An evening in Lagos - a short story

Pic: Boko Haram soldiers

By Shevlin Sebastian 

It is a pleasant evening. On the pavement, children are walking, holding their mother’s hands. A gentle breeze is blowing. Birds are chirping in the trees. There is a white wall on one side. A Toyota Corolla comes slowly from the opposite direction. Two bearded men are sitting in front. They are in their late twenties. The non-driver is smoking a cigarette. What the pedestrians do not know is they have a bomb in the back seat. The detonator is on the floor in front. 

Behind the wall is the US Consulate in Lagos, Nairobi. The Stars and Stripes flag is proudly flying in front of the building. 

These men belong to the Boko Haram Islamic militant organisation. They are going to stop the car in front of the gate, detonate the bomb, and kill as many security guards and visitors as possible. These men are planning to give up their lives. Of course, they will attempt to ram through the barricade and head as close to the building as possible.

Will it work?

They are not sure. 

They want to do a high impact bomb blast. This will guarantee worldwide press coverage. They also wanted to embarrass the Nigerian Army, which has killed many of their members. 

As the men watched a few mothers go with their children in the opposite direction, one of them thought, ‘This is your lucky day.’ 

Boko Haram had killed over three lakh children in various terrorist incidents. 

Suddenly, there is a sound like a cracker bursting. The car stops. The men get out to check. 

It is a flat tyre.

Now there is no question of ramming the barricade. Both did not know how to change the tyre. They are not car mechanics, but suicide bombers. One of them called their handler and informed him of the situation. The handler shouted, “You fool! Abort the mission. One of you can take the luggage and return to the base. The other can wait while we send a mechanic.”  

Thus, nobody died. 

Up in the heavens, God gives a small smile. 

But He knows the evil forces will not give up. One day, a bomb will burst. But at least, it is not today. 

There is peace in Lagos.

Swimmer Loraine Verghese accused coaches and swimming officials of sexual harassment. This was in 1992

By Shevlin Sebasian 

Women wrestlers have recently levelled sexual harassment allegations against Brij Bhushan Sharan, the Wrestling Federation of India President. When I read the news, I felt a sense of déjà vu.

In December, 1992, I travelled from Kolkata to Bangalore. The plan was to do a profile of retiring champion swimmer Loraine Verghese for Sportsworld magazine

During the course of the interview, the conversation veered into a different direction. Loraine alleged that she and the other swimmers faced sexual harassment. The perpetrators: coaches and other officials.

It was the first time ever in India that a sportsperson was alleging sexual harassment. In a sense, unwittingly, I got one of the biggest scoops in Indian sports journalism.

Loraine decided to speak out, since her career was coming to an end. She wanted to study to become a doctor.

Since I tended to do long stories, I began recording my conversations from a very early stage of my career. Thus, this conversation with Loraine was also recorded. Picture of the cassette is also shown.

When the interview was published, it created a furore.

Politicians raised the issue in Parliament. They brandished copies of the magazine. There was talk of setting up an inquiry committee. But at that time, and even now, politicians ran all the sporting associations. So, the matter died down. They did not want to shoot themselves in the foot.

If you want to go to the subject directly, separate images of that section is there. Look for a sub-heading titled, ‘On the sexual harassment that she has faced’.

The article appeared in the issue dated December 16, 1992.

When time runs out (reflections on death)

Pics: Russian leader Joseph Stalin; Sri Yukteswar Giri (left) with Swami Paramahansa Yogananda; outer space

By Shevlin Sebastian

As you get older, it seems like every month there is news about somebody passing away. Almost all of them are relatives, many of them a generation or two above me. In earlier times, people attended funerals. But now that everybody is busy, you can come in before the burial, pay respects, offer condolences to the family and leave. A stream of relatives and friends arrive at the house as early as 6.30 a.m.

Usually, the person is placed in a mobile mortuary in the living room. Did the deceased ever imagine that he would be lying there? (for ease of writing, using one gender).

It was a room where he may have greeted many visitors. He may have exchanged small talk and fed them tea and snacks. Laughter might have erupted now and then. But now, he lay still and unmoving, in a horizontal position, his eyes closed. People came and stood near him in silence and stared at him 

Later, they spoke to family members who recounted the last few days before the person passed away. People listened sympathetically. Many of them have had similar experiences: of their parents passing away, or elder siblings and relatives.

