The black sheep of our dysfunctional family.

Black sheep

I wish to apologise to the reader, for of the complete accuracy of the following account I cannot assure you with any certainty. The recollections I shall write on this parchment, here at the end of my life, to immortalise on these pages, have resided in some abandoned corner of my mind for a decade now, and in rummaging for them, I fear I have effaced them in some manner.

I take no pride in relating that I was an officer of the Pakistani Army during the time this account is set. Allow me to append to the last sentence, lest it be misconstrued, that the Pakistan Army, in its essence is an organisation of the highest moral order, it was not that it failed my expectations, I failed its. It stands for values any Pakistani, with a modicum of nationalism would fight for. This was not me. I, a profligate, when for the want of money, had exhausted all avenues, turned to the Army. Obviously, I found employment, where many a better person had found purpose.

And, so I fought on for rupees, figuratively of course - I rarely saw any belligerence - while others fought, literally of course, for their fellow men. My natural instinct to avoid action, saw me safely through many years, until finally during 2004, I was enlisted into a reserve regiment quartered in Islamabad, with the purpose of being employed in the case of a calamity, of a magnitude such that it would overwhelm the regular authorities. In this regiment, I had the pleasure of the company of men, more or less entirely like me. Completely callous towards any matters of importance and devoted to the matters of wastefulness.

If up till now, you have, obviously with reason, taken me as the protagonist, allow me to tell you the truth, with the introduction of the recent member of our regiment. This man, of twenty-something, had the disposition of a children's cartoon character. We mocked his being a "man" quite relentlessly. He had wished to fight for his country: to do his parents proud, inspire his brother, and some other cliché I have since forgotten. As idiotic as his innocence was, it was almost endearing. Though it would seem hard to believe, considering it invited much hate from other soldiers, including me. Ahmed was his name. He was, forgive the overused expression, the black sheep of our dysfunctional family.

It was an eerily suspended morning of the Ramadan of 2005. I had with great care, avoided fasting up till now, but for some reason was compelled to fast this once. Perhaps it was Ahmed. The cold sky shone above, the cold earth slept below. The breath of winter swept across. Death followed suit. The ground trembled with such great ferocity, that I feared it won't let until it has tasted blood. Of the events beyond this, the following were of note: the people in opposite extremity of city, great devastation had visited; we were sent to help. Needless to say we were reluctant, except Ahmed.

The scenes that waited us haunt me to date. We were directed towards a school that had imploded, and commissioned to aid in the rescue operation. The operation began with great rapidity, but it would not seem to admit any end. Removing the rubble was near impossible with the machinery we had, but the men were not abandoning hope; Ahmed most assuredly was not. Especially not when the cries of children beckoned us. I concede, for once I cared for someone other than myself.

We laboured on, removing children singularly, until another blood curdling announcement was made. Further quakes were felt, and the structure, began to rumble. It was feared that the building would disintegrate further, remaining here would be suicide. With this intelligence, the orders to stop the operation were bellowed to the soldiers.

We complied, with great cowardice, some disposed of their equipment for the fear it would slow them down. I gave up. A young child, whose moans indicated that he was no more than but a few minutes of digging from my reach. I was too much of a coward to stay with him however. Moving away a safe distance, I saw Ahmed running even further into the ruin. For all his honour, he refused to acknowledge a direct command. I was not ready for him to throw away his life for a cause lost. I followed after him, caught him along the waist, and with great power threw him in the other direction.

"No... please..." he screamed at me, so to astound me into losing balance. We collapsed onto the ground.

"Leave me!" I refused to relent to his selfless feelings, and held on.

"Please, one more!" he cried with such a ferocity that the ground was startled into greater convulsions.

He fell to hysteria, wailing like a mad man bereaved of what he was most fond:

"Please, let me save one more!"

"Just one more"

"I can save one more" he sobbed into my collar, "I can save one..."

He could not. The building gave way. No one beyond that was originally recovered, was rescued.

In conclusion, for the lack of any words better suited, though I acted with greater reason, I wasn't and never will be half the "man" Ahmed was.

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