I stand by the window.
Below, people are running. Some scream, some drag others along, some fall. A machete is raised. Its blade gleams in the sunlight.
I watch. But do nothing.
My words are silent now. The black diary lies open. The pen rests quietly to one side.
I’d begun to write.
“My beloved city…”
My birthplace, my beloved city. I could write hundreds of words about it.
I say I could, but I no longer can. Not quickly. Not easily.
The city I knew has changed. It was never wrapped in gold, perhaps, but it was never this chaotic. Now, the city I once knew like the lines of my own palm feels unfamiliar.
The country feels alien.
After the title, “My beloved city,” I can’t write another word.
The sound of bullets makes the glass tremble. A child cries; his mother clutches him and runs. I know I could write this scene. But will writing change anything?
My country, my beloved city, now speaks in the language of bullets and blades.
I only listen. And remain silent.
NOTE: The author says of today’s essay, which she crafted as flash fiction: “It is a reflection of my heartbreak and helplessness as I witness the political violence currently unfolding in Bangladesh, my beloved homeland.”
More Anguish
Social Sadism: A Modern Plague
