I was raised in one of those cultures, where youngsters, as young as 12, are often employed in factories and hotels to support their families. Where kids are butchered for their organs and their bodies are left for the scavengers to feast on. Isn’t it so terrible that we discard infants as waste or garbage due to concerns about upkeep? It’s insulting that educating a girl is frowned upon, however, selling her into prostitution is commonplace. Where a young man of 18 years is shot while trying to steal a phone. The law is trampled underfoot as the son of a politician howls like a wolf and murders the family’s last hope. They want to be treated like royalty, yet the judiciary is only ranked 120th in the world. A judicial system where the rich can get their day in court while the poor are left to perish as they wait. I was born in a cruel region where the farmer refuses to pay his reward and the poor suffer as a result.
I still remember a boy who used to stand outside a small hotel near my street. His hands were always covered in dust, his clothes worn out, and his eyes far too tired for someone his age. While other children carried school bags, he carried trays heavier than his dreams. People passed by him every day, some noticing, most ignoring. I never knew his name, but I never forgot his silence. He wasn’t just a boy, he was a reflection of a broken system that quietly steals childhoods.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of world we have built, where innocence is punished and cruelty is rewarded. Where survival itself is seen as an achievement rather than a basic right. It forces you to question humanity, whether we have truly lost our ability to feel, or if we have simply chosen to ignore the pain that surrounds us.
We speak of progress, development, and modern society, but what progress is it if it leaves so many behind? What kind of system allows power to silence truth, and wealth to purchase justice? A place where laws exist, but fairness does not. Where voices are raised, yet never heard.
Yet even my little eyes can see that better times are ahead with the coming of spring. While everyone eagerly waits for the new golden age to start, I believe that change will not come all at once, but in small, quiet ways. Like the courage of a girl who chooses education despite resistance. Like the honesty of a man who refuses to bow before corruption. Like the voices that are no longer afraid to speak, even when the world tries to silence them.
The police, fire departments, hospitals, schools, and other essential social services will continue to run with full staffing levels in a community where the law is fair and the people are safe. A place where justice will no longer depend on status, and safety will not be a privilege. A place where children will carry books instead of burdens, and dreams instead of fears.
Because even in the darkest times, hope refuses to die. And maybe, just maybe, the spring we are waiting for is not far away. When that day comes, it will not only mark the end of suffering, but the beginning of a world that finally chooses humanity over power.
Fizza Qaisar is a journalist who writes about social issues and human struggles.
