Writing on the Wall

The angels cried for her as she was too innocent and naive to understand that the parrots she just freed would be the cause of her death by torture. Zohra Shah was just an 8-year-old innocent girl when she succumbed to injuries in a local hospital in Rawalpindi. She was brought to the hospital by her killers. Soaked in her blood, the poor angel was unconscious and her entire body turned blue owing to merciless torture and later she died because she was young enough to tolerate the excruciating pain. She committed two crimes i.e. she freed the expensive parrots and she was a poor domestic worker. Her employer had beaten her like a beast. Imagine a minor girl being kicked again and again in her private parts for countless painful minutes for a crime which wasn’t a crime in her eyes. Being herself a captive, she couldn’t see the parrots in the cage sighing for freedom. Zohra Shah, an unpaid domestic worker, was killed in the affluent neighborhood of Rawalpindi, Pakistan’s fourth-largest c

Indus delta is also known as the vertebra of Pakistan’s ecosystem and economy, Indus delta is 5 th largest in the world and home to the 7 th largest mangrove forest. It forms where the mighty Indus River flows into the Arabian Sea, creating a complex system of swamps, streams and mangrove forests. A triangular piece of fertile land is created when the fast-flowing river deposits rich sediment as it empties into the sea. However, dam construction and mismanagement of water by the government have significantly reduced river flows, causing the delta to shrink, and threatening both human life and its ecology. The absence of flowing freshwater allows seawater into the delta, destroying the soil and the aquifers, making it unfit for humans, animals, or crops. Last year, The Third Pole reported that around 1.2 million people from the delta have already migrated to Karachi. For years, the communities in the delta have reported the loss of livelihood, an increase in disease, and forced migrat

Between my finger and my thumb    The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:    My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds    Bends low, comes up twenty years away    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills    Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft    Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade.    Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Di