The Medicine for Apathy

Source: khybernews.tv

Can you lose the ability to sense the pain of other people, if only temporarily?

And does that always necessarily mean that you are an awful person?

A depressed prefrontal cortex under the influence can be a good excuse.

But what is the excuse for so many commentators failing to acknowledge the pain of protesters in Parachinar in response to the suicide bombings targeting the Shia community.

For refusing to accept the condition of the people perishing in the Bahawalpur oil tanker tragedy.

For wilfully overlooking the tragedy of the displaced Syrian people.

For ignoring the plight of the people of Gaza Strip deprived of water and electricity.

For being glad to see Mishal Khan die a painful death just because he said something offensive, which they say he didn’t.

Maybe there should be medicine for that.

But there is no good in passing moral judgment when you are guilty of the same.

Why pick and choose tragedies, just like the people you are pointing fingers at.

Why talk about people abroad when I don’t even sympathize with the person living next door.

Why would you want to save humanity if it is people that you just can’t stand.

The fact of the matter is that I do not remotely feel the pain and agony of all those people. Even if I try.

I don’t find in myself to be bothered enough to go out for the pain and loss of so many people.

And how many causes can you possibly choose.

 

Maybe there should be medicine for that.

 

A Self-Inflicted Loss

Source: vector-eps.com

Source: vector-eps.com

It happened to me again.

All over again, deja vu. History repeating itself.

Just when I thought I had learned all my lessons. Just when I thought that it would never happen to me again, it just did.

No, it wasn’t an accident. Or maybe it was. But it was certainly my own doing. My own fault.

I shattered my world with my own hands.

I did this to myself. A self-inflicted wound.

A self-inflicted loss.

I am the architect of my own misery.

With false pride, anger, hubris, decadent complacency and impulsive misery,

I have broken the glass of my memories, while I could have saved it, while planning to save it, and nothing can put it back together now.

All I have now is regret. Regret, and false solace.

A suspended consciousness.

I’m helpless, longing for somebody to help me… though I know no one can.

At least somebody to reach out to. Though with never the right answers.

There is no right answer.

I’m helpless, but not regretting existence, or probably doing so.

I know nothing is more precious than life, and love of the loved ones.

Nothing is more important.

 

That’s what keeps you going, to let you fight another day.

To let you live another way.

 

Selling Misery

Source: newstimes.com

What happens when they start dealing in misery? What if their bread is earned when people bathe in blood and tears? Nothing much, it makes some very engaging and entertaining television. Not implying that they cause the misery themselves, although you could always speculate, but the world has enough troubles to keep people occupied at the same time anyway. After all, it is a huge planet. But it is a small world.

Everyone seems to know everything, even though they understand nothing. But at least everyone gets to know what is happening around. The media are there to tell you that. News every second of the day. Well, if you look at the world headlines, they hardly stretch past three stories, but of course, that is not the case with the domestic issues, which in case of certain countries, as the ones located in the subcontinent are rather of a violent and unpleasant nature.

There are crimes and misdimeanors and then there are natural calamities, floods, earthquakes, plagues and epidemic and accidents. There also is terrorism, the latest spice in the soup of misery, the one we sip day after day, night after night. The one that tastes unbearably horrible, but the one that we have grown addicted to. Like a junkie who cannot afford to buy his favorite drug anymore and suffices himself on whatever thrill he can find.

Writing about misery is like waging wars. You need to find some evil to write about, to whine about, just like you need to create some evil to wage war against. Oh, pardon me, find evil, or realize its existence wherever it maybe and in whatever form, especially Weapons of Mass Destruction. But there is always enough supply of what is considered to be evil in our world, if anyone sets their mind to write about it. Their task is much simpler than that of the general or the politician or the diplomat-statesman.

But then again, there are the overzealous, and then there is professional competitiveness. The eagerness to cover and report the story first, the eagerness to determine the cause and effect first, the eagerness to declare the verdict first and most of all, the eagerness to sell the misery first. The winner takes it all and the early bird catches the worm. You need to be at the right time, at the right place, with the right words. Just leave any sense of civility at home, if you happen to have it.

