When I speak of hope, I speak from a position of naivete.

I& #39;m not the relative by marriage who spent a year in Kashmir& #39;s most infamous detention centre because - at a doctor at a public hospital he treated all the patients that came, as he was legally supposed to do.
I& #39;m not the aunt who was shot at by the goons of one of India& #39;s most powerful politicians, whose guard was murdered as she and others hid in fear, who fought a long case for years until the threats became too dangerous.
I& #39;m not the relative by marriage who, returning from tuitions, ran at the sound of a bomb straight into the arms of a paramilitary unit who took him to a graveyard and were beating him to a pulp when a police unit happened on the scene by chance.
I& #39;m not the uncle who left his job at one of India& #39;s most prestigious infrastructure companies because during the Bombay pogrom he was told by his supervisor not to come in because he wasn& #39;t safe from his fellow workers.
I& #39;m not the cousins called out of their house in Kanpur in the 90s and then arrested for thus "breaking curfew" by the PAC and tortured for a day in the same jurisdiction our uncle had been the Deputy Inspector General of Police not long before.
I am not the long list of people I know who have been wrongfully incarcerated, tortured or murdered.

I have only faced a little harassment, a little violence, a little denial of service, nothing that has impacted my life.
I understand that when I speak of hope this may be offensive to those whose hopes have been shattered.

I apologise. I cannot speak on your behalf.

Still I hope, because that& #39;s the only way I know that has a possibility of a better tomorrow.
You can follow @OmairTAhmad.
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