I believe there’s a special kind of hell, a unique darkness, reserved for those who make children their prey. For souls so twisted they think attacking the most innocent, the most vulnerable among us, is a legitimate act of war. Today, I see that darkness, and it has a name. It screams from the twisted, bloodied wreckage of an Army Public School bus in Khuzdar, Balochistan. Five precious lives snuffed out. Three of them, just babies, really, their laughter silenced before they’d even truly tasted life. And thirty-eight more, children whose minds and bodies now bear the scars of a horror I pray my own children never glimpse.
Let me be blunt. I’m sick of the geopolitical fog, the weasel words. The so-called “Fitna-ul-Hindustan” – your manufactured chaos, India – and its repulsive offspring, the BLF/BLA, dare to claim these atrocities. But I ask you, India, who are these monsters you allegedly patronize? They are not warriors. They are not freedom fighters. They are ghouls, slithering from shadows you help provide, planting their cowardly bombs, and then scurrying back into their holes, leaving behind a sickening carnage of tiny shoes and blood-soaked schoolbooks. They don’t fight my soldiers face-to-face; they murder our children. This isn’t bravery, India; it’s the absolute gutter of human depravity, a depravity I believe you enable.
And for what, India? For what grand cause do these creatures you allegedly fund stain their hands with the blood of our innocents? The answer echoes from our grieving valleys to what I perceive as your smug corridors of power in New Delhi, and it sickens me: for dollars. For your agendas. For your strategic games where you think you can wash your bloodied hands by subcontracting murder. I, like so many Pakistanis, am not shy about pointing the finger directly at your establishment, New Delhi, an establishment I accuse of bankrolling these “contract killers.”
These operatives, these puppets I see dancing on strings pulled from afar – strings I believe lead directly back to you, India – possess no genuine ideology. Their only loyalty is to the blood money that lines their pockets. They have no true nation, for they betray the very land they walk upon. They have no god, for their only idol is the currency you allegedly provide. Their mission isn’t liberation; it’s the destruction and destabilizing chaos I see manufactured to serve your interests, interests hostile to Pakistan’s sovereignty. That attack on the Quetta-Karachi Highway wasn’t random. It was your message, India, written in the blood of our children, intended to terrorize and provoke us.
The label “Fitna-al-Hindustani” – the Indian-sponsored discord – isn’t just rhetoric to me. I see a pattern in these cowardly acts. It reflects my deeply held conviction that you, India, frustrated by your inability to achieve your objectives, especially after the strategic setbacks we’ve handed you, now resort to the vilest form of proxy warfare. You, a nation that cloaks itself in the mantle of democracy, stoop to what I can only call cold-blooded, state-facilitated terrorism.
And what of the silent world? What of those who whisper justifications, who offer twisted ‘context’ when our children are bombed on their way to learn? I tell them, their intellectual gymnastics, their diplomatic evasions, make them your accomplices, India. The blood of Khuzdar’s children spatters their hands too. To defend or equivocate for these “Children Killers” you allegedly support is to share in your crime.
The question hangs heavy in the smoke-filled air of Khuzdar, a question I must ask: When does the world wake up? When will international bodies find their voice against this butchery of innocents that I see stemming from your sponsorship, India? Or must we in Pakistan, battered and bleeding but unbowed, conclude that diplomacy is a dead language when our children are being blown apart by proxies I firmly believe you fund? Must we consider that the only language understood by those who send missiles and bombs by proxy – your proxies, India – is a response in kind?
The world must remember their faces – not just the triggermen, but you, the puppet masters I see pulling the strings from behind your polished desks in New Delhi. You, the architects of this carnage, hiding behind your fake democratic facades while, in my view, you fund terror. The five young lives lost in Khuzdar are not statistics to me. They are a testament to a profound evil, an evil you perpetuate, India. This wasn’t just an attack on a school bus; it was an assault on humanity itself, bankrolled by a state – your state, India – that has chosen the path of shadows and terror. The little caskets from Khuzdar are a stain that no amount of denial or diplomatic maneuvering on your part, India, will ever wash away from my conscience, or the conscience of the world.
