Why kill the Hazaras?

 

Why kill the Hazaras?

(originally published January 2021)

In memory of the eleven (11) Hazara coal miners who were brutally slain----all of them blind-folded, their throats slit with a blunt knife, and left to bleed to death----in Mach, Balochistan on Jan 3, 2020.

"Tell the truth even if it be unpleasant" and "Speak truth to a tyrannical ruler."

Hadith of the Prophet (pbuh)

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They gun them down and
Blow ‘em up
They hunt them down and
Line ‘em up
Pick them out
Tie ‘em up
Slit their throats, and hang ‘em up.

Why kill the Hazaras?

They kill them once
Force ‘em out, and then
Kill them again
Make them grieve
Make ‘em leave
Pakistan, Afghanistan
They send them all to…
Qabristan (the graveyard).

They kill them there, kill ‘em here
Why kill the Hazaras?
Who kills the Hazaras?

The cursed snakes
Are let loose
By the snake charmers
The wily handlers
Whose takfiri “assets”
Whose wretched monsters
Are the evil performers.

The right hand consoles

As the left hand slaughters
Say these forked-tongued impostors:
“See, it’s the bearded serpents, it’s deh-shat gardi”
No, it’s not: it’s wardi gardi
That kills the Hazaras.

The Dajjali death cult has poisoned
The old Tin Town
In Little London
The Iblisi darkness
Has spread all around
The petro terror, the "jihad" e Jahilliya
Has maimed and murdered, or
Killed the Hazaras.

Collateral damage, false flag games
“Strategic Depth” is the cause of the flames
The gains of the goons
Of the murderous buffoons
Are the pains of the ruined
Who are violently strewn
The pogrom continues
The graveyards get filled
As the Hazaras get killed.

Friends and comrades---
The old neighbors
Allies and aides---
Are now like strangers.
Numb spectators
Of dumb bloodbath
They whisper and watch
Some with sorrow
Some with wrath
Some are scared
Others just shrug their cold shoulders:
“Too sad, too bad, but…”

That “but” betrays
The heartless starkness
Of the Dajjali credo and
The Iblisi darkness.

“But” I guess, they know

Why they kill the Hazaras.

And so it seems
To this Hazara, at least
That no one really weeps
No one bewails
Alas!
Accomplice in crime
The silence, too,
Is a bloody cold mime
It, too,
Condemns
and
Kills the Hazaras.

The Hollow Men (of Pakistan)

 

The Hollow Men (of Pakistan)
(with an apology to T.S. Eliot)

“We are not the doctors; we are the disease!”        Alexander Herzen

“The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”                         

                                                        George Orwell, The Animal Farm

“The country is what it is because its leaders are not what they should be.”           
                (To borrow from the wise man of Nigeria, Chinua Achebe)

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I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Scheming together
Heads filled, from ear to ear,
With dried dung. Alas!
Our ugly gibberish, when
We scream together,
Belching pieties,
Is utterly meaningless---hollow, stinky--
Like our rotten lives.

We are the hollow men, the filthy hustlers
We buy and we sell
We pander and peddle---everything, everyone:
Ourselves,
Our kith and kin,
Compatriot, brother, father, son, husband--
No backbone, neither honor nor dignity--
We bend readily
For a few dollars,
We even sell our mothers.

We are the toxic vermin
Dark clouds of voracious locusts
We are the plague that
Defiles the face of
The “pure” land
Like puss-oozing carbuncles.

We are the hollow men
The shape shifting, bullshitting impostors
Tirelessly spouting humbug
That fills the air
Like a numbing, dumbing white noise
We are
The “ruling elite”, the “umpire”
The “boys”, the “establishment”---
All nasty euphemisms for
Bloodsucking, villainous cartoons
Cabals of vile con men
Mafioso civvies and
Uniformed goons.

II

This is the damned land
This is mob land
Rioting, burning, posse lynching
Bedlam reigns supreme
Here we sing songs
Colorful carols
Of faith, discipline and unity
Of brotherhood and sisterhood
In the “pure” motherland,
We keep on chanting, these gory
Anthems of hypocrisy.

Words without meaning---our poisonous trope.
Compassion as fashion, deception as hope.

III

Here we sell made-up dreams
Soothing stories in textbooks
Fairytales on TV screens
Told by pumped-up noisy fiends
These murderous nightmares, in reality,
Mock the babbling screen ogres
The soulless chattering monsters.

IV

Those who dare speak
Truth to power
With untied tongues and unsold souls
With eyes that see
And hearts not dead---not yet
See through us, and call out:
“You are the genuinely bogus hollow men
The stuffed men (and women).
Disgrace! Disgrace! Disgrace!”

For more, please click: Uncle Marx, Education: Old and New