Once Upon A 14th August

Having been away and unable to write since for over eight months, I finally found something which intrigued me to sit and write. Or at least try.

Two things confirm for me that it’s August; one, the absolutely ravishing cloudy weather of Karachi, and two, the streets occupied with flag stalls and badge vendors reflecting shades of green. I however would still have let it go had I not witnessed a scene which triggered a memory and hence the post.

A couple of days ago travelling back home on an overcast day, feeling like heaven will pour but being a Karachiite completely sure that it wouldn’t, I spotted a girl on a motorbike, dressed in white with a green scarf loosely tied around her neck. The wind was blowing against her and I couldn’t help but notice how her hand would repeatedly go back on her chest to make sure that little Pakistan flag’s badge is there in place. She would touch it at intervals assured every time that it is there, her most prized possession. The picture was simple but it represented a very precious part of my childhood that’s long over...

Growing up, I was told my dreams, my destiny all belong with Pakistan. I grew up listening to the stories of struggle and determination that won us this land we call home. I fell deeply in love with every single figure I read and heard of who played an essential role in earning us independence. Back then things were simple. In the innocence of time when I could count my age on fingers, I grew up proudly announcing love for my homeland, never really knowing what it means. The stories and accounts sketched pictures in my head and I realized that Pakistan had not come easy. The realization instilled an unconditional reverence and respect for Pakistan and everything that came about it. Just like Ramzan and Eid, 14^th August too was one of the most awaited festivals. August wouldn’t even properly begin and we would start rehearsing for the grand celebration at school. From short plays to speeches to dance performances on national songs, I remember taking part in every curriculum. Although it’s been years, yet still whenever I listen to Ay Jawan by Awaaz the Band or Dil Dil Pakistan by Junaid Jamshed or Yaaro Yeh Hee Dosti Hai by Junoon, some very fond memories resurface and I still feel like a girl from class 3 jumping with enthusiasm to get on stage and do her best and look her best in her newly stitched white dress and green dupatta and silk bangles and matching ear cuffs and a prominent Pakistan badge pinned on her shoulder because hey, it’s independence day performance, you have to be at your best! Going by the silly but innocent notion of “whoever sings the loudest loves Pakistan the most”, I would sing Hai Koi Hum Jaisa by Strings and Jazba Junoon by Junoon and other golden songs like Jeevay Jeevay Pakistan,Hum Hain Pakistani,Mera Paigham Pakistan, Khayaal Rakhna,Iss Parcham Ke Saaye Talay despite not knowing correct lyrics with vigor and zeal. I would feel the shivers when together we would stand to recite National Anthem and chant “Pakistan Zindabad” afterwards.

The ritual of decorating the house with miniature flags was too solemnly followed. From bedrooms to corridors, from walls to windows, from the rooftop to the garage, the house by the 14^th of August was fully and proudly clad with green paper flags.

I find it very strange how we learn to love and admire events we never experienced and people we have never met just by listening to their stories? We (almost naturally) learned to hold the Pakistan Movement and the period of partition in immense respect and awe. We almost naturally feel emotionally attached to a man we never knew or even saw; yet we take offense if anyone ever says a word against Quaid-e-Azam. We criticize Pakistan bitterly yet fall in love with it at even its smallest achievement. The modes of expression have changed but the feeling despite everything is still alive. The traditions have certainly transformed over the course from putting a badge on your shoulder to changing your display picture to green on the internet, from singing patriotic songs in school and college to posting sound clips and videos on Facebook, but it is there.

I believe of the few things we inherit from our elders, stories are one of them. Those are the tales that define for who we are, where we are from. We have inherited the accounts of how Pakistan came into being from our elders. We inherited the dreams our ancestors dreamt; the dream Pakistan, a land of freedom and peace.

For what Pakistan has become today, it often puts a question mark to the patriotism and loyalty I grew up with towards it. In the country which was created in the name of equality, I face discrimination on ethnic grounds. The country which was meant to set an example of peace and harmony, has become a place where I am oppressed because of my religious beliefs. A land which was to be a symbol of freedom, glorifies clerics who label me an infidel. A state which was supposed to be a safe haven, remains silent when people I identify with are dragged out of buses and butchered. When school children are slaughtered, when Imam Bargahs and processions are bombed, it certainly becomes hard to believe in this country anymore. And those who give up thus ask, ‘what did this place give us? It took away from us more than it gave’. Certainly. I have lost relatives to terror attacks and sectarian incidents. I have lost friends to state backed genocide and its policies. Yes. It has taken away a lot from me.

But those who thus question, don’t know.

Back in school I never truly understood the reason when I would notice few of the older teachers shed a tear at songs like Chand Meri Zameen Phool Mera Watan and Hum Laaye Hain Toofaan Se Kashti Nikaal Ke, because I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know the struggle. Now I do. And so I deem it unfair to disregard the sacrifices of those who gave away all they had so we could be free. I find it offensive when people try to place the blame of what Pakistan has become today at the doorstep of a man who died within a year after he created it. Those who therefore question don’t know that I love, not the corruption and bloodshed that Pakistan is, but the struggle and sacrifice that Pakistan was. I idealize not the dupes of an overnight revolution but the unwavering freedom movement that earned us a separate homeland. I love, not the ‘strategic asset’ that Pakistan nurses, but the peace that Pakistan harbored. Growing up nostalgic for a past that I never lived yet experienced through the tales of independence I heard and read of, it is not the Pakistan today that I romanticize and revere, but the dream that it was. The dream which although was realized 68 years ago, but is yet to be fulfilled. I honor those who gave away everything they possessed just so we could have a free land we could call our own. Do you realize what a blessing it is to call something truly your own?

Coming a long way from childhood days of innocence, I no longer decorate the house or sing national songs on the top of my lungs. I don’t even change my display picture to green or share audio clips on my Facebook timeline, but despite everything, as clichéd as it may sound, I love this country. And I feel no shame when I get tears listening to emotionally overwhelming national songs. I still wear white and green on the 14th of August. I feel my heart swelling when I listen to Ay Raah'e Haq Ke Shaheedo'n and of course Ay Watan Ke Sajeelay Jawaano'n in Madam Noor Jahan's mesmerizing voice. My heart still skips a beat when I see the flag flying high in the air; the green and white reflective of the tears and blood spilled in the realization of a powerful dream, Pakistan. I still feel shivers when I hear the National Anthem and I am proud of it, for in that symphony rings the memory of will and determination. In it echoes the tales of sacrifice and devotion. I truly and unconditionally love the dream Pakistan I inherited from my elders. It is a dream I identify with, it is a dream to which I belong.