What thoughts go through people’s minds when they stare at a dead body?

Mostly, you recall the person when he was alive. The last time you met him. What type of person was he?

“There was always a smile on his face,” said one onlooker after glancing at a body and strolling away to talk to a friend. “That is so rare. People look so glum and tense these days.”

And these are common responses which one hears at many funerals:

“Oh, I met him a week ago. Who would have thought he would pass away so quickly?”

“Nobody told me he was gravely ill. The family did not inform anybody.”

“He looks ravaged.”

“Looks the same.”

“He has lost weight. Poor fellow.”

“Don’t mind me saying this. He was a bit of an asshole. A person who only cared about money. He sold his soul. Now what’s he going to do with all that cash? Take it with him?”

This last sentence was said with a smirk.

In my experience, very few dead people have any expression on their faces. It is rare to see someone with a smile. You always get the impression that they are looking at something that has transfixed them a couple of moments before they died. They are no longer aware of their family members or their life on earth.

When you looked at a dead body, it reminded you of your mortality. You say to yourself, ‘If I died at the age this person died, I only have 10, 15, or 25 years left.’ 

That can leave you depressed. Time is running out. The number of years has decreased. In middle age, I am now on the downward slope to oblivion.

Once when I was viewing a dead body, a thought arose in me.

How many breaths does a man take before he takes his last breath?

According to Google, if you live till 80, you will take 672,768,000 breaths.

A person may experience lakhs of thoughts in his lifetime. So, what was the last thought the person had before he died? Was it something random, like, ‘Today is such a hot day.’ or ‘I can’t bear this pain.’ Or was it an angry thought: ‘I hate myself.’

Russian leader Joseph Stalin passed away on March 5, 1953, at 74, following a stroke. His daughter Svetlana Alliluyeva wrote about the moments before his death: 

“The death agony was horrible. He choked to death as we watched. At what seemed the very last moment, he opened his eyes and cast a glance over at everyone in the room. It was a terrible glance, insane or angry, and full of the fear of death. 

“His suffering came because God grants a peaceful death only to the just.”

A transition to the other world can be difficult. Too many people suffer before they can pass. A director of a palliative care home told me that in 30 years, he had seen only five percent who passed away easily. The rest had to suffer. So when I hear news that somebody has passed away suddenly, I always say to myself, ‘God has been kind.’ 

And what happens on the other side?

The other day, I read an extract from ‘Autobiography of a Yogi’ by Swami Paramahansa Yogananda. In it, he talks about his just-deceased guru Sri Yukteswar Giri.

Sri Yukteswar appeared in flesh-and-blood form in a Mumbai hotel bedroom on the afternoon of June 19, 1936.

Sri Yukteshwar explained to his disciple about life on the other side.

“Prophets are sent on earth to help men work out their physical karma, so God has directed me to serve on an astral planet as a saviour.

“It is called ‘Hiranyaloka’ or Illumined Astral Planet. There, I am aiding advanced beings to rid themselves of astral karma and thus attain liberation from astral rebirths.”

So, what do you think of this? Some of you may be sceptical, but I like to keep an open mind. The more open it is, the more you can absorb messages from all sources.

Nobody can say with certainty what happens on the other side. All we can be sure of is that there is some sort of energy there. Bernard Harris, the first African-American to go into space, said, while on a visit to Kochi, “In space, everything is perfect. The planets, the solar system and the galaxies – all this did not happen by accident. There has to be some higher power which orchestrated all this. My faith in God deepened.”

Many of us will encounter this higher power only after we die. It is only the most revered saints and seers who get a glimpse of it while they are alive.

Perhaps, our one way of paying respect to this energy is to stay positive all the time. I feel that makes the energy happy. This may also increase our chances of dying with a smile on our face.

The life of a hit man -- a short story

By Shevlin Sebastian

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon. The television sets in the various apartments nearby were silent. It seemed everybody was having an afternoon siesta.

A man stood at the door of a ground-floor apartment in Kolkata. He was wearing a T-shirt hanging outside his trousers. His name was Raju ‘Pehelwan’ Das. The door was closed, and he was in the bedroom. He took off his T-shirt and placed it on the clothes stand. He then changed into white shorts.

