As the news and social media platforms relentlessly inundate our screens and overwhelm our senses with images of lifeless bodies and their blood-spattered remains from the deadly conflicts raging in the world, the lines of a Sindhi poem by the late Tanveer Abbasi haunt me deeply:
"Hee kehnjo lash aa jang jey maidan ma.n?"
"Whose corpse is this on the battlefield?"
The poem begins with these probing questions:
“Which side had more power?
Which, less?
Who bled more?
Who, less?
Who bore severe damages?
Who, fewer?
Who suffered heavy wounds?
Whose were lighter?
Who became bloated with hubris?
And who had to bow their heads in shame?
On who did rain more bombs?
And whose houses got razed?
On whose side more children were orphaned?
On whose side stood the merciful god?
On which side there were fewer fires burning?
On which side there were lesser sighs?
On which side there was less pain?
And on which side less helplessness?
Whose corpse is on this battlefield?
Has his side won?
Or have they lost?
Has he become a martyr?
Or has he been deposited in hell?
Who was showered with blessings?
And who, with curses?”
In the last verse of the poem, Tanveer presents his response to these searching questions:
“It is immaterial whether he has won or lost.
This is my dead body.
This is your corpse.
It isn’t he, who has won or lost.
It is you and I, who have been defeated.
Humanity has been defeated,
And with bowed head stands Mercy.”
Tanveer’s poem reminds me of a poem by the Nobel laureate Joseph Brodsky, where he recounts the commonplace - even trivial- pursuits of civilians who are indifferent to the horrors and fatalities of those luckless ones whose lives are ravaged by war:
"Bosnia Tune
As you pour yourself a scotch,
crush a roach, or scratch your crotch,
as your hand adjusts your tie,
people die.
In the towns with funny names,
hit by bullets, caught in flames,
by and large not knowing why,
people die.
In small places you don't know
of, yet big for having no
chance to scream or say good-bye,
people die.
People die as you elect
brand-new dudes who preach neglect,
self-restraint, etc. –whereby
people die.
Too far off to practice love
for thy neighbor/brother Slav,
where your cherubs dread to fly,
people die.
While the statues disagree,
Cain's version, history
for its fuel tends to buy
those who die.
As you watch the athlete’s score,
check your latest statement, or
sing your child a lullaby,
people die.
Time, whose sharp bloodthirsty quill
parts the killed from those who kill,
will pronounce the latter band
as your brand."
Both Tanveer and Brodsky present the humanist’s point of view when reflecting on the casualties of war. Both poets motivate us to consider how we - even as mere bystanders, perhaps even residents in lands far distant from the war zone - are nevertheless complicit in the killings, not the least by withholding compassion for the tragic fate of those who we believe are not ‘us.’
With the recent global proliferation of wars, corporate-funded hate mongering against various target groups, resurgence of fascism, and acts of terrorism that threaten to further accelerate, many feel that we are living through acutely dispiriting and demoralizing times. It’s not just unlawful wars flouting the rules-based world order with complete impunity that have ruptured our bonds of trust, but also the appalling disregard for the fate of the Earth and its inter-dependent life-forms that make us fearful of the future. Undeniably, we are in the throes of a tumultuous global upheaval: value systems and norms of humane behavior are crumbling in the very societies that had presented themselves - and we were gullible enough to believe them - as the paradigms of human progress.
Therefore, with anxiety and trepidation, we move into a new year. Poets and Seers have always provided guidance at such troubled times. For myself, I carry in my heart the lines of a haiku by Tanveer Abbasi:
Chhaniyo babura jo buur
Peelo theewo charo
Vanyana poye bhi duur.
("Scattered babur blossoms
Yellow, the dirt path
Yet a long way to go")
Tanveer’s haiku urges that we have unfinished task at hand; we cannot indulge in pausing and appreciating nature’s beauty, however attractive; we have a long way to go before we realize our civilizational dreams. The imagery of his lines conjure the summer counterpart to the winter portrait painted in the oft-quoted lines by the British bard Robert Frost:
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
(from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening")