haviZsultan
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No place for a Nationalist
It all began on a night in the year of 1971. It is a beautiful room full of rugs and mahogany furniture. Shirmeen is in a nightgown and reads a digest in the light of a table lamp. Safdar is in the bathroom and the child has gone to bed. Dhaka is at peace and so is Pakistan.
But there is a screeching of tires and a vehicle without number plates comes to a halt outside the white-washed walls of her home. Her heart takes a leap. She is cognizant of her husband's opposition to the war which the family recognizes could be the catalyst to the breakup of the nation. Safdar knows the Indians will not let such an auspicious opportunity pass.
But before she can even think someone is pounding at the door. Ultimately the hinges break loose and the great engraved, mahogany door that has stood for years at the entrance of Dhaka Mansion fall's with a crash. There are multiple footsteps now. Plainclothes policemen and soldiers are climbing the stairs. Shirmeen puts her book down and puts her pregnant body before the bathroom door. "I won't let you take him," she protests adamantly as the first of the soldiers appear in the room.
But the army is being used against the people. The police have become a tool for an authoritarian regime. The soldiers have forgotten the fire of valiant patriotism in their hearts and remember only the steely, icy strength of the Kalashnikov rifles they carry. Yet Safdar has promised to die in their name, in the name of the same army which has become a tool for an autocratic regime. "He is a Pakistani citizen who has done nothing but serve his country all his life. I will not let you take him," she screams.
There are hands attempting to pull her away. Some of them awkwardly traverse over her body as they struggle in an effort to control her. A soldier points a gun to her head and another holds her by the waist. The rest bash the bathroom door open. A prim looking Safdar raises his hands. He is sitting on the flush. They do not wait for him to wear his shalwar. They drag him through the door. Her son wakes up to the vociferous shouts of policemen. He sees his father being dragged into a police van parked outside, his shalwar missing, an ultimate disgrace for an army officer who gave up his uniform in protest against the army being used against its own people. The child, only five years old tries to stop the policemen but his protestations are ignored and when he struggles he is slapped and beaten by the policemen. Some of the soldiers feel guilty but it has been drilled into them by their officer that they must obey orders.
Shirmeen screams but there is no one to hear her pain in a world of cruel men where hearts have become cold as ice and force is the only language known. She vows not to scream again so her oppressors do not see tenderness of her civilian heart, the softness of her civilian breathe. She heads to comfort the child as their father is pushed into a van without number-plates which speeds off in the darkness.
Today this is what I saw in my dream. When I woke up from my slumber I felt restless. The residue of the dream is still in my heart in the form of overwhelming dread and a looming certainty that history is repeating itself. That the Nationalist today is being victimized again only and only because he does not fear when he raises his voice and is a vocal defender of Pakistan.
That was the first night when a person within Pakistan had to pay a price for claiming loyalty only and only to Pakistan and it was the beginning of the end for East Pakistan.
On that night in Dhaka the foundations of the Pakistani Nationalist Movement were laid. I am Sarfaraz Safdar and with my toil and blood I built what we had lost to salvage a broken Pakistan. Never in history had such an atrocity been committed upon my nation but this loss was self-inflicted.
I sit today in the Central Jail of Rawalpindi for my spontaneity to criticize, to raise issues my fellow countrymen wish to ignore and for my opposition to a regime controlled by foreign interests. I was 16 when they began doubting my loyalty to my nation on account of my father. I served Pakistan without question, I served the poor and built houses for them with my own sweat. I built schools for them and taught them what a son raised without a father could teach another. I built hospitals and roads in our areas.
But I refused to stop questioning, stop challenging the status qou... and they came for me too at the behest of America. Now my home is the lonely solitude of these prison walls. In them with a crayon I write the words Pakistan Zindabad over and over again. My crime they say is opposing the American war on terror. I do not deny it but am I a criminal to support Pakistan's independence? Am I a criminal if I remember that the Americans did nothing to stop the division of my Bengal in 1971? Should I also support the atrocities committed in the name of the War on terror? The drone attacks? The children killed?
Today they come for me... they call me a terrorist, an Anti-Pakistani element, a dissident. I am none of these. I am only a Nationalist, a pure Pakistani, secular Nationalist opposed to religious dogmatism in my land. I just wish they did not dishonour me with such allegations before murdering me.
The door to my gloomy prison cell opens. The executioner comes for me. It is the job of security forces and intelligence agencies to protect Pakistani citizens from harm. However if proving my loyalty to Pakistan means me taking a bullet from them I will take it in the name of Pakistani Nationalism.
It is no use pleading for my right. It is no use telling them I have done no wrong. My father died in prison saluting soldiers and kissing their hands. I kiss the hand of the guard tasked with taking me to the firing range. He is close to tears and scrutinizes me helplessly. I nod and pat his shoulder as a show of understanding.
I am a Nationalist and it seems my only future is suffering under the sword of oppression. But I do not err, I do not demand better because for my country I live and in its name I die. The firing squad gathers around me, the guns ominously and fiercely raised towards me. But I believe in Pakistan still...
*The dates when events occurred and the names of the characters have been purposely changed to protect their identities and families from persecution by the ruling Pakistan People's Party. All characters described in this narrative are fictional though this draws inspiration from certain events.
The author is not opposed to Pakistan's war on terror. He is providing an alternative view and speaking up for the innocents entrapped on false charges or killed in the war. Havi Z Sultan is also working on a book called Badal.
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This is one of my best articles written as yet. My strongest piece yet. The points I want to discuss here:
-Why do we treat the Bengalis as traitors?
-Question: Was Bangladesh our fault?
-What did we do to the patriots in Bengal? (The Biharis)
-Is there no place for a Nationalist anywhere, even his own nation?
-Afia was a patriotic person from what we know? Is the price of patriotism always suffering?
-Are individuals being purposely framed on false charges of terrorism?
-Has nationalism become a crime?
Keep these points in mind. About the article I used a process here where I mixed certain realities (events) with fiction (date, names, dramatization, kissing the executioners hands). Both events have been the most major in my Organizations history as they have been in the wider movement I used to serve. One was the fall of Bengal where we claimed Bhutto was lying and we should have let Mujib Ur Rehman rule. Second was the attempted framing of a Nationalist leader in Canada accompanied by harrassment of members including a major robbery attempt. I myself reviewed 8 cases of false framing of innocent Pakistanis.
I won't say more. Let the debate begin. And be generous. I want this article published so if you have a source in a newspaper do give me the details.
http://havisultan.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=139:-the-price-of-being-a-pakistani-nationalist&catid=73:nationalist-news-a-politics&Itemid=71