You are 70 today.
This journey hasn’t been easy. You’ve stumbled, staggered, suffered along the way. You’ve grown old, and with age your problems have only aggravated. You are as stubborn and slow as a seventy year old can be, your bones creak and ache more, and it hurts doubly: to see you in the state and to feel that state ourselves.
We are, of course, joined at the hip.
I have my complaints, I have my shikway. Take it as the grievance of child to his parents.
And I speak for many of your children when I say this: we too have grown weary with you, as often do children when tasked with the constant and careful care of their weak, old, obstinate parents.
You take one step forward, and two steps backwards. An unchanging, painful cycle.
Maybe it is our fault too. It is, after all, not easy having 200 million children; half try to tear you away in one direction, and half pull you to another.
It is remarkable how you still stand today.
We truly are an unruly, a frustrating bunch, I admit. And we wrong you every day.
And yet you too have wronged many; instead of taking them under your wings you have refused, abandoned, disowned, hurt and ill-treated groups of your children for being different, for not being in the many: The Shia, the Hindu, the Christians, the Ahmedis, those in FATA and in Balochistan; those who think differently, those who see differently, those who question. With no fault of their own but the fault of their being.
Perhaps senility has crept onto your mind too soon. You are too difficult to put up with.
There are times I want to shout at you, there are times I want to scream, and too often have you made us cry, mourn, and despair.
How odd that log kia kaheingay is your mantra, and yet how badly some of your children have turned out to be. So full of intolerance, so petty, so small of heart and mind, and so mean.
Perhaps it is natural to descend into madness with children like yours.
There is mayhem in your home today, and fear prowls about with whispers of God’s decision to forsake you. The home is a circus of clowns, swindlers, serpents, and merchants of malice; playing to the din and drums of hate, injustice and insanity. And they devour you, the weak, the poor, the different in your brood.
I wish to run away sometimes. I do give up sometimes, I despair. I get tired of you; your many children, our differences with each other, our bloody squabbles, quarrels and your dastardly spawn. And yet I always return.
For each one of us who roams the earth, there are three Makers. The One who breathes life into us, the one who brings that life into the world, and the world that life is brought into.
Each make us. In ways we know and know not.
And you were the third.
You, my Maker.
You gave the rhythms to my pulse, the history, heritage, and culture I wear as my skin, the metaphors; the idioms, the languages that make my many voices; the poetry, the folklore, the melodies etched in my breath; and the joy, the pride, the pain, you have taught me and I carry as I live with you, and as I love you.
You, my Maker.
You’re 70 today.
It has not been easy, for you and for me. For all of us.
But let us hold on tight to each other, to the promise of a better tomorrow.
Let us be kinder to one another for we are all we have.
And there’s a lot of healing, working, fixing and fighting to do.
Pakistan, you’re 70 today, and there’s a long way to go.
It will be arduous.
But somehow, some day, we shall make it through.