I didn’t plan to take a break from blogging, but there was too much going on in my life, I couldn’t use the luxury of this space.

In reality, when you have too much going on in your life that’s the right time to write, you have many things to write about – but I am going to conveniently blame my absence on my work life and time pressures.  Sometimes the other pressures become too much and they overwhelm me.

I had no time to sit and exercise my pen on paper. I just didn’t realise that the break would last more than two years. I’ve learned to condense my thoughts into sketches on neat paper & WhatsApp profile pictures, but I did miss the luxury of this space. There is pleasure and comfort in long form, a break from the searing data and concentrated truth. It is relaxing and arresting.

I am currently going through a state of mind,it is Monday 4:26 AM, 14 August 2017, I’m sitting in a taxi and trying to open my brother’s message. he shared a video of the Pakistan flag at 10.10 PM. It was a brightening flag with sparkling lights on it.

I smiled and looked over to my right-hand side. It was the Burj Khalifa with sparkling lights as well. For a second I felt that it was the Minar-e-Pakistan. The taxi driver plays an Arabic song. It shifts my brain back to Dubai. I look away from the Burj Khalifa.

I opened my WhatsApp and I saw the first 5 profile pictures, they were all covered with flag spirits. I mumbled and said all the desi must be high on Jashn-e-azadi. An Indian friend texted me Happy Independence Day. I chose not to respond. I wasn’t genuinely happy, but then I thought about Wali and how excited he is to light up those lights & flags in our homeland holiday home.  He reminded me of my childhood. I was a little younger than him when I moved to a Western country. My mother would dress me with white chori dar Pajama and kurta with green rounded buttons on it and green khusa, with paint on my face. I used to attend the morning ceremony with my father on the 14th after fajar.

I fondly remember the flag ceremony at Fortress Stadium, the morning parade with a 21 gun salute paying tribute to this day. Totally Desi! I remember not sleeping the whole night and celebrating with smaller Jhundiyan (flags)  In a 70-year history, every 13th night or 14th day it will rain or there will be a storm.  I sometimes ask myself whether the storm is coincidental or whether it is more than coincidental, a symbol in the weather or even a portent of something.

It wasn’t only me, it was the whole town out in the street decorating with colourful ribbon. Women with dupatta on their head just cherishing the thought that nobody will label them a terrorist. It doesn’t mean I was living in small village with one street. I was living in fairly big house, a nice house with servants, a cook and a driver, a lavish car and a big street where Teacher & Qari sahib would come to our home to teach us. At least for me it was a lavish life style. I love how extra joyous I am.

I am proud of my roots but it’s not the kind of pride that blinds me from all the wrong that’s happening right now in my motherland. As a Pakistani I bridle when people criticise my country and my culture, often even when I agree with the points they are making. “Don’t criticise my motherland…it’s not your place to do that….

My father’s family is the initial dot in a history which connects me to partition and allows me to get a more complete picture of history. The idea of a separate watan or nation comes with a sense of belonging but also of loss. The ridiculous nature of partition has left me in a dual state of mind. I struggle to draw meaning from my emotions towards partition. Sometimes I am happy, sometimes I am sad.

I’m thinking of many things this Independence Day but mostly thinking about my first Grandfather, my father’s  father who fell sick during partition because of drinking contaminated water, and who stayed hungry for many hours. He died on September 10th 1948, one day before Quaid died. We lost him in to this nasty partition. We lost my father’s Grandmother as well on the day of partition, more because they wanted her gold than because they were driven by any nationalist or religious fervour. When I think about this it breaks my heart and crashes my brain. I cannot truly translate my father’s feelings here but I can tell you I tried to reach into his heart and we had a serious one-hour conversation about this whole partition incident.

If it was me I would never have wanted a separate country – I would have wanted my father, not a separate country. I wouldn’t want to have to go into the detail of how my ancestors survived.

He hears silent screams and screaming silence. Women abducted and murdered, children orphaned and murdered houses burnt, looted and broken down, or occupied as a shelter by refugees. Communities bathing in blood.

Though the discussion with my father leaves me with several questions about right and wrong, especially when it comes to reuniting abducted women with their families, Azadi ki chaaon mein he lost his Dad’s shelter.

Just as my father and I finished our journey back into his memories of partition, my mother walked into the room and found my father and I with tears in our eyes. My mother asked him why he made me cry. My father gestured to the television and told my mother that his favourite song was playing.”Mujhe Ishq Hai Tujhi Se Meri Jaan by Mohammed Rafi  And there we finished our journey back to the birth of Pakistan and the partition of a nation.

But what about partition? So much has been written about it, so much has been said about it. The clue rests in the word itself. Partition can be defined as “the action or state of dividing or being divided into parts”. India was divided into two parts, and then later into three parts through the creation of Bangladesh.

It is tempting to think of ourselves as unique in the sense of what we have suffered. However, the reality is that many countries which had been colonised were then subsequently partitioned, based on some arbitrary basis, often relating to religion or ethnicity. Ireland was partitioned in 1922, twenty five years beore India. Our partition was primarily between Muslims and Hindus, the Irish partition was between Roman Catholics and Protestants. A crude border was created across Ireland in the same way that a crude border was created across India, leaving disputed areas and hotspots like Kashmir.

When Pakistanis and Indians look at each other we see tokens of difference. The differences are subtle and we can easily pick up on them.

How many Pakistanis have been asked “are you Indian?”. How many Indians living in the west have been called a “Paki” or something similar. The answer is, at least when we travel outside our own borders, that the world sees us as being “the same”, and they aren’t wrong. We are very nearly the same, with a touch of spice that makes us a little different to each other and this causes an ocean of pain and suffering. The truth is that we are not at all as different as we like to believe. Until partition we lived beside each other and among each other, Muslims, Skhs, Hindus, Christians. We celebrated joyous occasions with each other and supported each other in the difficult times.

When I look at the world and the countries that make up this world, I struggle to avoid the conclusion that the countries which were established around the idea of being a state for a majority religion, whether that be Muslim, Hindu, Roman Catholic or Protestant – we have suffered far more than we needed to, far more than we deserved to, and for no good reason. Who has benefited from partition? Some people might identify particular groups who have benefited, but I believe that we have all lost a great deal through partition.

I pray that our young republics, not yet celebtating a centenary of Independence will, as they mature, find a way of reconciling with each other, somehow find a way of being good friends.

Excuse my sentimentality today, I still have one hour to go to the office and I am thinking of many things this Independence Day but mostly thinking of my parents and the Gift of Independence Day they gave me. Through my late teens and early 20’s I was too busy pushing back to realise how much they were giving me, in an environment that didn’t give unconditionally to their daughters. My parents are rooted in their traditions and are a product of their time but they somehow manage not to let this get in the way of their parenting and for that I will always be grateful. It has not always been a smooth ride but it’s been a great journey so far.

Thank you Ami, Abu. Happy 70th year of independence, we have earned these years.

And then I get close to my home, the taxi is starting to slow, looking for my address, I change my Whatsapp photo to celebrate the day and respond back to my Indian friend – “ Happy Independence Day to you too” ….and I say it with a smile that I mean.