The Markhor, bold and handsome, just like the country’s people, signifies the military brilliance of Pakistan. The Chukar. Said to be constantly gazing at the moon, embodies the love and passion the people of Pakistan so greatly have. These animals together display an image that perfectly describes my people, but this loving image is quickly fleeting. The Markhor is endangered, and so is the view of Pakistan. The beautiful land of this country, with creatures singing left and right and trees dancing to the music, has been ravaged by scorn. Those looking from the outside in have fabricated the appearance of my people into monstrosities who bear malice against the world when truly their souls are as soft and kind as the feather of a Chukar. As I see my family disparaged through the media’s lies, I see the Markhor’s hooves drive into the ground, ready to fight back, just like I am. The silky blood Allah so carefully chose for my body flows like a robust river, filled with health and prosperity, but I am being told to drain this blood for others who believe my body is now poisonous. The romantic language that so naturally leaves my parents’ tongue is now considered the code of a terrorist. Curiosity has turned to fear, and fear has become hatred. This manipulated illustration of my people, of my family, has brought them outlandish suffering, and I can only watch. I can only watch as my name, etched into the soil of Pakistan, is stepped on by those unworthy of such a gorgeous country. I can only watch as my name, embroidered into Pakistan’s smooth fabric, is ripped to shreds by the media. I can only watch as the Markhor dies and Chukar falls from the sky. 

But my people? They are not meek, they are not passive, and they will not allow their morale to be bruised by a computer screen. They do not need weaponized words of abhorrence to combat hatred; instead, they entwine their hands and stand in solidarity with love radiating off of them, that love with the power of the Markhor and heart of the Chukar.