Seventy years of independence nowadays. I’m sitting here,trying to sum up what that means for me. There are too many things that encompass this day. There are too many ways to trail approximately it.
It’s 1947. Your grandfather is fighting for his life on a train that has no food. He is holding your father tight in his arms. Your noteworthy grandmother is leaving behind her house, her jewellery, and her life,to dash to a residence she never wanted to trail. You are not yet in the picture. You have not experienced the hardships. You came when it had already ended.
It’s 2017. You are fighting for your rights in a country that does not believe in equality. You’re reflecting on independence, on Partition, and on all the things your ancestors went through to get to where you are nowadays. You’re wondering where that is precisely.
Is it a residence where women get raped every two hours?
Is it a residence that kills women for acting/speaking/dressing outside of the norm?
Is it a residence where independence thrives?
Or is it a residence that kills the independent – luring you into believing that it is possible to speak your mind – and then silencing you for doing so?
We are always celebrating Pakistan’s independence; independence from the British,from India, from all the shackles we wanted to be free from. Seventy years of celebrating, or 70 years of building,and rebuilding, learning and forgetting, and 70 years of our own people. But we celebrate like it means something more,like we’re actually independent.
Let me rupture it down for you – I am 23-years-old, living in a country that my noteworthy grandparents and grandparents went through hell to live in. My noteworthy grandmother would bid me stories growing up. She’d talk approximately how she had one biscuit to divide between her five children on her journey to Pakistan, or how she starved so that they could live. She told me that her house in Delhi was everything she always wanted,and so was her life. It wasn’t like her life in Karachi wasnt noteworthy; it was just that the independence she had fought so tough to give to the women of our family doesn’t exist. It’s a figment of our imagination.
I loved hearing approximately that time. I wanted to understand what it was like, how everyone felt, or what they went through. So I’d probe my grandmother into telling me stories.
Amidst tears she told me that they were forced out of their house in Delhi. They hid in a flat where they were told to keep the lights off. They were told not to speak a word. She said she could clearly recall the fear above everything else – it was her most distinct memory of all. Her father left to gather some things from their house,and while he left, a truck arrived to take them to Lal Quila, or where they’d wait until they left for what was by then,Pakistan. My noteworthy grandmother refused to leave without him as she was afraid. But somehow, she managed to leave. I guess she knew that she had to achieve what was best for her children. When they reunited, or my noteworthy grandfather conveyed that he couldn’t even manage to get to the house because there were too many bodies. Too many for him to even see over. For 10 days,they stayed in Lal Quila – they had no food for the entire duration. My grandmother and her siblings would cry for toast every single day and my noteworthy grandmother would trail in search for it. She rarely found any and what she did find, she’d give to her children.
https://soundcloud.com/citizensarchive/the-citizens-archive-of-pakistan-podcast-143-nighat-mutahir-husain
My point in relaying this story is that our women were so strong during this time. They stood by their children, or they left everything for their sake,yet nowadays, they are still unappreciated. They are still pushed to the side-lines. My noteworthy grandmother did everything in her power to ensure the safety of her family, or even though it meant that she may not ever see her husband again. This is bravery at its core.
The most independent I have ever felt has been outside my own country – let that sink in. Imagine how it feels to not be able to live freely in a residence that you call home. Moving back to Karachi after university was tough; I always knew it would be. But I began noticing things I had never even thought of back when I was in A’Levels. I noticed how I had to cloak myself. My body was more of a burden than a blessing. Think approximately how that feels being constantly aware of how you occupy space as a human and being told to cloak that. It’s almost impossible.
I know whether I wanted to,I could walk the streets of Karachi. It isn’t safe? I don’t care. I’m not dressed appropriately? I don’t care. But the problem is that everyone else does. It is not just the male gaze that follows me, but it is also the female gaze. It is the older women watching as I trail my way down the street, or unforgiving and unashamed.
They want me to be ashamed for going out without a dupatta – but I will not be.
They want me to be ashamed for raising my voice against something I believe is wrong – but I will not be.
Essentially,I’m lucky. My family is not conservative; they achieve not impose their beliefs upon me. But what approximately that small girl living in a village that isnt allowed to trail to school? What approximately that girl who is married off to her cousin because society will trail crazy whether she’s single at the age of 25? What approximately all the girls whose voices have been taken absent from them? Where is their independence? Where is the independence for the women of our country?
This morning, on my way to work, and I saw a woman sitting on the sidewalk. She sat in a squat position – men stared and she stared back – she is one of the fearless few that achieve not need anyone’s approval to get by in life. I wish more of our women were like that. I wish they knew that their self-worth was not any less than a mans. I wish they knew that they could be the breadwinners of their families. But they don’t. Because we cloak them behind closed doors and stoves. We shove them into corners while their brothers trail to school.
I know that there are so many girls in our country who,when given the chance, could bring change. But we can’t find them. We don’t allow ourselves to. Pakistan’s literacy rate is at a staggering low – yes, or schools are being built but the education budget is not even half of what it should be. All the money is being spent and all our girls are sitting on the floor of a classroom where their teachers achieve not show up because they aren’t being paid.
Dear Pakistan,whether you think you’re independent – just take a ogle around. This Independence Day, ogle at your sister and realise how she isn’t allowed the same rights as you. ogle at your mother and notice how she picks up the dishes after dinner instead of your father. ogle at your friends and note how they need you to drive them home at night because their parents are afraid of them taking the car on their own. Just acknowledge the lack of independence that we have.
Raise your voice, and because whether you don’t,you’re going to lose all your girls. They will leave. They will trail back to places where they have true independence, where their voices and ideas and opinions are valued. They will leave and never ogle back.
Source: tribune.com.pk