Professional Beggary

From the advertisements of the black soaps, to the red Vitz driven by male chauvinists, the low network rates to the long marches, the uncontrollable suicide bombings and to the incessant protests on flogging of Chand Bibi, we survived the uncertain times. Sometimes glad, sometimes gloomy, gleeful, awed.

And sometimes frustrated! How many a times have we stopped our car and found ourselves swarmed by beggars. The whole troop escort you to the shop and then back to ride. You term them as not so needy, good for nothing, and snub them Nasso, but they obstinately stick. Most of us deem them professional beggars, who are just draining their lives and intently not working.
Begging has become nation’s way. The headlines read “Pakistan is Promised $5bn”. Wow, a handsome cheque, most of our nattily dressed politicians are seen gaping. It is beyond Islamabad’s expectations. Rosy days are back. Yet, I felt embarrassed. The President cladding Armani suit, Tissot diamond watch and boots, that makes even the best French designers gush with awe, is begging. What do you call it, Professional Beggary, huh?

Some people say that we carved out this nation solely for economic reasons. At least, this is our revived ideology founding the two nation theory. Now, where is our free and autonomous economic system? That dream has come to ruins with the replenishing of our beggar’s bowl. Being independent economically is what makes us a sovereign nation in the true sense. Otherwise, we are just the puppets. Our strings in the hands of IMF, World Bank, and Friends of Democratic Pakistan, yet another on the list.

Let’s mull over the disastrous and humiliating clauses that we will be obliged to be the beneficiaries of this aid. The conditions that subvert the writ of the state, as done by the terrorists, we rant. We are wheedled to letting it go by the offer of monetary aid.

This aid will cease the day we mistakenly owe our brothers and sisters in Swat and FATA. The day we clamor against the injustices inflicted on them. The day we put our foot down against the drone attacks. The day we react as vehemently against the countless women and children maimed in Swat as we did in Chand Bibi’s case. But no, we are paid. We thrive on it. We will hail the present trend to restock our bank accounts.

Once again, we as a nation are cashing in, as we cashed in on Afghanistan War. Now, we are capitalizing on our own brothers and sisters. At least remind those at the helm of the affairs the selfish slogan “Pakistan First”. What will our next patriotic slogan be “Punjab First”?
Moreover, how much of this aid will actually proliferate to the masses after the profligacy of those who receive it. Or will it be spent on only lavish parties, Rolce Royce, decorating the palaces and trips abroad?

This is avaricious. An Embarrassment and Indignation. Yes, our economy might be inflating but our souls are dying. There maybe more street lights, but our hearts will steep more into shadows. There maybe more luxurious and topnotch gadgets being imported into our country, yet our manners will remain like those of pagans.

It is time that we build ourselves financially, but on our own terms. Our foremost focus should be the subsistence level of the population and reducing luxury goods ,to say the least. We should rely more on our local products. Though, this demands immense sacrifices but this will make a profitable and autonomous economic structure in the long run.

This is a time of reform, of breaking the old chains, the old bigotry and the corrupt and fraudulent practices infested in our country. It is time we think not as individuals but shift our paradigm to country level. Think with Self Respect!

What Bothers Me?

Aggression is in the name of Salvation,
False is leading the world,
Rights of poor violated and trampled,
Down is the dark despair and above is the Supreme forgotten.

This is what bothers me.

Little hands toiling hard in the sun,
Children are suffering dreadful starvation,
You call it cruelty and it is true,
But there is nothing we will do.

This is what bothers me.

Life is short and time is running out,
Lofty expectations pinned to me,
The hidden face behind the mask,
And the procrastination before the last mile.

This is what bothers me.

Destructive criticisms are dampening my spirit.
The sacrifices that went in vain,
If you were made my Protector,
Then why did I suffer the most by you?

This is what bothers me

Our silence is tyranny,
Our faith is hypocrisy,
With it, the realization that nothing will change,
The scattered glass marbles reflecting my life!

This is what bothers me.

Hushed Melody

The strings plucked, the lyrics of our hearts in symphony,
Rhapsody in our thoughts, scraping the repressed memories,
The unfilled space in the canvas of my life,
Screaming for more strokes, some permanence in forms,
The palettes in our eyes still to be painted,
But, the bow soon fades the ecstasy away….
The melody dies on the altar of compromise with times.

The curious eyes glaring at the split shadows,
The silhouette of broken love, secrets and promises,
Now, the sword is dropped, and the hues are diluted,
Roaring laughter, resounding applauds, scathing the wall,
The questions forming ripples in my eyes,
The head bowed down, wishing the sky blushes,
It was never so hard to admit I am crying!

Quakes and Hopes

An apocalyptic roar,
And the rebellious earth,
Laid in front of me,
My past shattered,
My dreams in debris.


Am I alive? Why this agonizing pain?
Is it the pain that the cries are distant,
But only dead silence at home
Or is it my hand disfigured?
Vanquished with it the fate engraved on them.


The dwellings turned into graves,
The jewels forsaken, the shops abandoned,
No buyers, no sellers,
Just the bargain for life,
………….A lose-win deal.


Wish I was on my amma’s lap
But, maybe she was a dazzling star in the sky,
The Ultimate grief,
The Wounded soul,
And the Paradise lost.


A cutting pain, tears streaming down
Isolated from my hand,
Reckoned as worthless,
I felt Handicapped.
Now who will caress the lost loved ones?


But, I will survive,
I will put together the debris,
And build a castle
The paradise of my fathers,
Wherein will prosper generations.


If the tectonic plates had an extra aggression,
There is an extreme verve in me
If a moment can ruin it all,
The Moments together can turn it into a Paradise,
From the ashes, shall rise the Phoenix.

What is Red?

