This is life, a beautiful, dirty fighter. filling your eyes with splendour then punches you in the guts, with a fist full of pain that breaks invisible parts you never knew you had.
This is life, shaped like a beautiful city, charming yet endowed with chaos glitzy upper streets with ghettos to the side; just when you thought things looked rosy the stench of its rawness sucks the air out of you leaving you gasping and watering your face.
Mark sat in the dark smoke-filled room, the only light came from the red glow of his cigarettes.
Silent nights were his worst companions but he couldn’t stand the meaningless drone of the TV, where everyone looked cheerful and conversed with the ease of those who led normal lives. He hated the silent nights.
PTSD. That was what the doc said. PTSD. An easy blanket name used to describe his postwar struggles, and a handful of prescription that didn’t take away the recurring booms of explosives, the pungent stench of charred human bodies, the severed limbs, and the blood; so much blood.
The heroes welcome had been short-lived, for in the land fit for heroes there’s hardly any jobs for those like him and he wished he was back in Afghanistan, where he knew his place.
It’s never a comfortable topic to write about the abuse of the girl-child and even grown women and an issue most would like to wish away and hide under the veil of humour. Yet, the statistics and spate of abuse and violation of females are horrendous.
A lot of times, violation comes from close quarters. These incidents leave a not so strong female broken, disillusioned, embittered and bearing the burden of guilt and shame. Her silence costs her everything and it takes a lot of grace for a victim to overcome the burden of violation.
Society has not helped by casting silent and even vocal blame on victims, thereby making their burden a lot heavier and their silence more ominous.