Original Articles

The martyrs of Gilgit-Baltistan – by Amina Khan

Amina Khan, from Massachusetts USA, writes about the brutal killings of innocent passengers in Kohistan.


The sons of Gilgit Baltistan
The unlucky buses 
With the sons of Gilgit Baltistan 
They were coming home 
Unknown to their fate

Many with dreams 
To meet their families
They might have wanted to share 
Their spiritually journey to Tehran
Some have bought gift to their kids 
Some have got beautiful books of their Imam 
They were coming home 
Unknown to their fate 

Their families were waiting 
To hear the messages of their imam 
Or to listen
Some stories about Tehran 
Or some might have wanted to know
if they have visited the city Isfahan
Because they heard the ancient history of Iran 

How they could have been known 
Their journey will be short 
There were some devils waiting 
Wearing the cloths of our protector
They stop the bus…
Guns in their hand 
Asking to know what sect 
They belong 
They chose their victims 
In the power of gun
they call themselves 
the defender of Islam 

Open in the day light 
They brutally 
killed 18 sons of Gilgit Baltisatn 
Their only crime 
They belong to 
Different sects of Islam 
They were coming home 
Unknown to their fate

The mountains of Gilgit Baltisatn
With its breezing wind
Took the news of sorrow 
Spread it like booming fire 
Over the valleys and village
her sons have been brutally killed 
it has brought so much sorrows
and pain to bear 

Now there is fear and mistrust 
Among the sons of Gilgit Baltistan
The roads are empty 
The schools are closed 
Every door is shut 
Absurdity of Waiting
for the Unknown to happen 

my valley is burning again 
In the name of religion 
My brothers are getting killed 
It is becoming daily routine
And we are so used to these killing machines

They divide and they rule 
We are fool to follow their rules 
we are PPP,PMLN, MQM
JUI and now PTI
What we are not is 
The children of Gilgit Baltisatn 
We are read die
for those lords from the city
But could not protect our own brothers 

I think about those mothers 
Who have lost their young sons 
Those sisters’ brothers have been taken away
Those wives, who will live a life of widows 
Those children who will never see their fathers love 
Those fathers who’s right hand was cut away 

Some may say who cares,
or say ‘hey what’s the difference’.
But others are the wise,
we mourn in endless silence

About the author

Humza Ikram

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