I see thrill in the eyes. I hear people discussing different spots to hangout. Suddenly from the talk of Gaza war, we are wondering about love. From the scenes of dead bodies in Al-Jazeera, we are talking about movies pictured in Cinepax. Baffled……..Oh it’s the Valentine’s Day, that has yet again brought us in the midst of red. Red dress, red lips, red rose, red cards, red hearts, red candies and red balloons. Red continues to be in the air, from the gore red to the joyous red.

Red which stained the concrete, a remnant of a frightened kid who hid behind his mother in vain to shield himself from the air raid. Red, that is proudly worn by a damsel experiencing life. Red was once carcasses, counted and callously overlooked. Red is now endeared and prized. Red was depicting silence and fatality. Red is in the midst of noise and laughter. Red was bleeding profusely. Red is being painted happily. Red was causing tears and wrenched hearts. Red is worn to be envied and appreciated. Red signified the end of life. Red is flaunting life.

This gamut of red shows the stark incoherence among us. How indifferently can we enjoy without our thoughts fleeting on the wretched fraternity across the globe. In this day of love, care and admiration, we are sure to be stripped off Humanity.

This time we are entangled in the different threads of red. While some are mourning red, the others will be celebrating red. The paradox haunts me.

Dimunitive Labor

We have always sympathized with the miserable characters of Oliver Twist and Pip, working in gruesome conditions. Today, we can see this bleak picture prevalent in our society too. The plight of small hands toiling in dark congestion, under dead silence……the children, who like others, should be given love, color pencils and toys…

According to Wikipedia, Child Labor is the employment of children at regular and sustained labor and is usually exploitative. It can be factory work, mining, prostitution, quarrying, and agriculture, helping in the parent’s business and doing odd jobs. And all the work that they do is in all types of weather and at very minimal pays.

Child Labor has reached epidemic proportions in Pakistan. According to HRCP (Human Rights Commission of Pakistan) there are about 15 million working children in Pakistan. The children make a quarter of the skilled force. In our Third World Country, where the population rate is the highest among the world and the education system poorest, the child labor pool is anything but inexhaustible. It has become an institution in Third World countries; however, the incidences of it are also increasing in advanced countries.

The median age of children now entering the workforce is seven, which is likely to decrease owing to the increase in population as well as sky rocketing inflation and food shortage. Another cause of this epidemic are the recruitment by large factory owners voluntarily or forceful by chaining the children’s parents in debt. The owners are particularly aggressive in courting boys of age five to seven, where their dexterity and endurance are at is peak. And most of all they are economical, as they are paid slighter than one third of the pay of the adults. As one Rawalpindi land owner states “Children are cheaper to run than tractors and smarter than oxen. He prefers field hands as they have the most energy but lack discipline.

The children in rural areas are deprived of all sorts of facilities, education health. They are as starved of love as they are of food. A young mother Asma from Sheikhupura says “When my children were of three years, I told them that should pay their way and get ready to make sacrifices for the families and to be sent away from home”. She bonded her five children to the masters in distant villages.

The children work under most brutal conditions imaginable. In sports equipment factories, they sit slumped in large numbers under eerie silence giving full concentration to their work. If they speak or sleep, they are reprimanded. Once they make a mistake, their pay is withheld and punished most severely on the rear of the factory where they are hung upside down, caned, lashed and starved. The boys are frequently beaten and the girls violated. A girl tells the story of her friend who was raped by the owner and when she got ill and could work no more, she was sold off to someone else and her parents never got to know about it. For the masters, the bonded children are commodity whom they trade like livestock, bartering away their respect and everything they own.

There has been many child laws enacted in Pakistan but the problem remains lack of political will and greed. The Employment of Children Act of 1991 prohibited the use of children in hazardous occupation and environments. The Bonded Labor Act of 1992 abolished indentured servitude and the peshgi system. Though the laws are progressive, however, the government failed to provide the implementation and enforcement. The steps taken had always been cosmetic. As a Ministry of Labor Official says “We leave enforcement on the discretion of the police officers” as they understand the need of the community well.”

Behind this is an unpleasant truth about feudal system in Pakistan which hinders any reform that might weaken their authority, lower their profit margins or enfranchise the workers. They argue that such laws do not help in the development of the country. If the government imposes these laws, they would shut down the factory crippling the economy.

The need of the hour is not to eradicate but to limit the working age of children and make the working conditions humane. Also, the media along with the NGOs can play a significant role in bringing out such issues and meting out justice to those god forsaken children.

My Sin

All I hankered was to study and teach,
Thus waited for you, my father, to share this dream,
How I wished you would relent this time,
But now you threatened to smolder me alive,
Do you abhor those lessons of humanity that I aim to propagate?
Or whom you call your pride should have no worth of own
O God, what sin did I commit?
That I don’t even have the right to dream!

You always got a better share than I, my brother,
Parents love, freedom and praise has always been your prerogative,
I promise I tried my best to preserve your respect in the village,
But it was those vicious hooligans who raped your respect.
Then you deemed me distrustful and slashed my nose
Left me in the fields where I writhed and wriggled,
O God, what sin did I commit?
Who to ask for justice? Where to look for hope?

In my fancy, my companion, I wished you will be the elixir of my pains
Wrenched heart, haggard face, wrinkled strength, torn clothes,
I toiled hard in the sun doing your part, not coveting your comfort,
Our children wailing kept me on my toes, to allay their hunger,
A battered slave at your whims, but you blamed me of insolence, while I never protested,
In your outburst, threw acid on me, burning all my hopes, scathing my fantasy,
O God, what sin did I commit?
Will these wounds on the soul ever heal?

O God, what sin did I commit?
Why do the courts always decree against the innocent?
O God, what sin did I commit?
My innocent sin that I yearned for life!




Zainab Belal