In The Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut ‘One guy I knew was shot in Dresden for taking a teapot that wasn't his,’ in rallies men and women were picked up from the curbs and tear gassed. Further on the military dictator raked up a long list of human rights violations.

The lawyers started a great push to get the dictator off his power seat. By God really was that what everyone hoped for? I asked as I joined a civil movement. The activists ordered a dharna, popular in the politics, a non-violent sit-in protest to receive fast justice, and a state response.

Even the elderly came with their gouts, arthritis, a hip replacement operation and sticks and crutches. Wobbling into the huge crowds embroiled into the dissent, apolitical joined in, too.

All the roads were blocked. But we always got to the Lahore High Court from the other way. “Why would they do that? “asks the international media. The women wore the status quo badge, designer bags and dyed straightened hair. Also, pushing into the mobs were the college boys and girls well prepared with their slogans and brightly painted placards. Then wearing black coats and with shirts, lawyers appeared with their slogans and everyone seemed to demand an ideal leader.

“There will the unmasking today. We will have dharna for justice, ”everyone hoped. “How many are prepared to die for you?” We had rehearsed the answer for that complex question in earlier meetings.

The police in newly pressed green uniform and guns cocked were ready to fire paraded before us. Then when ordered to fire, they pointed at us and chased us. Nobody said to us, “Run!” as in dharna, we stay put. They attacked us with batons and picked up the elderly women sitting on the curbs. However the young men took the barrage of batons. 

However the gauntlet thrown down, the mob met the challenge with vigor. The wrought iron gates of the Lahore High Court opened up. We rushed in and splashed my face with running water. The eyes reddened and lungs hurt. The faint ticking bombs exploded. The blazing fire lit up. The media clicked the lawyers reciprocating, pitching the bombs like cricket ball back to the police.

The media vans with satellite dish in the center of the skirmish lifted reporter in the cranes for an elevated view, reporting live on the television the proof of government’s human rights violation.

“Where are you going?” everyone asked us as the prisoners shuffled off in handcuffs. “To will the rascal out of the government.” The sloganeering, “Go Musharraf Go!” earlier had suddenly stopped, started again.  Yet the baton charge, mass arrests, rubber bullets and tear gassing kept on lobbing into the crowds.

The smoke and acrid fumes, watering eyes and hurting lungs didn’t stop people from the waving flags, placards or shouting slogans. We weren’t discourage even when carded, fired at and bundled up in police vans. We were well versed in our human rights.