Here, I want to confess something. My memories are haunted by the sight of a mother in my locality who was dying to see her son. It still seems to me like this happened only a few days back. I still remember the name of the boy – Gowher. I can’t forget him. He was wandering around the warehouse of our locality but was never to return home. I remember his mother walking barefoot up to the gate of her house, pace down the street for some moments, look both ways and then return. She would repeat this again and again. Screaming for her son, shouting at her husband, “He used to come before the sunset, where is he? Go and find him.” Gowher used to play with me but now they tell me he is dead. But no one can get away from the truth and the truth, in this case, was that he was most probably killed by the Indian forces. “How can I stay silent after witnessing the harsh treatment of my parents and other family members by the Indian forces? It would be shameful of me,” said one of the re