More often than not, justice in Pakistan resembles a scavenger hunt rather than a fundamental right. The victim raises the claim of the culprit, holding it astonishingly high, while not a single person dares to question the integrity of either. Abundance is reserved for the reprobate, while remembrance haunts the wounded — a sight that corrupts the masses. Sanity no longer resides in the air, suffocating only those who dare to preserve it. Yet, no one is willing to suffocate.

History shows apathy to be elemental; looking away has become a mark of sophistication. The horror of one tragedy gets overthrown by that of another before the ink in the press settles. The affected left defenceless before a system stacked up against them. What is not gazed upon ceases to exist — nonexistent is the suffering of all below. What is set eyes upon is entertainment — exhibition is the spectacle of pain above, sizzling and prepared to be gnawed at. An everted pair of eyes found nowhere — nor a daring gaze to meet the truth. Fiends for the sight of blood, having seen and bathed in it so often, find the warmth desirable. Each collar is tainted, every wound left open, and slates unearthed, unclean.

Noor Mukadam and countless ‘casualties’  stare wide-eyed at the grim reminder of how swiftly justice is shelved; they watch as they become national news only to be forgotten in  courts days later – a rank most of them refuse to even dream of. Victims are reduced to names in files and ephemeral flashes on screens.

Tragedy gets stocked up in a warehouse of entertainment, shipped off as the next batch gets prepared. Realisation of destruction fails to settle in even when the ‘tragedies’ become statistics and victims begin to overgraze at the promised greenery of this land. 

Credibility is taken for granted, positions of power so often abused, the corruption in the system so deeply rooted that gazing into the abyss of reality historically proves to be a fatal act. Honour is a cheap suit on faceless creatures reeking of authority and liquor-soaked capital as the intoxicants seem to equally affect the sober walking the streets unaware. The distortion of fairness is so ingrained in the culture that it becomes invisible to the masses, who, too numb to care, adopt a passive role in the decay. It becomes fairly easy to turn a blind eye to what one simply wishes wasn’t there. 

Unrest isn’t born, nor is the need for change, recoil isolates itself into undoing. The cycle remains unbroken; the air thickens and the idea of escape fades into impossibility. Tormentors stand taller, perched on pedestals of silence. Justice gets shelved, its whispers left unheard. Collective descent into apathy spreads its roots deeper, the weight of the land multiplying as no one dares to meet the gaze of the inevitable drowning.