The sound of a breaking heart

Sehrish EJAZ

I thought I was immune to tragedy. I thought I was used to death. I thought that having seen my country move from military authoritarianism to civilian dictatorship, past Kargil and Kashmir would be enough.

I thought the blood spilled in Marriott and Red Mosque and Waziristan would suffice.

I thought seeing Pakistan slide from a judicial crisis to Musharaf’s ousting to the Swat “peace” accord to the Sharif brothers’ debacle would somehow shield me from the sad realities of our world. Perhaps even prepare me for them. I thought the lock-outs and sit-ins and shoot-downs were as bad as it gets. I was wrong.

There are bold headlines that speak of blood and smell of blood and have promises of yet more blood to come. We shed our fears in private and then we pretend to forget as the numbers build like a storm. And then the storm breaks and there’s more bad news and we cry some more. We live with a constant dull ache in our hearts.

“Sri Lankan team under attack in Pakistan”, headlines screamed. “Mumbai terror visits Lahore.”

It broke my heart like never before.

In the Land of the Pure, every child is born with religion, cricket and politics infused in his blood- in that order. From the litter-stricken slums to the narrow streets to the green belts, every village and town and city thrives with the sport.

All of us dedicate a significant portion of our lives playing it or watching it or talking about it. I was no different till I swore off cricket after the 99’ World Cup. By the time I was nine, I had my own Fantasy Cricket League.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted Imran Khan or Brain Lara as Captain. Shane Warne was in it. Waseem Akram earned a spot (before I threw him out for what he did in ‘99- or what he didn’t do). Muttiah Muralitharan was my hero. And despite the slight resentment against the Indian team which we necessitated upon ourselves, Tendulkar was a permanent heart throb.

There were many more names, each accompanied by several newspaper clippings in a wooden box under my bed. They would ward off any monsters who wanted to lurk there. That is the kind of romanticism associated with cricket in Pakistan. It posters our walls and billboards and has a reserved spot on our television screens and hearts. It elevates us far above our everyday pains. It is religion. We’re a nation of cricketing gods.

I broke the oath several times, sometimes to see the Sharjah Cup, sometimes to steal glances at the latest cricket news. I was almost going to go watch the Test Match to remind me of the passion that had coloured my childhood.

And that is how hard it was to come to terms with the tragedy in Lahore.

The Sri Lankans were our guests, they were goodwill ambassadors, they were all that is so great about the holy sport. They played in our land when other teams refused to. Most importantly they offered us something we are all parched for. They offered us hope. And yet someone riddled their van with bullets.

Who would so such a thing? No Pakistani ever would. We’re not programmed to blaspheme against cricketers. The Tehrik-e-Taliban or Lashkar-e-Taiba or other militant groups harbour no ill-will against the Sri Lankan team, no matter how wild you let your imagination run. Then who would do such a thing? And why would they?

And why weren’t they stopped? And why weren’t they caught? And why wasn’t the security plan fool-proof? And why did those eight policemen lose their lives? And what did they want? The mess of weapons say a hostage-situation was in order. Conspiracy theories mushroom. Blame is hurled around like bullets. A million suspects. A million motives. But no solutions. No answers.

Perhaps we will never get our answers. An investigation will be filed, people will be brought to courts, someone will take the fall but the truth may well be hidden from us like it always is. We’re used to being fed lies. And ten years or twenty years or fifty years down the line, we will have a culprit.

We will have an international conspiracy. We will see how the dirty game of politics actually unfolded and what we were told to believe. We will be old and grey and we will know the truth of our yesteryears and we will put on our thick bifocals and we will mutter: “Those bastards”. That is all we ever do.

But my question is, after all that time, will we still be out of answers? Will we still be poignantly out of solutions? Will we ever stand up and demand the truth?

Till then, we sit and devour large quantities of news print, and let a large amount of headlines appall us, and cry our tears in private and say our prayers and bury our dead.

God Bless the Sri Lankan team, for their love, their faith and their friendship. God Bless the policemen who risked their lives. God Bless the policemen who died. God Bless us all.

The writer is a seventeen-year-old Pakistani girl.