Tomorrow marks the 78th anniversary of my Pakistan, and I am proud of its friendship. When I am with it, I feel a certain peace. However, one of Pakistan’s misfortunes has been the companions it has had, who have consistently exploited its sincerity, love, sympathy, and generosity. Pakistan was aware of all these deceptions, but due to its inherent nobility, it left everything to God.
When I stepped out of my house, I saw gatherings everywhere where speakers were expressing their friendship and love for Pakistan, each outdoing the other in eloquence. Moving from one meeting to another, searching for Pakistan, all I found were people hurling accusations and verbal arrows at each other, while the nation knew that they were all the same. It was clear to me that Pakistan neither wanted to participate in these 78th anniversary celebrations nor to talk to those holding these gatherings, as it had been more wounded by its friends than its enemies.
With these troubling thoughts, I started searching for Pakistan in every street. As my search intensified, my hope waned, and time grew short. I was also worried about the evening when the children were supposed to congratulate Pakistan, and if I didn’t find it, what would I tell my children? They already thought my friendship with Pakistan was a mere dream, and I had assured them with great confidence that I would show them how close friends Pakistan and I were. Suddenly, it occurred to me that whenever Pakistan is distressed or saddened, it is found in one place. With this thought, I ran back home and took my children and grandchildren to the Quaid-e-Azam’s mausoleum.
Upon entering the mausoleum, I saw Pakistan clinging to the grave of its leader, sobbing. Hearing my footsteps, it lifted its tear-stained face from the grave and rushed towards me with swollen eyes. Involuntarily, I extended my arms, and as we embraced, we both started crying uncontrollably without saying a word. My children watched this scene, bewildered and confused. Lowering my gaze, I asked Pakistan why it wasn’t at its birthday gatherings. It immediately let go of me, grabbed my shoulder with one hand, and shook me forcefully, saying, “You too have come to say this to me? Can anyone celebrate their birthday with such hypocrisy?”
I told Pakistan that I didn’t understand what it meant. It pointed towards the grave and said, “Did my father give me birth for this—for murder and mayhem, bloodshed in places of worship, bribery, corruption, cheating in exams, and thuggery? In a Pakistan drowning in IMF loans, the president, prime minister, chief ministers, judges, speakers, and other elites waste billions annually on lavish protocols, while the nation commits suicide due to inflation and bills. The nation’s billions are looted and secured in foreign banks, palaces are built for residences, and while the people languish in huts, the FBR institution, responsible for collecting taxes and enforcing government regulations, is rife with corruption where billions are exchanged, and when the government investigative agency seeks to investigate by requesting all documents, the corrupt officials get stay orders from the Lahore High Court. Did my father risk his health and take his last breaths in an ambulance on the open road for this blatant corruption and lawlessness?”
Pakistan continued, “Was Pakistan created so that the same colonizers, from thousands of miles away, would come and rule over you, the same ones I liberated you from with dignity? My picture is hung on the wall, and my honor is auctioned off in front of me, while you all remain silent out of convenience, even adopting every evil of the world and considering yourselves developed? When I was a year and a few days old, my father left me. My uncles played a vital role in raising this orphan, but they too gradually departed. One aunt was my comforter and sympathizer; when I missed my father, I would lay my head in her lap and find immense peace. Sadly, she too parted from me, leaving me at the mercy of strangers.”
“Those uncles and relatives who were millionaires, nawabs, people of status, spent all their wealth on me, and in their last breaths, their words were prayers for me, asking God to protect Pakistan (Amen). Now, tell me, were those people great who risked their lives and wealth to raise an orphan, or are these people great who have been looting my property, my wealth, and transferring it to their names and their children’s names, and even deprived this orphan of one arm? And yet, they still falsely claim to love me. Now, you tell me, can I participate in their gatherings?”
I said, “Look, my children and grandchildren have come with me, and I proudly speak of our friendship, yet they do not believe me.” Pakistan placed its arms over the heads of my children and grandchildren and said, “Children! People like you and your father love me selflessly, and it is because of people like you that I am still the blessed nation of God. Otherwise, I would have been long gone, destroyed by the conspiracies of my own people. I still remember when your father heard the news of my arm being cut off and fell to the ground, injured his head, and it was my other healthy but wounded hand that helped him up and comforted him with love. This feeling only arises when one is willing to sacrifice even life itself for someone else. Those who serve me with honesty, loyalty, and dedication without expecting any reward also love me.”