Some people died of a terrorist bomb blast. Oh, jolly good. But strategy first. You, move to the crime scene, you, the hospital, you, call the buffoon Interior Minister, you, call the retarded Chief of the Police, you, call the sadist analyst, you, shoot the corpses, you, write copy and you, read the bloody news. And tell the marketing guy this is why the headlines should just follow that ad that we run every hour.

But don’t get me wrong.

They are doing an excellent job.

Somebody has got to do it anyway.

People need to be informed of what is going on in the world.

But of course there comes a time when it is all too obvious that too much information for comfort is being attempted to be published. Something that certainly no one wants to know, or even see.

But it is information nevertheless.

The more information, the better.

Remember that, always.

As news reporters, we intend to bring you the very emotions that people go through when they lose a loved one.

We go beyond impersonal facts.

We bring you, the reality.

And did we say that we will entertain you as well.

By humiliating them.

Exhibit A.

INT. BILAL’S HOUSE OR THE SCENE OF MOURNING – DAY

We see a crowd gathered around a house. We walk in. We see a corpse lying in the middle of the room, clad in a white shroud, surrounded by women of all ages, who are wailing and crying. We see our correspondent.

 CORRESPONDENT

  Viewers, as you can see the corpse of 10 year old Bilal and you would also

 be able to listen to the wailing of his family. He died in a bus accident that

took place yesterday, killing 30 more like him. A very emotional scene, I

have to say. Let us go and talk to the family to learn how exactly they

are feeling.

Walks up to the crying mother.

                      CORRESPONDENT (continued)

What exactly happened here? How did he die? Although I know.

  MOTHER

  (traumatized, wailing)

 (Says something incomprehensible) Bus accident. (Continues saying

something incomprehensible).

CORRESPONDENT

Viewers, you just listened to the mother of the child. Nerve-wrecking

scenes here. Let us now talk to the little sister of the kid to get an idea

 of how exactly she is feeling.

Walks up to a five year old girl who looks shell shocked. The correspondent thrusts his microphone in front of her face. She starts staring at it.

                      CORRESPONDENT (continued)

 How are you feeling?

A man standing beside the girl, whose legs are the only things visible in the scene, pushes the girl to speak. No response.

                      CORRESPONDENT (continued)

 Do you miss your brother?

 LITTLE GIRL

  Yes.

SLOW MOTION.

We hear a depressing sitar or sarangi Indian classical music tune to go with the sentimental response.

CLOSE UP.

We see the corpse of the young Bilal pictured in a psychedelic fashion.

                      CORRESPONDENT (continued)

Little Bilal wanted to be a pilot in the Air Force. But now, he cannot.

He pauses and smiles.

                      CORRESPONDENT (continued)

Because he is dead.

And remember, you saw this exclusive report first on <insert name> Channel.

Stay tuned for more action.

I could make a few bucks selling this scene and these lines to a local news channel. But then again, it would be plagiarism.

I stole the idea from one of them anyway.

All the Lonely People….

Charlton Heston once said, “The internet is for the lonely people…”

The very first time when I read those words, I was astounded at the discernment of the old man.

In fact, I wonder if this tool, which the lonely people use to hide the saddest fact of their lives, is even creating more loneliness. The question to ask is whether those who were not lonely, have isolated themselves from their world or not due to the introduction of this new dimension in their lives.

I still strongly believe that many people prefer the old-fashioned ways to communicate than the modern technology such as internet and social networking, although they may not be as hip. The only benefit to technology in communication is that it can bridge physical distances. But what about emotional distances?

The best way to communicate is to speak face to face, or even more than that, if you know what I mean. And there is simply no substitute to the human touch, the cure of the human misery, depression and loneliness.

We are hiding behind our elaborate modes of communication.

We don’t reach out. Or feel too frightened to. Something that malfunctions our minds.

We should not complain about how miserable our lives are then.