I am the gravestone and the photograph

Every Friday, after the Juma prayer, people start filing into this small place at the foothills. Nobody in the community seems to miss this ritual. Other than the small mounds topped by two or three stones, a corridor stands out prominently. It is dotted with portraits of young students, ambitious bankers, committed teachers and promising lawyers on each side. Each image is full of life. A humming recitation spreads around and the sound of sobbing women can be heard clearly with the setting sun, which eventually dissolves into dusk. Welcome to the Hazara Graveyard.

The perpetrators of this violence have made life miserable for these Hazaras by impeding all escape routes. Caged between Alamadar Road and the neighboring Koh-i-Murdar, the choices for expansion are very limited. For the hills are not as lethal as men with differing ideologies, the Hazaras have opted to settle toward the foothills and trust Koh-i-Murdar more than the fellow beings. Those who cross Alamdar Road are believed to have breached the limits of safety and are constantly waited for ― dead or alive.

Mothers avoid sending children to school and professors now sit at home to plan their life in Australia or Punjab. Businesses have been heavily dented and Hazaras are not seen in Quetta -― a city which was once their identity. After every blast or incident of targeted violence, those outside the community hastily draw a line. When a Balochistan University bus was attacked, the non-Hazara parents decided to pull out their children from the transportation used by Hazara students. Moving with the Hazaras has become synonymous with inviting death.

Zia never wanted to go to Australia. Perhaps, no Hazara ever desires to step out of these winding lanes. The small houses here buzz with care and promise the unimaginable warmth of love. Intertwined lives in inter-woven streets are known for influencing decisions and reversing stances. But then one day, a flashing ambulance halted in front of their house, a blood-stained body was taken out and it changed everything. The city where Zia grew up had turned into a port city in a far-off land ― strange and hostile.

Zia had always seen his uncle dress impeccably but that day, his body was soaked in blood and riddled with bullets, his torn shirt spoke of the helplessness of a broad daylight murder. The corpse caught Zia off-guard and he changed his mind. The young heart fluttered as the bird they cage in every Hazara lawn. A jirga, similar to Qora el tai, where they decided the fate and faith of Hazara centuries ago in the vale of Bamiyan was replicated in Zia’s house. He silently left these 800,000 Hazaras who awaited death and joined those 60,000 who awaited Australian immigration. While many were privy to what may happen to Zia, no one could imagine the plight of his family.

After some scenic turns in the locality of Khushk Talaab (translating to dry pond in the local dialect), we reached Ibrahim’s house, guided by the kids at street-end.

In the veranda, a water tank occupied much of space alongside a homemade oven (tandoor) and a bicycle with a tilted stand. The simple yet elegant house, similar to those in Santa Fe (New Mexico), posed a question. Who would abandon such a still, laid-back lifestyle for long working hours at some metropolitan food chain in the ‘lucky country’ Down Under? The kids chased each other from one room to another. Their father was killed in Kuchlak few months ago. The question could never be asked.

Ibrahim was an employee of the police force ― an organisation that promises power. One day, he reviewed his recent employments and realised that his placements were constantly shrinking and he was being restricted to areas which are comparatively safe.

By Bilal Brohi

(Dawn)