“Do you remember the son who, after the tragedy of East Pakistan’s fall, left all the material comforts of the world in the Netherlands and came back to treat the wounds inflicted on my body? And ultimately, he not only healed my wounds but made me so strong and a nuclear power that no vile enemy could dare to harm me. But look how the dictatorial rulers of this land treated him, even though his tearful words asking for forgiveness were in front of the entire nation, piercing the hearts of those who loved me. We treated him so poorly that he was left in isolation until he passed away in that grieving state. That brave man, Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan, is surely held in great honor by his Lord, but our dictators, along with politicians, have ravaged my remaining body. Now, the international bodies, through a specific conspiracy, are attempting to deprive me of this nuclear capability, while the power-hungry wolves are engaged in mutual defamation.”
Once again, I requested Pakistan to advise my children on what to do in this dangerous political turmoil and anarchy. Pakistan looked at them with joy and said, “Children! There are many ways to serve or love me that I want to tell you. Stopping at red lights, obeying the law, not misusing your authority, and protecting the rights of the oppressed are also ways of loving me. Diligently performing your duties, adhering to my father’s motto ‘Faith, Unity, Discipline,’ and carrying out your responsibilities with honesty is also my love. My grandson said, ‘Pakistan! I gave a speech at school this morning about the favours of your father, and I was saddened to see that while I was speaking, the elders on stage were busy talking among themselves. However, when it was announced that a song and dance would be presented to them, they got up from their seats with joy and started clapping and stomping their feet on the ground.'”
Pakistan sighed deeply, placed a trembling hand on my grandson’s head, and said, “Son! You are right. Our elders have not set their life’s purpose on the right path, resulting in us forgetting our civilization, culture, and manners. My father’s greatness lies in the fact that in a war of independence where millions sacrifice their lives, he brought about such a large Islamic nation without firing a single shot or shedding a drop of blood. It is another matter that the conspiracies of the British and Hindu baniya led to the slaughter of thousands of my children during migration. Despite this, when they met me, their eyes were filled with tears of joy.”
Pakistan then looked at my son and said, “Son! You are a teacher, but let this knowledge and profession not be a means of earning wealth for you, but rather a source of service to your colleagues and other citizens. This will be your expression of love. Then, looking at the innocent little grandson, he said, ‘This is an age of innocence, and protecting this innocence is the duty of you elders. These opportunists who currently want to soar in the political arena using my name as a crutch will try to deceive you by giving me a new appearance instead of treating my wounded body, but they will not last long.'”
“Children! Let me tell you a secret today: the love your father and grandfather have for me is a unique kind of love. Wherever they went in the world, they raised my name high! Let me also tell you that this morning your father gathered all his colleagues in the conference room, and together they recited a poem written by my brother Iqbal, “Lub Pay A’ati Hey Dua’a Ban Kay Tamanna Meri” ‘A prayer rises from my lips.’ Then, one by one, they expressed their thoughts about my independence and the people’s devotion and love for me. This expression of love was without any force, coercion, or greed. The warmth of emotions on their faces, the tears of love in their eyes, and their trembling lips indicated that they, and countless others like them, still love me selflessly. So children! Be like your father and his companions because their future and my new dawn are tied to you.” Pakistan’s voice was choked, and it stood silent, speaking to its father.
Father! You created my identity, your companions added colour to it, and some fools tried to erase that colour with their foolishness. Suddenly, during the night, an ambitious usurper who called himself a commando general seized your chair. For over eight continuous years, he inflicted immense oppression upon me. He sold my sons and daughters to a colonial power for dollars and handed over my daughter Aafia along with her innocent children to those beasts who even today look up to the sky calling for a Muhammad bin Qasim. But this oppressive, sinful commando proudly recorded his confession of these crimes in his book, documenting all his sins before now standing in Allah’s court. He tore apart my honor and dignity and, to save his own skin, handed over your chair and my destiny to those accused of looting this country through the infamous NRO law. This series of misfortunes continues to this day.
The disputed Kashmir, which you declared as my jugular vein, was silently handed over to the Hindu Baniya. The self-proclaimed advocate of Kashmir betrayed the sacrifice of over one and a half lakh Kashmiris by placing Kashmir into Modi’s lap. The head of my brave army, like Mir Sadiq and Mir Jafar, invited dozens of journalists and cried about his cowardice and helplessness. Our judiciary, whose job is to hold such impostors accountable, continued to pierce my body with their decisions, and their performance has now reached the lowest ranks in global indices. Father! But even now, there are many people ready to stake everything in their love for me, and I am hopeful that my name, my identity, by the grace of Allah, can never be erased!
Then Pakistan lifted its tear-stained face, took my hand and my children’s hands. We held hands and chanted with passion, ‘Long live Pakistan’ and ‘Long live Quaid-e-Azam.’ We sang the national anthem and exited the mausoleum. Each of us shook hands with Pakistan, renewed our commitment, and then we returned home. (Long live Pakistan)
