The above cited lyric, by a Palestinian artist delineates the genuine internal soul of each nationalist. I learnt this sonnet and at whatever point I present these verses I see a picture of each Pakistani fighter why should prepared bite the dust for this land, in the front line, under the impossible profundities of the sea or open to question.
Remaining under the open wild sky, featuring at the brilliant moon I felt so broken and broke for the first run through in my life, as I was frail to do anything for the individuals who are biting the dust for me and my nation. I was pondering 30th April, Youm-e-Shuhdda (day of saints) and its real essentialness in our lives. One in thousands really thinks about this day and with the exception of the military or the groups of the saints, rest are minimum irritated and concerned.
I thought and consider, and after that I understood that what so ever, I can never pay back the tireless penances they made for me, for us and for this nation, which is quick turning out to be so coldhearted and numb with each other life laid for them. Its the coldness, the unit of this country towards the saints and Ghazis of this land which bothers me and makes me fear every one of the individuals who are harmed and slanted towards tallying the benefits, plots and houses being given as pay to the dispossessed families. Has somebody ever believed that saints themselves have paid the cost of the purported plots and houses with their blood? We ought not overlook the spin-off of penances and courage submitted by our military for the past such a variety of decades. To sit discreetly noticeable all around molded rooms and reprimand is simple, to question, slander and affront is easy, yet to go in the war zone, to see the thundering gunfire and to get hit by a slug and to get a pine box of a friend or family member is not effortless and basic.
When I take a gander at the desolate appearances of the youngsters who have lost their fathers, the unfilled grins of the young women who lost their accomplices, the wrinkled miserable eyes of the old guardians who got the wrapped pine box of their exclusive child, then I discover no place in this whole universe to shroud my humiliated face. Amid these minutes I understand that I could never have the capacity to carry their glad
Author: Muniba Mazar – Pakistan