan and everyone else who is observed by people all over the world and waits for a concrete action from the concerned entities.