Shaukat Hayat Buneri
There was a time—not very long ago—when our villages breathed with a different rhythm.
Life was slower, bonds were stronger and emotions were shared sincerely. In those days, when a life was lost in a village, the entire community felt the shock as if it had struck every household. People lowered their voices, suspended their celebrations and instinctively moved toward the grieving family. Mourning was not confined to one home; it spread across the village like a cloud of solemnity and respect.
Elders would often remind the young: “Speak softly—there is grief in our village.” Such words carried weight, not because they were commands, but because they reflected a collective sense of humanity. The sadness of one family was the sadness of all. People understood that pain has no walls and sorrow is not a private burden but a shared human experience. But today, things have changed. We live in an age where the rush of life and the noise of celebration often drown out the cries of the grieving. It is now common to see a wedding procession in one street while, just a few yards away, a family mourns the passing of a loved one. Loud music, drums and fireworks continue unabated. The contrast is jarring: joy erupts in one home while silence is broken in another.
Even when the bereaved family says, “Go ahead, celebrate your happiness,” such permission cannot erase the responsibility we owe to one another. Empathy should not require an invitation—the heart simply knows when to be quiet.
Stopping music or lowering one’s voice cannot bring the dead back—but it can comfort those living with fresh wounds. It can offer them the small assurance that their loss matters, that their sorrow has been noticed and that they are not alone. These gestures, though simple, strengthen the unseen threads of love, unity and respect that hold a community together.
We often speak of progress, development and modernization. But perhaps, in this race, we have left behind some of our most precious values: empathy, compassion and community. Progress should not come at the cost of our humanity.
As we move forward, we must ask ourselves: What kind of society are we becoming if we cannot feel the grief of our neighbors? Is celebration meaningful if it echoes over someone else’s sorrow? And what will remain of our communities if the binding force of shared emotion disappears?
Maybe it is time to revive what we have lost—not just customs, but the spirit behind them—a spirit that whispered softly: “Your pain is my pain too.”
—The writer, based in Buner, KP, is regularly contributes to the national press.
