Rawalakot. Poonch. Neelum. Muzaffarabad.
This poem is dedicated to all those who did not return, and to those who continue to stand firm.
You may establish checkpoints across the mountains, but we will write the pathways forward. Enforce curfews by night, and we will write the promise of dawn. Cut the communications cables and shut down the signals; we will write the news upon the flowing waters of the river. Everything will be remembered. Absolutely everything will be remembered.
Every morning brings anxiety over lighting the stove, and every evening brings long queues for flour. While sons labor in foreign lands, mothers wait by the door with expectant eyes. From the very waters of the Neelum River that illuminate your distant markets, repeated darkness falls along the banks of Neelum itself. The unspoken grief of every quiet home will be recorded, and the true value of all our endurance will be accounted for. Everything will be remembered. Absolutely everything will be remembered.
In your official documents, they were merely a crowd; but in our courtyards, they were sons, brothers, and fathers. The savior who stepped out to rescue the wounded and could not return—that messiah’s name will be written first. The crushing burden of a father carrying his son’s coffin on his shoulders will also be registered under your name. Mothers still keep their front doors open today, and the name of everyone who fell in the streets will be written down. Everything will be remembered. Absolutely everything will be remembered.
In your official documents, they were merely a crowd; but in our courtyards, they were sons, brothers, and fathers.
Our hands were empty, and our hands will remain empty. We carry no stones; we march bearing testimony. Despite the blisters on our feet, we will walk all the way to Muzaffarabad. You may fail to account for the bullets fired, but we will record the location of every single bullet. You issue electricity bills, but we will tally the cost of the darkness. You weigh the flour, but we will weigh the true burden of hunger. You label us as outlawed, but we will write ourselves down as the people. You call us terrorists, but we will write a mother’s prayer. You file First Information Reports (FIRs), but we will record our steadfast presence. You raise the walls higher, and we will write poetry upon those very walls. Everything will be remembered. Absolutely everything will be remembered.
While you fill your treasuries and coffers, we will document our empty hearths. The day votes were cast and the day coffins were raised will both be inscribed upon the exact same page of history. Neither will we forget, nor will we allow anyone to forget—engraved upon our bones and spoken on the tongues of our children, everything will be remembered.
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