Dying Hope

Dear Diary,

               Today,  Once again, Quetta's air is filled with the smells of our blood, with cries of old parents and young children who were eagerly waiting to receive their loved ones ( and now to have wait for rest of their lives). This time, the terrorists have chosen Taftan (A Pak-Iran Border Town), for their tickets to "Paradise" by blowing themselves up, and killing more than 30 pilgrims. What even more painful is the silence of our government in general, and our otherwise very loud media (As people turn to these institutions for help). Those of us, who have lost their faith in the government, and do not expect justice (after more than a decade of no actions against terrorists, and prevailing suspicions that our government are actually courting the terrorists organizations that she had supposedly have banned) turn for help to the countries that champion Human Rights. It is quiet natural to follow the light at the end of tunnel.  But it is really heartbreaking that these helpless people do not find peace out of the the tunnel either. The people who flee the killing grounds of their homelands find themselves with new sets of problems that the governments are creating for the asylum seekers. It is like jumping from one frying pan to another fry pan. I am just a teenage, and as are expected from me, may not have a good understanding about the functioning of world at large, but I am finding my hopes at the death bed. I appears to me that like everything else hopes are for sale, and only those who can afford, can buy. Our people who can't afford hope in their own country (You know the rest, my dear diary, don't you?)