In Pakistan, things come in waves; they’re cyclical. Mango season, wedding season, bomb blast season.
When you’re sitting by the window of a pizza shop, looking out at the pristine surroundings in a foreign land, reading on your phone about a blast in Pakistan at a place that made your come to life feels like the ground beneath is swallowing you. It’s a tough punch in the heart when you look at your reflection in the glass and all you see through yourself are the lights and buildings across. Pakistan? Pakistan. Pakistan. The ticker runs through your head and you can imagine the sound of local news channels breaking the news as you walk on cobble-stoned paths miles and miles away.
Thinking about Pakistan right now is reminiscent of the time when you were introduced to the concept of dozakh, hell. Loved ones being dragged to their demise repeatedly like one supposedly does in hell.
The attack on the shrine in Sehwan today was an attack on the heart that pumps through Sindh. Sindh, that part of the country where Sufi culture runs through its veins. This was the eighth blast in Pakistan this week as the stench of death breezes over the country right now. Even then, memories of the time you were there last bring visions of smiling faces all around. Pure happiness, music, devotion, love, life.
How are we to ever come out of this? By constant blame and weight put on factors that can’t affect problems in the country when they are so deep-rooted; they become you. ISIS? Taliban? No, you. This. is. you.
I am so sorry Pakistan. We love you so much. Hoping this love somehow runs through you like soothing wind.
Karachi Bohemian 