Dear Kenya, Be strong
At least 147 students were massacred when Somalia’s Shebab extremist group attacked a Kenyan university on April 2
The writer is a 19-year-old medical student dedicated to creative writing and poetry
Dear Kenya,
I wish I didn’t have to tell you to be strong. I wish I wasn’t in the position to tell you that I’ve been where you are and the scars and wounds that you’ve been left with will take a long time to heal. I hope you can find it in yourself, in your people, to rise.
You were robbed of 147 futures. There seems to be something about that number. One hundred and forty-seven families will be in mourning for the longest time. I should know, the ones I house, still are.
We are haunted by the same ghosts. We carry the burden of 147 lives. We carry the burden of their families and their loss. As much as I wish we didn’t have to, we carry the burden of exacting justice.
The blood that has been shed on your soil is the same that was shed on mine. The lives that have departed were the same as the ones I lost. The ambitions and dreams that will never reach fulfilment, the laughter that will never be heard again, the voices that will echo and resound in all your streets — they are all the same.
The words ‘we all bleed red’ are more than just a hashtag. Distance will never matter when precious blood has been shed. There are certain instances, certain events that bind strangers, regardless of race, ethnicity and religion. Unfortunately, this is ours and you and I know that we will truly never forget the day we were maimed in an unimaginable way.
It takes a lot to rise after something like this, especially when you feel like there is radio silence all around. I am with you, Kenya. Your loss is my loss, just as my loss was yours. We are sisters in pain, tethered by a thread of utter and complete sorrow. We are wounded animals, Kenya. We are lions that have been robbed of their cubs. We are soldiers that have been bled, hacked and cut up. We are warriors that have been inflicted with one of the worst forms of torture. We are families that have been left to look at bullet-riddled bodies. We are one. And we will rise.
I hope you find the courage to fight back. I hope your families are granted patience and strength. I, myself, am recovering from one of the darkest days in my history. They will write ballads about this day. They will have vigils, they will write about their grief. They will mourn, they will wail. They will slip into denial, depression and whatever else it takes for them to cope. Some will forget, but you won’t. I speak from experience and I wish I could say that I can’t imagine what you’re going through.
Words will not make this better. Songs and ballads won’t heal the gashes that have been embedded in your soil. Vigils won’t ease the pain. No amount of tears that have and will be shed will soften the hearts of the beasts who took a part of you. Nothing will heal this wound, except time. Time will bring alongside tolerance and, hopefully, justice. Till then, stay strong, Kenya. Stay strong and never forget.
Love,
Pakistan.
Published in The Express Tribune, April 7th, 2015.
I wish I didn’t have to tell you to be strong. I wish I wasn’t in the position to tell you that I’ve been where you are and the scars and wounds that you’ve been left with will take a long time to heal. I hope you can find it in yourself, in your people, to rise.
You were robbed of 147 futures. There seems to be something about that number. One hundred and forty-seven families will be in mourning for the longest time. I should know, the ones I house, still are.
We are haunted by the same ghosts. We carry the burden of 147 lives. We carry the burden of their families and their loss. As much as I wish we didn’t have to, we carry the burden of exacting justice.
The blood that has been shed on your soil is the same that was shed on mine. The lives that have departed were the same as the ones I lost. The ambitions and dreams that will never reach fulfilment, the laughter that will never be heard again, the voices that will echo and resound in all your streets — they are all the same.
The words ‘we all bleed red’ are more than just a hashtag. Distance will never matter when precious blood has been shed. There are certain instances, certain events that bind strangers, regardless of race, ethnicity and religion. Unfortunately, this is ours and you and I know that we will truly never forget the day we were maimed in an unimaginable way.
It takes a lot to rise after something like this, especially when you feel like there is radio silence all around. I am with you, Kenya. Your loss is my loss, just as my loss was yours. We are sisters in pain, tethered by a thread of utter and complete sorrow. We are wounded animals, Kenya. We are lions that have been robbed of their cubs. We are soldiers that have been bled, hacked and cut up. We are warriors that have been inflicted with one of the worst forms of torture. We are families that have been left to look at bullet-riddled bodies. We are one. And we will rise.
I hope you find the courage to fight back. I hope your families are granted patience and strength. I, myself, am recovering from one of the darkest days in my history. They will write ballads about this day. They will have vigils, they will write about their grief. They will mourn, they will wail. They will slip into denial, depression and whatever else it takes for them to cope. Some will forget, but you won’t. I speak from experience and I wish I could say that I can’t imagine what you’re going through.
Words will not make this better. Songs and ballads won’t heal the gashes that have been embedded in your soil. Vigils won’t ease the pain. No amount of tears that have and will be shed will soften the hearts of the beasts who took a part of you. Nothing will heal this wound, except time. Time will bring alongside tolerance and, hopefully, justice. Till then, stay strong, Kenya. Stay strong and never forget.
Love,
Pakistan.
Published in The Express Tribune, April 7th, 2015.