Pen is stronger than sword ????

Zoya Khan

Hanging from the stationary stand, waiting to be owned came to an end as I was bought by a young handsome bearded fellow with a backpack on his shoulder. Little did I know that he was an amateur journalist who found immense joy in reporting the truth of his land. He was jealous of fame. Hereafter my journey started as a journalist .I promised to be faithful. I promised to give voice to the voiceless.

Gradually my fine point started getting bold. My journey started with scribbling headlines, short write-ups in Urdu and English both. Gradually he was turning hapless before the demand of the materialistic media. He found his dreams of MERC classrooms withered away. The real world of the newsroom was so cruel and cold.

We faced many ups and downs I penned the martyrdom of his closest friend. He was in pieces scattered all over the closed room. I have scratched the pages of the note pad. Instead of glorifying the sacrifice, I was covering with lies .

Moreover it was not only martyr of his friend but my brother too that lay silent in his pocket unlike me.
Hereafter my life was no more the same. Shame, regret, frustration and desperation was every day confronted . Rape, molestation ,fake encounters perturbed and provoked me to but I was hapless. I was more of a obituary writer than a journalist.

At such times he was very rough and rude with me but I knew he was kind at the core of his heart. I have accompanied him to graves and seen him shedding tears under the shade of the willow trees. Never had I dreamt such a dreadful life at the stationary corner shop. But I must confess I have learnt to brave the odds. The dark and scary nights of Habak did not scare me, when shadows hovered our window at midnight. Next morning I would pen down the cruelties and suffering of my land with more determination and confidence. I wrote down the lyrics of the demon’s dance on my land of saints. Thereafter we decided to shift in a small room of my office in the press enclave. We peeped out of the window to see the maddening crowd on the road. We both felt safe amidst the hanging faces of the silent computers and scattered newspapers in the office.

They seem to mock at us but we ignored them. and enjoyed each other’s company. We made silent promises to each other. I keep noting down his tears and smiles, fear and braving moment s in a diary so that he can be remembered even when he’s nomore with us. God forbid but life is not so secured as one wishes to be. We have spent some undisclosed nights behind the bars.

Nevertheless enjoyed the dates and almonds bribed to change the versions too.

Eventually he has turned out into a professional journalist of a conflict zone. I have great power to change the human heart and mind as believed, but it’s not so easy. I am believed to be stronger than sword and I wish it was the truth. But I have bowed down to secure the smile of his family and near ones.

Yes, I am a pen of a journalist from a conflict zone, Kashmir. Before I am maimed and threatened, I wished to be read. Before I am shot and silenced , my ardent desire is to unfold myself.

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