As the social media in Occupied Kashmir became viral with pictures of a small kid sitting close to his grandfather’s body, Indian Political leaders and RSS trolls started using it as a propaganda against freedom fighters. The family of slain has already indicated that innocent man was killed by Indian Army and CPRF in a staged encounter. Even the traumatized kid narrated in a video that Army killed his grandfather.
We may not be able to know the psychological trauma suffered by this kid, who saw his grandfather being killed in his presence but his sobs and cries are echoing across the globe. We have done some previous poems on Syrian, Palestinian and Indian kids suffering from trauma of conflicts and wars. Inspire by their stories a poem on plight of Kashmiri children and the trauma they suffer on daily basis has been scribbled to highlight the ruthless operations conducted by Indian state machinery against eight million Kashmiri Muslim of Occupied Kashmir.
Kashmir, Tears for Dada
I mourn for dada, sitting on his lifeless torso
My picture on display in the global studio
Agony, anguish, pain and blow
Occupied Kashmir is a tragic show
Tears roll down my cheek
Scared, bludgeoned, I can’t even squeak
Indian soldiers and their stubborn streak
Dada’s blood soaked cloths, my future bleak
I gaze through the hazy mosaic around
Gun fire, sirens and deafening sound
Smell of fresh blood on ground
Dry lips and my tongue confound
Sopore has a blurry mosaic
The system has gone archaic
Blood, dust, noise and smoke stacks
Ghost towns, burnt streets and shacks
Fathers carrying slain bodies of sons in hides
And kids burying their parents besides
Hapless parents, burials of sons denied
We have become posters for all sides
Life has become frozen in corpses and coffins
Of phosphorus smells and toxins
Valley of human dustbins
A slaughterhouse of Muslims
And there are no seasons in Sopore, just burnt grass
No schools no teachers no class
Life is like walking on broken glass
My picture becomes a trend, alas!
No colors no plays no hobbies
No laughing, no cackles, no stories
Daily specter of graves and dead bodies
No memories in the city of Zombies
My sobs echo in Amman, Tehran and Dhaka
Islamabad, Baku and Ankara
Kuwait, Dubai and Abuja
Kabul, Riyadh and Jakarta
Reluctant to condemn Bharat Mata
I am hushed and scared
Dark shadows of snipers on roof tops prepared
Daily killing of Kashmiris declared
Here humanity is impaired
Sparrows of Sopore are no more
My dada lying bare on gravel floor
Wake up dada and narrate the evening lore
Grandma waits for you on broken door
Dada’s bruised legs are getting cold
Another tragic story told
My tears cross the threshold
He has become breathless behold