He has thick biceps and triceps. A smooth brown body. Entering the kitchen, he opened the fridge, took out Tropicana juice, and filled a glass with it. He sipped from it as he moved to the living room and switched on the TV. Aware that there was silence all around, he kept the volume on low and watched an English film on Netflix.

Pehelwan was a hit man for an underworld gang. He lived alone in Kolkata. His family lived in a village in Midnapore, 128 kms away. Every month, he sent money through Google Pay. Pehelwan has a wife, two sons and a daughter. They were all in college. Once a month, he took a train and headed back home.

The family lived comfortably. Nobody knew what he actually did. He has told the village that he was doing business. And he did not clarify what business it was. Because of his body, people were intimidated. They didn’t ask questions.

Since he was quiet and well behaved, nobody suspected anything.

In his job, he can be violent, slapping opposing gang members with ferocious slaps. He was a mean boxer and could trade jabs with the pick of them.

Pehelwan did not drink, smoke or take drugs. But like all men, he had one vice. He kept a mistress in a flat and made love often. He paid her bills and kept her happy. She was in her late twenties, a widow who did not have any children. At the moment, she was happy with the arrangement. Pehelwan has interacted with many women. So, he is not sure when she will insist on getting married and having a child with him.

He was sure he would ignore these suggestions. If she insisted he would get rid of her and get a new woman. He did not have any emotional attachment to this woman. She was a competent lover; he knew that, but there were many women who were capable lovers. Pehelwan wanted an uncomplicated relationship.

He understood her apprehensions. What if he got tired of her body and told her to go? What would she do then? He had several lovers before. Most were struggling and needed money. They used their bodies to pay household bills. But it was a fact that after a while, Pehelwan got tired.

He has explored every nook and cranny of a woman’s body and ravished her. There was nothing new to discover. A sense of staleness can creep in. And since Pehelwan had the money to get a new piece of flesh, he did. But to his credit, he gave enough money to the woman when he left her. They could survive for a year with no financial worries.

He was keen that they did not hurl curses at him. He was always scared of a woman’s anger and abuse.

Pehelwan knew that in his high-risk career, somebody could shoot him dead. There were enemies lurking everywhere. Which was why he had put fixed deposits in the name of his wife and children to the tune of a few lakhs in a few banks. If he died, they should not have any financial problems.

When Pehelwan was a teenager, he started lifting weights. Soon, he had a bulky body: a muscular chest, thick biceps and calves. It did not take long for the local people in his area to call him Pehelwan, the Hindi word for wrestler. He knew enough Hindi to know that was the wrong word, since he was a weightlifter. But the name stuck. And he liked it.

After he finished Class 12 in a Bengali-medium school, Pehelwan came to Kolkata in search of a job.

One evening, he was sitting in a street-side restaurant, having tea and samosas. A man observed him. He was none other than Malik Babu, who had established his gang in Kidderpore. Malik Babu was 20 years older than Pehelwan. He invited Pehelwan to join his gang by offering a monthly salary of Rs 10,000. That was difficult to resist.

Pehelwan began his career as a pickpocket and was very successful. Malik Babu allowed him to keep 20 percent of whatever he filched. Malik Babu told him that if he wanted to do well, he should be honest. He took it to heart and never cheated Malik Babu. Over the years, Malik Babu trusted him.

From the beginning, Pehalwan was careful with money. Instead of spending lavishly, as any young man would do, he opened a bank account. He began saving money every month. After a year, he had a tidy sum. After five years, he bought some land in Midnapore and built a small house. This was so that his parents could live in a house of their own, instead of being at the mercy of landlords.

As the gang did well, Pehelwan moved from being a pickpocket to being an enforcer. At some point, when he was in his mid-twenties, Malik Babu sent him to a shooting school. He learned how to use pistols and revolvers. Only in extreme cases would Malik Babu ask him to kill somebody.

It was only the first time that his body trembled as he took the shot. He saw the bullet enter his skull from the back and saw a streak of blood come out.

This happened on the outskirts of Calcutta. Pehalwan had followed the man who was heading towards Digha. When he stopped his car at a petrol station and walked to the toilet, Pehalwan followed. He shot him as he was urinating. Since he had a silencer, there was a low ‘phut phut’ sound. The man slumped against the wall and slid to the ground.

He was in his late fifties.

