Don't dream, when you can't make it real. They're only fictions anyway - Moddi, A Sense of Grey

Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance, in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance, when you're perfectly free - Rumi

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Dec 18, 2011

Heirs of Fortune and Misery

I wonder what it feels like to be the children of the most abhorred man in the country; to wake up every single day to utter luxury and pure hatred from almost every single one of your countrymen. I wonder what it was like, growing up knowing your father was notoriously known as Mr Ten Percent because he was believed to be an exacting reaper of kickbacks. What could it have felt like;watching family members always at each others throats; having your mother accused for the murder of her brothers? What kind of childhood can it have been, watching the blood of every close relative decorate the streets of a country which didn't care for it nor deserved it; who gave up their lives for no real cause except personal agendas smeared with the filth of corruption, exploitation and injustice? Do you regret not having any close bonds with your own cousins; to never be able to rely on your own family?

What is it like; to know that there is not a single person out there who wants to wish your family well? In fact, indifference would be a blessing. Does it not create a chronic feeling of angst and fear, to know that there are millions of people out there, and not just in the political arena, but probably every commoner who wishes the worst for your family? To never feel safe in your own country; not even your own house unless you have barricades of steel and cement surrounding the entire compound, sprawling onto the street and have half the country's rangers and police guarding it; to think that your house needs that kind of protection even though you don't even live there? To have a house and not a home?

How can you explain becoming the chairman of your country's ruling party even though you've hardly even lived there? When you don't even speak their language? When you've never known problems like load shedding and price hikes, being stopped in traffic for no reason and having to pay bribes to the traffic police, waiting for hours at a job interview just so you're later told its been given to some undeserving jackass whose father in a position of power? How can you pretend to fix the problems you've never had, to fight for the rights of people you've never known and to improve lives you've never lived? 

How can you just accept it all as your birthright and then pretend to fight for democracy?

Do these people even want this life? Where you are never sure of who will stab you in the back next. Where nothing is for sure; not even the love of your family. Where everyone you know is a potential threat; even the ones who work for you. Where you'll probably never know real friendships and relationships; you'll never know simple things like going out to the mall or taking a walk in the park without armed guards scaring everyone away, playing cricket on the streets or taking a bike ride with your friend to the nearest bun kabab stand; eating gola ganda with all the cousins crammed up in one car; worrying about paying for college; getting a job on your own merit. 

Is this what they really dreamed of? Are these really the plans they had for their lives? Or did they just get sucked into this whirlpool when they weren't looking and weren't able to get out? Did they try to fight it? Do they want to fight it?

Sometimes, I feel sorry for them; these heirs of fortune and misery. 

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