|
On the Way to Retreat by Muhammad Nasrullah Khan The sun was about to hide itself behind the black peak, when grey-haired Rafeel reached the old bus stop of his village. Though the particular smell of land made him very excited, he was feeling himself an outsider in the land where he had spent many years of his life. Twenty years ago, he¹d left his own land in utmost dejection. He had been young, brave and non-conformist, and therefore was declared a rebel against the army government. There were two choices open to him: he could either surrender or leave the country. He chose the latter. Now, twenty years later, he was at the same place and nothing had changed; black rock was concealing the sun with the same greed and the Army had come into power again. He looked at the faces of the people; they had become paler. Their eyes were empty and deadpan; they were still in their soiled rags, scavenging through the trash for discarded crumbs. They were the citizens of a moth-eaten country where the land had become more chaotic and poverty-stricken. Their corrupt leaders had sucked the blood from their bodies and raped the country, over and over. Nature also had turned against them and there were floods, earthquakes, and famines. Now they were spiritless bodies, living for the sake of life: these neglected souls were the scapegoats of every government. Poverty was their crime and they were paying the penalty of that, as had their ancestors. Yet, they were so simple-hearted that any leader deceived them, because their memories were lost. Rafeel remembered the final meeting with his family, when he came out of his sanctuary, in the barren mountains. His father said: "My son, now I am too decayed to face the vulgar vultures." He looked at his father and there was more than pity in his feeble and frightened eyes. He was a strong man who had crossed swords with death. In his disappointment Rafeel said, "Is it more horrible than death? Is there something more powerful than your Herculean ideas, father?" His father did not reply, he just looked at him and turned his face with his head held low. The old man was not ready to accept the humiliation of defeat. It was something new and strange for Rafeel, like a nightmare. The fall of that great man hurt him and a horrible wave of guilt overwhelmed his broken heart. In the very next moment, he decided to leave that land. The old man spoke in a requesting manner. "You should leave, Rafeel, they are chasing you like a stray dogs." Before leaving home, he turned to his mother, who was sleeping. Her face was still towards the door; it seemed as if sleep overpowered her while she was continuously looking at the door but her face was not peaceful, even in sleep. He went close to her, sat near her bed for a while, kissed her hand silently and then, with a heavy heart, moved quickly towards his mare. He did not have the courage to look back. In those few steps he travelled the distance of centuries, the deep sorrow had shocked his soul. Soon his mare was running with utmost speed, leaving behind the barking dogs: masters of the land. On that same dark night, he crossed the border of his country as the thick clouds covered even the stars. Before disappearing, he viewed his homeland with dejected eyes. His soul shuddered at that helplessness and he grew weary of his useless existence. All the teachings of his father about bravery ended in smoke and he found everything shallow and empty. He was always hostile towards the withdrawn souls and now he himself was one of them. The bitter taste of defeat moved him to tears; those rolling tears were absorbed in the heart of earth. He saw the ashes of his dreams and could not stop his anguished thoughts. With deep disgust he spat in the air, saying: "This is for you the exploiters. Bravo! You have defeated your own land, your own men. But don't forget that this was our own fault that we tamed the monsters. You are the beasts who can never be trusted. I spit on you, you unfruitful and lustful men! I even hate to breathe in this land; woes for those who will live among you and your bad breath." This was an emotional yet sincere statement. He was one of those thousands of unknown political workers who were forced into exile, and the majority of them were killed, unnoticed and without any rewards, medals or fame. These people were committed to a cause and were led by the dreams of emancipation. Their free spirits and free hearts made their enemies violent. Rafeel was one of those free souls whose hearts drove them to miseries. Political leaders, on the other hand, were faint-hearted and self-serving. Later on, these selfless political workers came to know that the guardians of their commitment, were the agents of agencies and the establishment, but, it was too late then. What happened to Rafeel during twenty years of exile was another hellish story, but the most pathetic aspect was that all these sacrifices did not bring change in his country. |