He was a building construction magnate. He had borrowed money from Malik Babu, but his business went bust and he could not repay. There was no alternative but to kill him. The aim was to send a message to the other business people they were dealing with. Pay up or else… It was the standard Mafia message, which criminal gangs used all over the world.

A message soaked in blood.

That night, Pehelwan had a difficult time sleeping. Images of blood spurting out kept recurring. He twisted and turned from side to side. Since he was a teetotaler, he couldn’t drink alcohol.

Instead, he lifted weights.

After several months, his mind calmed down, and he finally had a peaceful sleep.

He was glad that Malik Babu did not make too many calls to kill anybody. The gang leader used it as a last resort. Pehelwan knew Malik Babu was smart. A murder drew the ire of the police, the media and society. They would feel a sudden heat. Malik Babu had to pay a lot of money to the cops so that the spotlight moved away and the case remained unresolved.

‘Thank God for corrupt cops,’ thought Pehelwan. ‘Without them, our gang would have been busted a long time ago.’

In the past twenty years, Pehelwan had killed six more people. He knew nothing about their families. Pehelwan did not know how they survived following the death of the breadwinner. He hoped the wives would step forward and assume responsibility for the business. And he hoped they did not curse the unknown killer.

All the cases were unsolved.

Pehelwan kept a low profile all the time. He was a loner. So far, he has not appeared on any police record. He reported to Malik Babu. The Don gave him assignments. He did it efficiently. Sometimes, he wore a mask, especially because there were so many cameras everywhere. And he continued to save money and invest in land in remote areas of Midnapore, where it was cheaper.

He was sure that, after 20 years, these remote areas would become part of the town because of the burgeoning population. Then he could sell the land at an exorbitant price. His son and daughter were in Plus Two. Soon, they would graduate and get jobs of their own.

Everything was working fine. He prayed that there would no longer be any more murders. He was preparing to tell Malik Babu to get a younger hitman. At 48, the stress was too much to bear. And he feared a reaction. Like most people, he believed in the law of karma.

Pehelwan switched off the TV and lay down for a nap.

In the evening, he got up and walked to the kitchen. He made a cup of tea. As he sipped his tea and dipped Parle G biscuits in it, at the dining table, the front doorbell rang. He frowned. None of his gang members visited the house. He was not expecting any visitors, except Ganesh, a distant relative, who wanted to borrow some money. Pehelwan put on his T-shirt and walked to the door.

Two young men stood there. He did not recognise them. He had never seen them before.

His sixth sense said danger.

One of them took out a revolver. With swift reflexes, Pehelwan tried to shut the door and dived to one side. But he heard shots ring out, with the familiar ‘phut phut’ sound of the silencer. He felt something touch his lower back. And then he lost consciousness.

It was Ganesh who found him, with a pool of blood next to him, on the floor. There was the strange odour of rusted iron. Ganesh called for an ambulance and took him to a government hospital.

Two weeks later, Pehelwan received the prognosis. The doctors told him he was paralysed from the waist down. The bullet hit his spinal cord in the lower half. Pehelwan could not feel any sensation in his legs. He knew that his career in Malik Babu’s gang was over.

Overnight, he had become a useless member.

One week later, Malik Babu came for a visit. He had the look of a man who had come to view a dead body.

“You were my best man,” he told Pehelwan.

Of course, Pehelwan was smart enough to realise that Malik Babu had used the past tense. Pehelwan stared at Malik Babu, with his handlebar moustache and his jutting out eyes. He looked freakish, but Pehelwan respected the man’s intelligence. Malik Babu had always resorted to violence and murder as a last resort. He preferred psychological methods to intimidate people. That was one reason he lasted so long.

But Pehelwan had to accept the grim news that he would have to go back home. He thanked God that he had saved so much over the years.

Malik Babu said, “We still do not know who planned the hit. Or was it a warning? I am not sure if it was a gangland hit. It seemed to be somebody from outside, but who? There are no leads so far. Nobody informed the police. Thank God for that, because nobody knew.”

Pehelwan nodded. He was sure Malik Babu would solve the mystery. But it would take time. Pehelwan was no longer interested in revenge. Whatever happened, it would not restore his ability to move. He didn’t care, since he no longer belonged to the gang.

He wondered what he would do now. How was he going to live the rest of his life? What work could he do? He realised the roles would be reversed for his wife, Deepa. In the past, she always stayed at home. Now, he would have to stay at home while she went out for work, so that they could pay their bills.

