Islamabad, the city I first fell in love with in 2002, was a whispered secret nestled amongst emerald hills. Back then, as a wide-eyed F.Sc student, it felt like stepping into a dream. Quaid-i-Azam University, my alma mater, wasn't just an institution; it was a verdant sanctuary where diverse minds bloomed amidst the gentle murmur of the QAU Stream. Remember that stream, trickling like liquid laughter behind the Medical Centre? We Quaidians, we owned that jungle, our playground echoing with the joyous cacophony of youth.
Oh, the Islamabad of those days!
A city that dozed off on Eid, its avenues paved with the quiet hum of crickets.
Every road, a verdant tunnel, every breeze carrying the sweet scent of
blossomed trees. We, young and carefree, roamed its uncrowded streets, the only
traffic the rustle of leaves and the flutter of our hearts.
But alas, like a cherished melody
fading into static, the city began to transform. After 2011, a tide of
migration washed over Islamabad, its emerald cloak slowly unraveling. The
suburbs, once sleepy villages, sprouted into concrete jungles, a testament to
the relentless march of progress. Yet, progress often comes at a cost.
Bani Gala, the haven of my Army
shooting range visits, now groans under the weight of houses piled upon houses,
streets choked with the stench of overflowing trash. The majestic Bani Gala
National Park, once a whispering forest, bleeds as its trees fall victim to the
insatiable hunger of Tanoor walas and restaurants.
My heart aches for the Shahdra
Stream, where we frolicked in its crystal-clear waters near Senator Bukhari's
house. Now, it lies parched and polluted, a tragic mirror reflecting the city's
decay. Even the Korang River, Murree's lifeblood, carries the scars of human
neglect, its once pristine waters choked with the city's refuse.
And QAU, my beloved university,
the very symbol of youthful idealism, now battles its own demons. Littering
reigns supreme, its natural beauty sacrificed on the altar of convenience. The
Rumli Road, once a verdant path, now wallows in the filth of neglect.
Islamabad, my emerald jewel, is
slowly morphing into a concrete monster. The wild boars, rabbits, and majestic
Monal Pheasants, the ghosts of our green past, fade into the urban sprawl. My
fear is not for myself, but for the future generations who will inherit this
tarnished legacy.
This is not a mere chronicle of
decline; it's a desperate plea for change. Let us remember that urbanization
cannot come at the cost of our natural heritage. Let us reclaim the Islamabad
of old, not with bricks and mortar, but with the seeds of responsibility and
respect for the environment we share with all living creatures.
Author: Zaheer Abbas Maseed
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