Painted Red.

(in response to an extract on the creation of Bangladesh from the book 'the clash of fundamentalisms' by tariq ali)

As I sit down to write today I cannot find the words to convey what I need to say. My vision is blurred as the keyboard is stained by the blood dripping from my fingertips. My knuckles feel like jelly. And as I look up at the blank screen again I feel it clouded by a haze. It is painted red. Red so deep and intense that I cannot see in it the words I type anymore. I shake my head to clear my vision, blink my eyes to see better. I feel warm moisture oozing from my eyes. Is my vision blurred or is reality tainted today?

I lose track of all ideas and thoughts I had intended to tie to words. I feel a burden on my soul: a heavy sinking feeling in my chest. I feel my divine chastity being washed away with filth. My purity polluted by the remnants of my own conduct. I find my virginity adulterated by the desire of wild hounds: beasts driven by greed and blood lust. I feel my breath choked by smoke rising from all around. I can hear screams. Are these the cries of my own conscience or are these people slaughtered long ago? I feel my spine quivering in disgust.

As I try to muster the courage to take blame for my deeds, accept all that I have been party to, I feel it is too late. It is too late for remorse today. It is too late to apologize. My conscience has slumbered and so have my pious brethren. The gods have let us transgress too long. We have transgressed too far.

There is no going back today. Our tears cannot cleanse the blood off our hands. Our prayers cannot hush the cries of the innocent. We must reap the evils of our own compliance. Our sins must not be recounted. Our wrongs cannot be amended. We are beyond mercy. We must not be forgiven. We will not be forgiven.