Water runs deep | Political Economy

#Water #runs #deep #Political #Economy

There is a well that walks deep into this narrow valley, the shadow of an endless sky has been done by the confrontation. A lonely cow, a cow against red clay, the surrounding letters, is grazing on the lush green offerings of nature’s grace. The silver bells around its neck gently tanks, which is against the ropes of the revenue and the chord of multiple -wing creatures. There is a river, as the soil is nourished, it is raised by the soil. The well does not eat on the red water of the river. Its grace comes from under the earth, endless, like the heaven.

They say that it is never well dry, that there is always sweet, fresh water -eliminating supply, which is made from deep reserves in the stomach of the earth. Many times, the rain has failed in the valley, which has long abandoned the delicate francs growing from the walls of a long-awaited house-a temple, probably? Place of worship, a place of repentance, a place where water can clean the body, if not the soul?

He says there was a massacre at the place, near the well, near the river that flows even at that time, it is red water. Red with false ideas of atonement. There are no bones left, there are no graves for those killed. Only the sound of this silver bell is flying alone around the neck of the beast alone, bleeding from only many birds of the birds, flying over the soil of this stained patch.

There was another well, in the village where my father had no acres of canal and acres of acres of land that separates my birth city from Borderland. It was well, like many other people, in September, 1965, full of bodies of women and children killed by soldiers occupying fields for a short but bitter period. I was five years old, my mother’s birthplace was fresh from the boat from Cape Town. I saw the bodies. I smell the odor of disappointment and despair. I felt sad in my father’s luminous, amber eyes when he surveyed the widespread damage that his form did. Only one thing remained intact: a small, leather suit case bought during his time where he was posted as a technical leaks officer of the Pakistan Army, and where my mother studied at the London School of Economics.

Within this suit case, I, my siblings and our mother had four frames portraits. They had adorned the wall of Bithak of Holyi. My father had promoted and prepared the photos of our passports and was honored with his place in his house on the farm. Now, these photos are packed clean in this leather suit case, a note was written quickly and placed on top of the case, a stone is lowering it down. The note was written by the commanding officer of the forces who occupied the form for these short but bloody days. He described the fact that in his picture, my mother wore a saree, as she had continued the tradition of women in her family since her youth. The commanding officer recognized my mother from her time in London, as the wife of a Pakistani military officer whom he came to know and befriended. The officer served with his High Commission at the same time as my father, and met my parents at the diplomatic dinner. He had taken the pictures down and carefully placed them in a suitcase, and kept his father safe to find after his form was destroyed.

This morning, I woke up at the height of the thunder. Last night, the fighter jets continued to run across the sky in pursuit of ghosts that meet us in the dark. In the early morning light, half of the sleeping, I could not know if it was a wrath of the heavens or the wrath of a war machine, claims and claims in retaliatory claims, equipped itself with hatred and adultery. When I looked at the sky, I could see the rain cloud, I can feel cool against my skin, I remind me that there are no borders of nature, there is no border of this war, there is no limit to this peace.

In the early morning light, half of the sleeping, I could not know if it was a wrath of the heavens or the wrath of the war machine, claims and response claims, equipped itself with hatred and adultery.

When I stepped into my garden, the birds were already celebrating singing, pleasant, upcoming rain. For a while I sat down and thought about many wells who were full of human bodies – women forced women to commit suicide, which would die before the enemy and their daughters would die before being kidnapped and abducted. I thought about the family in a small village in Punjab who poisoned my daughter before she was locked in her house on the occasion of violent breakdown in the subcontinent. The girl survived, and she was taken care of by neighboring countries who saw her growing in an excellent, young woman. There were many other women, young women, whose ancestors swallowed swords against their necks to avoid the danger of rape and murder. A dead daughter, in the end, in this strange scheme of things, was better than being unclean.

Now I have heard that some villages of Kasur are being evacuated along the border. I have been asked to shelter the daughters of several families. I don’t ask why; Fear in our blood. I ask about cattle, where will they keep animals, cows and buffaloes and donkeys? Is anyone helping these people from border areas? No answer, just questions. Only bitter resignation.

I think when I saw death for the first time sixty years ago. Our birth of the city of my birth, our forces destroyed the BRB Canal bridges. People had a little support besides jumping in ad being wateris, many drowning, children, old, pregnant women. A farmer, who was handed over to the cattle, was standing on the edge of a tight pipeline that was trapped by the canal, his flock was patiently waiting for him. When he bowed to an animal to cross the canal, stepped on the pipe of the feet, the animal refused, nervously surrounded by water. Defornding, the man brought blind buffaloes from the back of the herd and put it on the banks of the canal. Feeling the pipe with his beans, he stepped on the pipe and slowly, leaving him behind him, the flock behind him. The blind animal could not see a treacherous flow of water under his holes – he did what he could and moved towards safety, and took the flock to the other side.

There is no well in our villages today and no one is playing a sword anymore.

Yesterday, the young daughters of many families that I know will come here to live with us, in the neighborhood where fighter jets have flourished in the ancient city of the cloudy skies, which have flourished with several communities living together, find a way to accept their differences, which make us a common sense, which makes us a source of humor. Today, I will look for this note written by the commanding officer sixty years ago. It is a reminder that as long as humanity remains, not all ends. As long as we recognize humans in one another.

In this valley, where the ancient wells rotate with red water. In this valley, where a lonely cow grabs without fear, birds are singing in harmony. In other valleys, in the devastating cities from other wars, the mothers did not mark the deaths of those who did not march with the palm life, the song of hope, the rhythm of the earth, the possibilities.

The author is a political economist, cultural heritage specialist, filmmaker, teachers and writers.