I wish I could do more

I do not know much about the pain one feels when one loses a limb. Whether it is through amputation or an accident, I assume that if you are conscious through the process, it must pain immensely. I have heard a lot about phantom limbs — people imagining their severed limbs are still attached while they are not. I suppose, once you catch a glimpse of the missing part of your body, it is a huge reality check of sorts. It does, after all, symbolise the vulnerability and fragility of our bodies and how easily our minds can be played with.

I do not know much about losing a loved one either. I have only lost one person who meant a great deal to me and her funeral was the only one I have teared up at.

I thought it would stay that way. And then December 16, 2014 happened.

The news of the attack came as a shock. The number of bodies, that kept piling continuously, horrified me. When the news reporters started shoving cameras into faces of mourning mothers, I could only feel disgust and anger.

Doctors and amputees talk about phantom limbs. What do parents talk about when they lose their children?

Do they go to their child’s bedroom at night to tuck them into bed, only to be reminded that their child is in a deeper, permanent slumber? Do they keep setting extra plates at the table, calling out for their child till their throats are sore? Do they still wash the uniform their child was supposed to wear the very next day, hoping that they can wash away the day itself?

How do you move on and stop mourning a life that had barely begun?

December 16, 2014 took away one hundred and sixty futures. It robbed us of the nation’s finest doctors, lawyers, engineers and politicians in the making. It blew out one hundred and sixty candles that cannot be rekindled by vigils or statuses on social media or even articles like this one.

Pakistan has been attacked, looted and humiliated in what can only be called the lowest point for all of humanity.

What are we going to do about it? Keep staring at pictures of the bloodstained auditorium till they lose meaning altogether? Keep sharing pictures of the children who have been martyred till we are forced to scroll past them without sparing a glance?

I wish I knew. I wish I could do more than attend vigils, pray and pen my thoughts on paper. I wish there was a way to understand why this attack needed to happen.

How does a man look into a child’s innocent eyes and proceed to rob them of the light that dwells inside them?

I wish I had answers. I wish I could do more.

Published in The Express Tribune, December 22^nd,  2014.

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