Almost one year ago, I walked the streets of London, and spent time with good friends, along with working harder than ever on my writing. Today, from deep within my editing cave, I think back on those times. After news of Westminster broke this morning, I’ve scrolled through my snapshots a fair number of times.…
As a young girl in India, I learned to hate Pakistan. I was told the history of this country with my own, how we were once one nation, and now bitter enemies.
I saw the Karghil war. On TV, yes, but its horrors did not go away.
I saw each terrorist attack on India, there were many, and was told Pakistan was behind each of them.
But today, when I see the seige on Pakistan’s children, those lives gone before they could properly begin, I cannot remember that they are from a country I was taught to hate.
For years I’ve been on to the politicians of both countries: they flamed up hostilities between the two nations whenever thing got hairy within either country.
And today I stand with those mothers in Peshawar, whose children wouldn’t come back.
I’m not a mother, but I’m a daughter, and I’ve seen mothers.
I cannot begin to imagine those households where children would return from school in coffins.
So those of you who tell me Pakistan deserved it, that they had supported terrorists once, that they’re villains who murdered Hindus in Kashmir, I have no time for you. Those who tell me that Muslims and Islam are the problem, I have no time for you either.
I hang my head in shame, because I’m part of a world where children are murdered to raise funds, where some people can find it in them to feel good about what happened to those children and their families.