In a world where borders often seem like impassable walls, stories of love, resilience, and memory remind us that human connection can endure across time, space, and even conflict.
From as early as I can remember, I saw Ami and Abu deeply rooted in their values, grounded in tradition, and driven by a thirst for knowledge. That spirit, stitched into their very being, became a gift they lovingly passed on to us. They didn’t just wish success for us—they actively worked to make it possible.
Just yesterday, while helping Ami search for her original property documents, we stumbled upon something extraordinary. A historic sample of Pakistan’s very first passport, on display at Karachi’s Mohatta Palace and exhibited by the Citizens Archive of Pakistan, caught my eye.
Though Ami couldn’t recall when or how this passport came into our possession, the artifact felt timeless—a powerful symbol of patriotism and resilience. Issued under the authority of Pakistan’s first Governor-General, the passport reflected a different era. It required physical identification marks—digital security didn’t exist then. One document served an entire family, its 26 pages carrying their details, along with space for visas and regulations.
Before the Pakistani passport, both Indian and Pakistani governments issued permits for single-entry visits across the freshly drawn border. The first Pakistani passport bore two crossed flags—one showing the rising crescent, the other the waning moon. It was a document of immense weight—carrying hope, heartbreak, pride, and the pain of separation all at once.
The Citizens Archive displayed it during one of Pakistan’s Independence Day celebrations a few years ago. Looking at it, I felt transported—past, present, and future weaving into one continuous thread. It made me restless, yet hopeful. I realized that in the quest to find new ways of living and broader horizons, this inner journey is perhaps the only one I’ve ever truly known.
The complexities of identity, nationality, and family often intertwine, especially against the backdrop of India and Pakistan’s turbulent past. A single passport may hold pages, but within them lie the stories of entire families—of what was lost, and what was found.
One such story is close to me: a Pakistani couple, separated by nationality, now live in South Africa because living together in either India or Pakistan proved nearly impossible. Visa restrictions, geopolitical tensions, and endless red tape stood in their way.
A neighboring family endured a seven-year wait for a visa to visit maternal relatives in India. But their long-awaited reunion was cut short by renewed conflict on May 7, 2025, when India launched missile strikes into Pakistan. Fear replaced celebration, and they were forced to leave behind both memories and unfinished family conversations.
Then there’s the story of Dr. Fatima Harris, a Bengali wife, and her husband Dr. Harris Nizami, a Pakistani, who were caught in the chaos of the Fall of East Pakistan in 1971. Dr. Nizami was taken captive in Dhaka. With fierce determination and sheer courage, Fatima secured his release by reaching out to a former acquaintance in the Bengali army. They returned to Pakistan together—with a newborn daughter and an unshakable bond forged in the fire of war.
These stories echo the emotional cost of conflict, the enduring ache of divided families, and the longing for a place to call home.
“Hum se aik aur hijrat nahin hogi!” (“We cannot endure another migration!”) my father would often say when Ami spoke of moving to greener economic pastures. His words carried not just fatigue, but the emotional exhaustion of starting over—again and again.
The emotional toll of maintaining relationships across borders, of being denied access to loved ones by politics or paperwork, can be crushing. But despite the barriers, love often finds a way.
I recall small shopkeepers near the Golden Temple in Amritsar recognizing our neighbor’s hurried war-time departure. As a gesture of peace, they gifted them a magnet of the temple, with gentle instructions to keep it away from beef (Maàs)—a sacred request in their faith. It was a small moment, but a profound one—a reminder that humanity endures even in the shadow of conflict.
War has no victors. Only losses. And the deepest casualty is often our shared humanity.
As Charles de Gaulle once said:
“Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first; nationalism, when hate for people other than your own comes first.”
As we continue to navigate the complexities of identity, history, and nationhood, let us not forget the power of love and human connection. Let us strive to build bridges where others erect walls. Let us choose empathy, understanding, and peace—because in the end, it is love that outlasts borders, and humanity that carries us forward.
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