In Purgatory

My country is floating, floating in the middle of revolution or martial law. Floating in the middle of peace and war. It cannot make up its mind. It is, at this moment, useless, unchanging, in limbo.

The people are in limbo too, floating in a thick viscous fluid, which does not allow them to move. A fluid consisting of ignorance, selfishness and frustration. They cannot breathe, their lungs and hearts have stopped working, artificial machines are keeping them alive, but barely. The artificial life machines of the rich are hi-tech, providing them pure oxygen. The machines of the poor are broken and dilapidated, providing them with polluted air and nutrients, damaging their bodies. So that, if and when the rich wake up, they would be normal human beings. But when the poor will wake up, they would be mindless, heartless creatures, intent on destroying those who destroyed them.

Damage can only be controlled if the country is woken as soon as possible. If the nation stays in their fluid tanks for some more months, they will be lost forever.

A revolution is needed, but who will bring it about? The leaders? Who are too busy amassing their own fortunes. The youth? Who is too selfish and too spoilt to do something. The poor? But who would feed their families while they revolt? The educated middle-class? Who is too busy to make their own families and are abandoning Pakistan like rats from a sinking ship? The rich? But why would they change a system already in their favor?

That only leaves behind the old generation. The senior citizens, the REAL patriots. Those who served the Pakistan Army, Navy and Airforce for their country, but not for status or money. The comrades of those who gave up their lives willingly at Kargil and Siachen. Those who became teachers and professors, and doctors and engineers, not for fame and power, but simply for the betterment of their country. Who went through 3 martial laws, who survived extreme Islamization of the country. Whose parents and relatives migrated to Pakistan through bloodshed and poverty.

But what can they do? With their creaking limbs and weak backs, what can they do except advise their children and their grand-children?

Yes, their bodies are weak, their arteries have clots, but their spirits are unbroken. Their metaphoric shoulders are still strong under the weight of their country’s downfall. Although it is them who are close to falling in the eternal sleep know an death, it is us who are caught between Heaven and Hell. God does not want us because we sin, and the Devil does not want us because we still have some hidden purity in us.

Our elders, unlike us, still do as much as they can. They still try to squeeze out the little good left in the nation’s hearts and minds. They are the only ones not in purgatory.

Tears fall from their rheumy eyes and sparkle on their wrinkled cheeks.

They are the only ones who still cry for their country, who desperately try to wake their progeny to effectively deal with the chaos about to ensue.

But who listens to them? Maybe their voices cannot reach us through our fluid tanks.


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