Voice Of The Silence

Voice of a Riot Victim

Voice of a Riot Victim 

I saw it all. I was there. But I could not do anything. I was helpless.

We knew they would come. We heard them coming but we could not escape.

We heard it first in the news. There were incidences of violence here and there in the whole of the town. However, my kind, loving Dad was not worried.

He trusted the police.

He trusted the Government.

He trusted our neighbours.

He was betrayed.

The police locked themselves up in the police station, deaf to our cries of help.

The politicians slept in their luxury bungalows, blind to our plight.

The neighbours who were until the day before coming with the latest gossip. Coming to ask for sugar. Coming to our parties. Inviting us in their celebrations. They were the ones who remembered us. They came.

We had invited them for my little brother's fifth birthday. They came with gifts. Gifts of weapons, hatred and death. They gave my little brother the ultimate gift. They sent him off to a better place where he would not be punished for something he did not do. As a return gift, they took his life.

I can still hear his laughter when he saw his favourite neighbour. The neighbour, who used to give him sweets, stabbed him. My brother's smile never left his face. Not even when he had gone beyond the worldly happiness. May the almighty give him a happy life in His house too.

I could hear the doors pounding. It did not matter if we opened the door or not. They would break it. Or set it ablaze. Just like my dear Uncle's house was set on fire, he, his pregnant wife and two little, beautiful three year old twin daughters all bearing the scorching, unforgiving licks of fire till they were completely devoured by it.

They did break the door. My elder brother and father ran ahead to stop them. Our dear neighbours were armed with swords, daggers, rifles, fire and what not. My dad just had my Grandma's old walking stick. My brother was armed with a metal pan.

My father was the first one to die. Unlike my little brother, he was not peaceful in death. His eyes were fearful. He looked at us just as the first bullet made its way home. My mother and I watched as he fell to the ground, never to rise up again. He was only worried about our well-being.

My brother knew he was going to join his brother and father soon. He turned and with fearful eyes looked at us. "Go! Run! Save yourselves!"

Those were the last four words I heard him speak. He turned back to his doomed fight. My mother pulled me and we jumped out the window. A tortured scream of my brother made us stop short in our tracks. That was a fatal mistake. Some of our dear neighbours got hold of my mother.

"Run!" Came my mother's firm command. My mother's cries for help echoed in my head as I ran through back alleys and deserted pathways.

My life before this incident was a happy and comfortable one. My father was prosperous and even rich. Now, my life had been thrown down to sewers, literally. I spent the next two weeks wandering in sewers and eating food from garbage dumps.

Two weeks. How insignificant it sounds. However, it was two weeks too long before the country's rage shook the politicians awake.

Two weeks before the police realized that they were given certain responsibilities.

Two weeks before the government realized that we were voters.

Two weeks before enough innocent people had died for the medics to extend their help.

Relief camps were set up. Still, people died. Still, people starved. Still, memories lingered. There was no relief even in these camps. More rioters would come at night and kill more people. Government said the victims left the relief camp. Yes, they left. Not only the relief camps but also the world.

My elder sister, the one living abroad, came to a family that was once big and happy but now consisted of just one, depressed, sixteen year old girl.

Everyone who tried to speak about the maladministration on part of the Government was muzzled. No press reporters were allowed in the relief camps. Victim's statements were labelled as false and provocative. They were not allowed to speak.

Two years later, my family's murderers were still at large. Every single accused was acquitted. We were still not given justice.

I missed my home in my country but I knew that the feelings of hatred towards my community ran deep and it would eventually come to surface in future. That country was no more my homeland. I lived with my sister on a foreign soil where I was given love and care.

My insistence to you, my fellow brothers and sisters, is to remember this one thing:

"There are many communities in the world. But the essence of the teaching of all the communities is one: humanity..."