The U.N.Doing, Hadi Garib [best classic novels .TXT] 📗

As two nations with a history wrought in war threaten military action yet again, ironically, the author finds calm as a certain sense of semblance returns to the city in itself. The winds of time demand a cognitive approach to life, and yet, as one looks up towards the heavens, one cannot help but question natures' relation to the same.

One would think that it was a nightmare, something out of a horrific tale of yore. No dear reader, it wasn't. Calling it vandalism would be like calling the Sheikhs of the Arab world paupers. Let us not give these beings the respect of a categoric definition; let us not shield them under the blanket of a nation, or the belief of a religion; let us not dissipate, or degrade our morals to such levels - that would simply not be just on those who were shot in cold blood as they traversed jovially along the streets; who were snatched away from the grasps of their loved ones, only to be mutilated in front of a stunned audience. no - let us not try and defend these vile acts - they deserve no justice - they deserve no respect - they deserve not life.

The heavens weren't in a forgiving mood either. As blood spilled on the streets, and quiet descended on a nation curled in fear, a mist of gray steadily crept along, casting a shadow along the horizon. It was as if nature had had enough – the mockery that man made of justice would no longer be swept away – two worlds would collide – a mystic force, paired against juvenile delinquents. No – the self-determined conveners of law would not pay heed to the same – a sense of false bravado inciting further malice. And then it happened – nature fired its first shot. Bullets plundered from the heavens; the persistent lashing of whips a representation of the blood on the streets; cannons fired at noise levels intent on drawing blood curling screams from the respondents. Just as it had all began, suddenly, the raiders had fled asunder – back into the farcical shelters they thought they had established for themselves.

Funny is it not? the U.N., an organization constituting of self-proclaimed super powers, has consistently failed to secure the interests of the world, let alone its member nations. If one were to base his worldly opinion on the same, it would be baseless to argue against the fact that members of multiple nationalities gathering around a table sets the precedent for war. Yet, in an academic environment, there was no third world; there was no developed world; there was simply no differentiation as individuals from a multitude of nations established a chain that could never be broken. No man left behind is a phrase you hear solely in political debates, yet, the surroundings saw the same implemented to a tee. Gathering, establishing a bond that could never be broken, curtailing itself within a chain link that ensured that the entire track moved together; if one took a step back, the link was not detached - in fact, the entire chain rolled back to carry the damaged link forth until it recovered.

That dear reader, is the true representation of the UN - and no - it is not a pigment of my imagination. Surely I dream, but not of something unattainable, and not of a hurdle that no man could surmount; but simply of transcending the value of eight months of an unforgettable experience through the fragments of what is presently a disjointed society. I have had the pleasure of living it - why can't the world? Let us not surrender to the demands of insidious tremors that resonate within the structure of society, playing a pivotal roll in the UNdoing of a brittle cloth; let us not sit back and accept the ways of old - after all - if a group of individuals in their twenties can get together to determine that each link progresses beyond ones imagination, why can't a global entity like the UN? Or is it truly a facade? A blithe on the very notion of society? Shall we sit back, and continue to serve as a capable, yet anserine audience to this UNdoing? Shall we?

Publication Date: 12-04-2008

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Dedication:
The true essence of a journey is determined by the companions, and support that one finds on his travels. At the end of the day, one could limp through the maze-like taverns of life, with his feet eventually giving way, or find the invaluable bounty of unyielding crutches. The author on his journey in Australia was fortunate enough to find such treasures. This novella is a tribute to the very same crutches without whom I surely would have stumbled over the first hurdle that these taverns presented. Thank you.