He wondered whether he could be active. Would he be able to get an erection? He was not sure. One night, at the hospital, he held his penis, and it seemed to become stiff. ‘Maybe’, he thought, ‘it can be done if Deepa gets on top of me.’

He did not worry about his children. They were smart. He was sure they would graduate and get well-paying jobs.

The day before the hospital discharged him, Malik Babu gave him a packet covered in brown paper. Deepa had been present. She placed it under his clothes in a bag next to the bed. This was the first time Deepa had met Malik Babu.

Pehelwan said, “Malik Babu lives near my house.”

When he returned home two days later, he checked the brown packet.

It contained Rs 10 lakh in cash.

It was a parting gift from Malik Babu.

It was a generous amount.

Pehelwan was grateful.

And so his new life began. He sat in a wheelchair and stared out of the windows. He read newspapers, watched TV, and lifted weights for his upper body. Every morning, he watched his wife getting ready to go to work. She worked as a secretary in a small trading firm. His parents lived with them. His mother provided his meals.

He learned how to invest in the stock market on his laptop and earned money.

So life carried on.

He knew that by the time he died, he would clean up all the negative karma he had gained by killing seven people.

He also hoped to achieve a peaceful death.

A Naga short story

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

There is a wall, about 20 feet in height, and painted in white. In certain sections, you can see bougainvillaea creepers.

Despite the height, the wall has a benign feeling to it. But things are not so pleasant when you look at the top. There is barbed wire all along the perimeter.

On the other side, the authorities had not painted it. There is moss growing in certain sections. The constant rain had chipped away at the grey paint. You can see the concrete bricks.

There is a large, open area. This is a place where several convicts walk up and down in the evenings. In certain areas, they marked lines on the ground with white chalk. There is a net strung across two poles. It is a volleyball court. In another area, they have put up goalposts. Sometimes, the convicts play games if the weather is pleasant.

This is a jail in Nagaland. Most men are serving life terms. The courts had convicted them of murder, arms and drugs smuggling and for using weapons against the state. Many of them have narrow eyes reflecting their Mongolian ancestry.

Sometimes there are fisticuffs. Then guards have to break up the fights. They put the men involved in isolation blocks for weeks at a time.

Two Naga men, Asangla and Dadi, are close friends. Each is undergoing a jail term of 25 years. The Indian Army and rebel forces engaged in a gun battle in a jungle. In the ensuing mayhem, the soldiers captured them. They wanted freedom for Nagaland, so that it could become an independent nation. In short, they wanted to secede from India.

They have already served for 15 years. While Asangla is 52, Dadi is 46. In the evenings, they sit next to each other, out in the open.

Sometimes, they wonder whether it had been foolish to think they could secure independence from the Indian union. It had a powerful army. What they did was give pinpricks, at significant personal cost. But their leaders had indoctrinated them about the need to get freedom. They were too young to understand what a gigantic task it would be. And how much they would have to sacrifice to achieve their goals.

Most of the Naga leaders have spent decades in jail. The life they led hollowed them out and shattered the equilibrium of their families. The rest of Naga society carried on. Not everybody was grateful for their contributions because they achieved nothing.

They were on the losing side.

Who cares about losers?

But this is the dilemma for freedom fighters. When they try peaceful methods, nothing happens. But when they use violence and then lose, they face wrecked lives and the crushing of their hopes and dreams. What is the way forward? Could they take part in the election process? But what if the government bans them? In many countries, there is no democracy. At least in this Nagaland jail, the police had beaten the duo, but had not tortured them. But in countries like Iran, China, Russia and Belarus, the state had tortured and even killed political activists.

But when Asangla and Dadi talk to each other, they have no option but to feel regret.

Asangla’s wife Lily is a teacher in a private school. The childless Dadi’s wife, Narola, works as a secretary in an office. For Asangla, it was painful to see the children growing up without his physical presence.

Asangla could not take his children to school. He could not celebrate their birthdays and teach them discipline. He missed out on earning a living and building assets for the family. Both he and Dadi had missed out on sex with their wives during the peak years of their masculinity.

