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Remembering #PulwamaAttack #PulwamaMartyrs

The air feels too heavy right now. There are unsaid goodbyes and dreams suspended here. One side there is a chorus of cries and songs being sung for their bravery. Another side there is a deafening silence.
Emptiness, grief, pain, and loss collide with each other. Nothing happy is born out of this tragedy, just the remnants of bodies and blood! There are no winners or survivors here. This is a plain cesspool of tragedies.
Somewhere in the background, a distinct war cry can be heard. A six-year daughter was waiting for her dad to come home and sing for him the national anthem that she learned in her music class.
Somewhere at a home, a mother cradles photographs and memories of her son. She remembers singing him brave songs as lullabies and reminisces fighting with him to come back home.
Somewhere a newlywed wife instead of draping sindoor wears white but all she can see is blood and loss. There is a red rose pinned to her dupatta. She places it gently on what remains of him.
It's hard to count the shattered and scattered pieces of her dead husband and the broken and scarred pieces of her that are strewn on this floor.
There's red and black everywhere. This isn't home. This isn't my motherland. This isn't a battlefield. This is a graveyard of lost sons, husbands, fathers and friends that left too soon.
There is fire here that wishes that humanity was the only religion because terrorism has once again shown, that the next thing that's going extinct from the earth is humanity and the end is very near.
My words won't do justice nor will my tears but right now, right here I want to salute everyone who left without even saying goodbye.

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