The Screams Are That Loud

He was standing a couple of inches short of 6 feet with an aged pale dark skin drooping much like a weeping tree in autumn. A thick beard was neatly combed and the white of his entire attire was broken only by the red in the piece of cloth he had on his shoulder. Here I was standing before him and him standing before an embellished collection of Islamic literature.

“You are comfortable with the floor seating or should I call for a chair? Hammad, Hammad? ...”

I had to stop him there. I would much rather take the same seat as the person I would like to converse with.

“So you said you had to ask me certain questions pertaining to Saaleh?”

“Yes”, I continued as I made myself comfortable across from him in the small cubicle, “We gathered you gave him provisions for his way back that terrible night.”

“He was a whimpering six year old raw flesh when I discovered him outside our madrassa. I asked him if he were hungry or in danger. He disclosed how badly he had been wronged. Do you know his mentor was sleeping with him for an entire year and declared it his love for the child? I could empathize and decided to help. So I gathered some supplies for his trip and sat him on a bus that would take him straight down to his village. Since it was an eight hour ride, I dropped some cash in his pocket too. You said you were an investigative journalist, right?”

“Yes. So about Saaleh’s murder ...”

“Saaleh is dead!”

“Brutally gang raped some 5 kilometers short of his village and left bleeding to death, you didn’t read the news?”

“Saaleh is dead!”

Voice was shattered, face had a flush, dripping eyes, running nose, low chin, yet he managed to repeat again: “Saaleh is dead!”

“How well did you know him? Do you want some water? Take a breath.”

“I knew him for as long as that conversation at the madrassa had lasted followed by the ride to the bus terminal. But I was reluctant to admit then that I knew him well. And now my worst fear has come true! I knew him well because he was Daniyal and Daniyal I knew well. We were in Saania (second year of Dars-e-Nizami) when he mentioned it before our circle of friends how he had masturbated with a boy once. Every one of us said astaghfar (call for repent) and he over emphasized on how he had been repenting for his sin for a year already. At six, it was a long repent, so I thought. That same night it was six of them: they took turns on Daniyal and he was in sheer pain. I acted asleep. I was scared. So were the other three perhaps because the screams were loud. Humanity could not stay in slumber, the screams were that loud. When they were done they declared him an evil influence and threw him off the first floor. He was dead. I was left cold for life. It took me six long years after that to become an Aalim; another four, to become a Mufti. Yet here I stand losing another Daniyal.”

“Did you file a report for Saaleh?”

“Report what? He did not complain about any physical abuse. His mentor had gotten married now and left him on the streets to rot. He felt alone? Yes, Vengeful? No. See his mentor had sodomized him into a homosexual!”

“He was six, Sir, six!”

“So was Daniyal. So were Saqib, Adeel, Ahmed, Kamran, Mustafa, Rashid, Tayyab, ... they were all six”, the flush returned with cold sweat, “it was predestined, Allah's decree! What could I have done?”

“Raise a voice”, I continued, “1764 child abuse cases in this Islamic Republic of Pakistan during the first six months of 2017 is not enough of shamelessness that you still maintain a silence to guard your shame?” I was flushing now, “Raise a voice: 11 children a day losing their free will to perpetrators in 2016 is not atrocious enough to take a measure against this bestiality?” I was shaking now, “Raise a voice: More boys aged 0-5 sir, 0-5, become victims of sexual abuse than girls, in a country that calls sodomy a sin, is not painful enough to step out of your comfort zone”, I was incoherent to myself now, disenfranchisedly grieving: “Raise a voice!”

“How well did you know Saaleh? Do you want some water? Take a breath”, he was composed now.

It was time for me to droop, much like a weeping tree in autumn!