Asangla’s son, Mhalo, now 20, had fallen into the wrong company, dropped out of school and was doing drugs. His wife complained about it to Asangla. When Mhalo came for a visit, Asangla begged him to change his ways. He wanted him to make new friends and to divert his attention by playing football or badminton. But his son seemed unmoved. For Mhalo, it was like listening to advice from a stranger. He had tied his hair into a ponytail, using a rubber band, and wore a steel bracelet.

Asangla feared for the boy’s future. He knew that from drugs to crime is not an enormous distance. His daughter, Rita, 18, was already staying with a musician in a live-in relationship. She wore short skirts and high heels all the time. At least, she stayed away from drugs and studied till Class 12 and now works as a secretary in an office.

Asangla knew the future of his children, like his own, was dark and unclear. Lily came every week and brought along some soaps and toothbrushes. They could not bring food items. She spoke; he listened. She had more news than him. He led the same regimented life from morning till night.

Asangla stared at her. More and more, she was becoming a stranger to him. And he was becoming a stranger to himself, too.

He no longer understood his motivations, dreams, or desires. He was rolling from one day to the other, his mind blank.

Asangla wondered whether Lily was faithful. And yet, he could not blame her if she sought sexual gratification outside of their marriage. Why shouldn’t she? He had opted to be a militant, so why should she lose out?

Anyway, Asangla never asked Lily these questions because he knew it was futile. There was no way she would tell him the truth.

What stunned them was how Naga society had forgotten them. Life went on. Nobody spoke about freedom and independence. They were in the thrall of the mobile phone and the consumer lifestyle. It was engulfing their society.

The duo felt they had no option but to bite their lips, maintain proper behaviour and hope to get out. In that way, they wanted to salvage the remaining years of their lives.

As for Dadi, he was childless. Narola always came dressed in colourful tops and tight jeans and high heels. As a secretary for an international NGO, she earned well. She spent most of her money on clothes, lipstick, perfume and other items. Dadi knew Narola was enjoying life. She has been to concerts and parties.

Sometimes, it was with her female friends and sometimes with a male companion. Who the man was, Dadi did not know. And he did not want to know. She could have divorced him any day, but so far, she had not. Dadi was not sure whether she would remain with him. He wondered whether she loved him, or whether she was too lazy to get a divorce. Maybe she had not found a man whom she wanted to marry.

They met when they were teenagers. They lived on the same road. It led to a romance and later, marriage. Both were in their early twenties when they got married. But Narola did not have any children. Dadi was not sure whether it was his problem or hers. Within three years of his marriage, he had joined a militant group.

His life changed. Dadi lived an underground existence. His parents passed away when they were only in their fifties. His only brother worked in Delhi in an IT firm. He married a Naga girl and had children.

Dadi was happy for him.

His brother had always been practical and smart. Now he was enjoying life, while he rotted behind bars, keeping company with tough people. All with massive egos. Nobody felt any sense of repentance. For many of them, murder was something they yawned at.

Dadi only felt comfortable in the company of Asangla because they had been comrades in the battles against the Indian Army. Once his wife Narola asked him whether he had taken the right path.

He said, “I thought I was on the right path. Nobody can live a perfect life and always make the right decisions. Sometimes, we make mistakes.”

She nodded, partly in appreciation because Dadi admitted he had made a mistake. She felt there was no point in ramming home the point about his errors. Dadi was paying for it every single day.

In December, 2021, a unit of the 21st Para Special Forces of the Indian Army had killed six civilians near the village of Oting in the Mon District of Nagaland, India. In the subsequent violence, eight civilians and a soldier lost their lives.

Some of their old anger and fire reared in the duo when they heard the news.

“We can never trust these Indians,” Dadi said.

Asangla told him to keep quiet.

“Our aim is to get out because of good behaviour,” he said. “So, let’s maintain our composure.”

Of course, the others railed against the Indian state. But Asangla was tired of it. He wanted to move on. At 52, he did not have the energy to change anything. All he did was worry about his children. He prayed every day that God would protect his children.

But, at night, like Dadi, he had a disturbed sleep. Images of him shooting Indian soldiers appeared in his mind. Blood was oozing out of their skulls. He had killed three of them. He wondered whether they were married and had children. Every day, their families must be cursing the killers. This was also the case with the families of the Nagas, whose males the Indian soldiers had shot dead. They must be cursing the soldiers for their trigger-happy fingers.

And this cycle of anger, hatred and violence has carried on for decades.

Who knows, it might go on for centuries.