A Mystic Place.

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I know a place where noting and everything is possible – in one way or another. A place where a drop of tears destroys a day-long laughter and instead offers terror. A place where every-day has its own reproach and peace of mind does not exist at all. A place where the memories of yesterday hurt badly and remind of only miseries and destructions.

I know a place where love has lost its inspiration and betrayed with beautiful colours. A place where only war, violence, annihilation are everlasting. A place where everything is controlled by a force and dictatorship only in the picture and slogan of democracy.

I know a place where we only hope but do not see it turn into reality. A place where I only struggled for my survival but never lived. A place where I forgot to live for the sake of remaining alive.

I know a place where my childhood has been taken away. A place where my youngness has been ruined. A place where my career has been taken away. A place where my pen was broken. A place where my books were burned. A place where my breadwinners were hanged to death. A place where hatred became the way of life. A place where taking righteous steps will leave you in cold blood.

I know a place where trust is absent and hypocrisy has replaced honesty. A place where the good memories of yesterday are only written but no longer enjoyed. A place where its history is painted with the blood of innocent souls. A place where its government rules the orphans and widows. A place where every-day is full of struggles at the cost of lives. A place where you cannot rely on your so-called protectors. A place where mercy has disappeared. A place where your sole right is distributed.

I know a place where dream seem so far from reality and only a decimeter intervention can make it turn into reality. A place where other people’s tears is others laughter and became a joy. A place where noting is tangible but vanity. A place where the sunrise and sunset fight for supremacy and the nights are filled with horror. A place where talent has no value and money rocks the key positions.

I know of a place full of pretensions, ifs and buts with repeating lies to secure the status. A place where friendship is unkind and loyalty is rare.  A place where there is no faith again for survival. A place where goodness is the last thing we prefer to ever share. A place where time waits for no man and the rights are distributed on percentage based on the ratio of population. A place where age is a disgrace and gender is bizarre.  A place where beauty dances and corruption rules.

I know of a place where justice is a dead and protection turned into slogan! A place where the good natures decay and humility is pusillanimous. A place where the truth warrants death and integrity is extinguished. A place where law is a mere session of contention and warlords’ rock on the rights of powerless people. A place where religion is an avenue of death and persecution. A place where morality is dead and horror is enforcing.

I know of a place where the dirt is proud and praise itself above its worth. A place where humanity lost moral sense and swims in the waters of immortality. I know a place where the clouds is full of tears and the sun shines with the blood, and casualties celebrate gone casually. A place where death is inevitable and to return home alive became the matter of a chance. A place where governing the powerless and helpless people has become a race.

I know a place where since I realized my existence rocks in bloodshed, violence and it does so until now. A place where the right to life is bestowed by Allah but the right to live is decided by cowards. A place where everyone sheds bleeding tears out of injustice and day-to-day losing of innocent souls. A place where the children begin their morning with the sound of bombasts instead of the singing sound of birds. A place where kindness, equality, justice, unity, love and mercy became mysterious.

(Dedicated to War-torn People)

About samad1986

Abdul Samad Haidari is a poet, writer, teacher and a former freelance journalist, currently residing in Indonesia as a stateless refugee. He is the author of The Red Ribbon He fled his home country at the age of seven and grew up wandering in Pakistan and Iran as a child refugee, and was separated from his family for the majority of his childhood. For two years, at the age of eight and nine, he was forced into child labour in the construction industry in Iran. In contrast, Pakistan offered refugees like him the opportunity to study and work. This education and work experience culminated in Abdul teaching computer studies and English language courses at the Intel Computer Center and Pak Oxford Professionals. After the collapse of the Taliban government, Abdul returned to Afghanistan thinking that the security situation had improved, and that he could take part in the reconstruction of his war-torn country. With this in mind, Abdul served as a freelance journalist and humanitarian aid-worker in areas of the country that remained dangerous to civilians because of the influence of terrorist groups. Abdul served with the Norwegian refugee council (NRC), ActionAid Afghanistan, Daily Outlook Afghanistan group of newspapers, and The Daily Afghanistan Express. As a freelance journalist, Abdul wrote articles and editorials about on-the-ground realities, which were then circulated widely. These had a particular focus on women and children’s rights, corruption, transparency and accountability in government, warlords and terrorist groups’ actions and the systematic persecution of minority groups in both Afghanistan and Pakistan.
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