Hunger… thirst… then fasting. But why were they walking with baggage—some on their heads, some on their backs—in Ramzan? Were they insane? Why leave the comfort of their homes? Why abandon loving neighbors and cherished memories in the dead of night? For whom? And when the sun rose, spreading its light, the crystal-clear river ran red with blood as they passed by.
Those endless walks were not just to save lives. Their eyes longed for freedom—not territorial freedom but a freedom tied to a vision. A vision rooted in ideology—the ideology of Islam and a homeland for Muslims. They sacrificed everything to reclaim what was theirs but had been lost to the chaos sown by the enemies of Islam. Aren’t those same enemies repeating history today?
I remember the childhood stories my grandparents, Abbu and Daadi Amma, shared with me. Their tales spoke of the beautiful home they left behind in Amritsar, Punjab. My grandmother witnessed horrors that my grandfather didn’t—living in a different village with her family.
Both narrated their own stories of migration. Their experiences were different, but the emotions of sacrifice were the same—leaving behind the land where they were born, the trees where Daadi tied swings to play with her girl gang, and the shade of the old tree where Abbu played marbles with his friends.
As they transitioned from childhood to their teenage years, the world around them changed. For years, they had lived peacefully with their Hindu and Sikh neighbors. But my Abbu often lamented, “We were so accustomed to slavery that we didn’t even realize we were being deprived of basic rights.” Yet, the winds of change came for the better. The movement for rights, led by visionaries, transformed their lives.
My Daadi Amma had a different life, a village girl unaware of the outer world. As she always said, “I did what Abba told me.” She was the only daughter with four brothers, the most beloved in her family. Her brothers frequently traveled to other districts for work, unaware of what their youthful strength could achieve. But one day, a gathering in her village illuminated her father’s vision, and life took a 180-degree turn.
The struggle for rights was not driven solely by the educated but also by those who couldn’t read or write. They couldn’t read the news but listened to the radio, hearing about the bloodbath of Jallianwala and many other massacres.
Then, the awaited day arrived.
As women prayed, my grandmother remembered that night with grief. One of her brothers was in another district. On the night of August 11, 1947, they were informed that their village was next to be burned. The entire village left under the cover of darkness to avoid being identified. Teenage girls untied the buffaloes their parents had gathered, while my grandmother’s mother hid jewelry in a bucket, covering it with cow dung to protect it. But how long could they carry that burden? Eventually, she abandoned the bucket on the road, never looking back.
But that wasn’t the moment that scarred her heart the most.
As they fled, they heard the faint cries of a month-old baby girl. The voice was familiar. They searched and discovered the girl was none other than their eldest son’s daughter. Her parents, unable to save her from the violence, had hidden her under dried grass. They hadn’t left her willingly but had been left traumatized. And thanks to Allah, the baby’s grandparents found her and took her along.
When they reached the village where they had been instructed to go for safety, it was already deserted. Without pausing, they resumed their journey. Daadi Amma narrated this part of the story with tears streaming down her face, recalling how they fasted again with just a sip of water. When they reached a river to quench their thirst, it was flowing with blood, bodies drifting with the current. She described those days as the most horrible yet memorable of her life.
They left behind everything—many lost their loved ones. But for what? A piece of land? No. It was for us—to give us a life of freedom.
Not the kind of life that Muslims in Kashmir, Palestine, and even India endure today.
Will you ask yourself this Independence Day—what have you given back to this vision, this ideology, and this country?
Can you even begin to understand why the Muslims of the subcontinent, who once ruled these lands, lost it all? They lost their ideology and fought over land, leading to disunity. Isn’t that exactly what the invaders wanted? Divide and rule?
Also See: Pakistan’s Long Struggle with Afghanistan’s Instability
Today, we Muslims are divided by borders, but Pakistan and Afghanistan have an advantage—the longest shared border, connecting families, culture, and history.
Yet, instead of valuing this bond, divisions of ethnicity and superiority weaken our unity. Imagine if Pakistan and Afghanistan stood united, even with borders—this region would be revitalized, sharing not just boundaries but a common legacy. Peace and mutual respect between the two nations is the only way forward.
This is precisely why the mutual enemies of these two Muslim nations do not want unity.
They are doing everything possible to keep both countries at odds, using terrorism as a tool to prevent prosperity and stability. Peace comes with unity, and terrorism—planted by enemies—is the biggest obstacle to that peace.
As we mark 80 years of Pakistan’s birth, let us pledge today that we will not let our elders’ sacrifices go in vain.
We will work for the ideology and vision that our forefathers upheld. We will not allow anyone to break our unity within the country. And let’s go beyond that—transcend borders and strengthen the unity between Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Because only through unity can we honor the vision that gave us this homeland.
PAYF Insights are social media threads by various authors, reproduced here for wider consumption.
