Kids…Really?

Kids.... Really?? I have asked this to myself a thousand times in past 24 hours with my throat choking, every single time.  The very thought of a father dropping his son to the school early morning, wishing him good luck for his exam, then coming back in the afternoon to box him up in a coffin and carry him to his waiting mother is enough to keep you sleepless for a few nights.   The sight of a bullet riddled body is never easy on the eyes for a human being, and when that body is a 14 year old kid dressed up in his school uniform; you don’t just go numb, a part of human hidden deep inside you dies instantly.  

Any expert worth his salt would tell you that women and children are the ultimate casualty in any weaponized conflict. War doctrines have a fancy sounding phrase for that, “Collateral damage”. And yesterday’s attack on a school in Peshawar Pakistan took it to a whole new level. Never in my life I have witnessed such brazenness, where children between 14-16 years of age were pulled from under the benches they were hiding in and shot at point black range. As the day unfolded and body count kept on increasing, more and more people including yours truly felt sad for our western neighbours.  By the time we took a bite from our lunch, the flickering number at the bottom of the television screen would jump couple of notches.  “Bachhe hain yar… inko kyun maar rahe hain yeh log (why the hell are the killing kids?), said someone sitting at the next table. Nobody had the answer, not even the ones with guns in their hands shooting those innocent kids had one.

“It’s a revenge” they said “for killing our brethren”, and that’s how they justified taking those innocent lives.  I wonder if their brethren’s would not shudder in their graves over the way this revenge was unleashed on a bunch of students who were busy making a career  with a hope of a better life for themselves and their loved ones.   I heard t that even the dreaded Afghan Taliban deplored the inhumane act. If a notorious terrorist organization decides to stay away from the crime, it should be enough proof for the mankind that whatever happened over those eight odd hours is the worst in our lifetimes.

But, we will get over it. We always do. Isn’t this what we are supposed to do, always? Forget that our loved ones had been shot at and killed in the most gruesome manner. Forget the terrorist and forgive the very system that created the tormentor who just snatched away a piece of our heart.  

Eventually, each one of those one hundred and thirty two coffins will be six feet under,   the streets would be cleaned out and the school where the terror unfolded will be washed with strongest of cleansing agents. But somewhere a mother will still be sitting with her son’s blood stained uniform in her hands, wondering if she should wash off that blood and sing a lullaby as she folds that that into her son’s closet or should she leave those blood stains on as a cruel reminder of how her son was taken away from her.