Tahir Jamil Noorani
All over the world, Pakistanis who once left home in search of a livelihood and a better life — who labour morning and night, and who still carry the homeland in their hearts — mark the 14th of August with great enthusiasm and splendour. Among them are children born and raised in England: children who have read of Pakistan’s freedom only in books, who have glimpsed Pakistan on a screen at Wembley or on a television channel, or on a visit with their parents, or at a ceremony held in the embassy. For them, taking part in Pakistan’s Independence Day is no longer a simple thing. Growing up in a British environment, they now put di!cult questions to their parents — questions whose answers are not easy to give.
The second question, the one that forces you to stop and think, is this: why do you remember Pakistan only on the 14th of August and the 23rd of March? What of the rest of the year? Is all of this done for your own political interest? And if it is done in the name of goodwill and prosperity — had you truly done something
for the homeland, would the people back home have needed British politics imported here? If it was for the sake of a fundraising drive, where was the need?
Why must British politics be staged here for the children to watch? Parents, this is what your children are being shown.
You yourselves have made Urdu and Urdu journalism — along with social media, YouTube, TikTok, Facebook, WhatsApp and Instagram — a compulsory part of daily life. In short, a matter of give and take. So the first question of all is this: why is the instinct not to build rather than to tear down? Instead of prayers for the health and safety of our elders, and instead of honest conversation about Pakistan’s political and economic condition, an enormous volume of heated, com-petitive messaging is sent out, turning the airwaves of our mobile phones into a battlefield.
Seventy-nine years have passed since independence. What became of the prom-ise, and of the model we were meant to follow? Poverty, unemployment, crime, the widening gulf between rich and poor, and the rising tide of terrorism and vi-olence — why has there been no end to any of it? Could Pakistan not become a developed country in seventy-eight years? And finally: with all its resources and all its manpower, why is there still no stability in Pakistan’s economy?
The children ask about the news they hear in the British media and the scenes they are shown, and they ask a great deal more besides. As the country’s political condition deteriorates, they also come to learn about the negative attitudes of politicians and the state of our democratic institutions — and they understand it perfectly well. So tell me: what was gained from the Westminster system? And why were such obstacles then placed before democracy that you had to be intro-duced to a hybrid political system instead? In the end, why should a democratic system need the crutch of a controlled political arrangement at all?
What answer will you give the young generation growing up here — British chil-dren — about Pakistan’s democratic system? They are already thinking about it, and they will not stay silent. The British left seventy-nine years ago, and yet the same basic political decline still binds every part of Pakistani life like a chain.
Balochistan needs our attention today. Pakistanis across the seas are watching. And the children must be told the story properly: the dream of Muhammad Ali Jinnah and Allama Iqbal, and what became of it. What we have was won for us by the sacrifices of our elders. This is not merely a line drawn on a map — it is a trust, paid for by millions.
Parents, tell your children this too: the creation of Pakistan was no accident. It was the outcome of the sacrifices Muslims made and of an extraordinary strug-gle. Tell them that what happened in 1947 was a migration so vast it astonishes the mind — a history with no parallel anywhere. The caravans kept moving.
Women, children, the elderly and the sick made that journey of freedom and mi-gration in the harshest conditions imaginable; even the animals on that road showed their loyalty. And so, on the 14th of August 1947, Pakistan came into be-ing.
Today Pakistan is seventy-nine years old. But as a nation we have still to shoulder our responsibilities, and to place the Quaid-e-Azam’s vision before our children, so that the next generation can say with meaning: this is my Pakistan. What does “my Pakistan” truly mean? What were the aims? This is what must be unveiled — the ideology of Pakistan, and the purpose for which this land was created.
Freedom, the importance of the homeland, and the importance of Urdu: these must be placed before our children. We must keep the promise of protecting and safeguarding the homeland, of sitting with our elders and learning from them.
Law and justice must reach every level, corruption must be brought to an end, and the rights and full safety of minorities must be properly protected.
And as a nation, we must do more than lay flowers at the graves of Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah and Allama Iqbal; more than light up government and private buildings; more than issue statements in newspapers large and small; more than post congratulations on social media; more than enjoy a night of ghazals and qawwalis. That was never the purpose of freedom, nor of the home-land.
The 14th of August and the 23rd of March will come and go, God willing, and the nation will celebrate. But the question will remain, and the young generation coming after us will put it to their parents: why do you remember Pakistan only on the 14th of August? It will remain until our rulers and our politicians take the founding principles of Pakistan, and the vision laid down for it, as their own re-sponsibility. Do not forget the national days. The elders will keep coming, and the children will keep asking their questions about this great homeland.
