THE PRICE OF INDEPENDENCE

THIS 800 WORDS ESSAY WAS WRITTEN FOR A COMPETITION.

THE THEME OF THIS ESSAY REVOLVES AROUND THE INDEPENDENCE OF PAKISTAN AND INDIA IN 1947.

THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION WITH EVENTS INSPIRED BY THE REAL-LIFE HISTORY.

My name is Ali. I was 10 years old when we got the news of the independence from our neighbor

My immediate family included my parents and my younger sister. My father was a member of the "Pakistan Muslim League." The day this news broke out, my family was thrilled. We celebrated our victory of achieving our homeland after years of struggle. People used to say, "Patience is bitter, fruit is sweet" That day I actually experienced that "Sweetness"

Unfortunately, that happiness was not long-lasting. We lived in Ahmedabad, a Muslim majority area. We assumed that since this is a Muslim majority area, we are automatically in Pakistan.

Alas! On the next day, 15th August, we learned that Ahmedabad is not a part of Pakistan. It is a part of India. My father came home rushing, telling us this news.

His words still echo in my mind. My father said, "We have to leave this city now. We are receiving serious death threats because of my affiliation with the Muslim League."

That day we quickly packed our bags and kept some essential food and some clothes with us. We had just 2 briefcases with us when we left.

We planned to return back to Ahmedabad, our home city, as soon as this extremism ends. We left everything, my toys, our furniture, jewelry, and even my school books.

My father locked the gate of our house.

We met with my Maamu and Maami and their 2 children, Asiya and Ahmed. I don't remember their age exactly. I do remember that they were both older than me.

All of us planned to escape in my father's car. We planned to pick my Chaachu's family on the way.

The horrors started when we reached my chaachu's home. His house and his car were burning with the blazing and ruthless fires. I saw my Chaachu being dragged in front of the house by those humanless humans. They shot my Chaachu right in front of my eyes.

My father turned the car, and we left for Pakistan. Alone.

We safely reached Udaipur. We planned to go to Hyderabad, Pakistan, from there.

We saw people being killed, shops being looted, houses set on fire with people still in them, children screaming. These things did something to my 10-year-old mind that I still cannot quite process.

I don't remember many things on the way. I just remember that my father and maamu went out of the car for food and never returned.

My mother drove the car because my father advised her to go if they didn't return for 24 hours.

We reached Pakistan.

Half of our family was either dead or lost.

That time Quaid-e-Azam and numerous Pakistanis helped us. They gave us a home, food, and most importantly, a sense of security.

If my father decided to stay in India, maybe we could have never survived.

Pakistan gave me what was stolen from me.

I would just tell the present generation is that your ancestors went through numerous horrors and still managed to survive. We sacrificed many things just to give you a better life.

Love Pakistan, my sweet children, just like your ancestors used to.

You are the future of Pakistan. Raise it to the heights your forefathers visioned it at. I am 84 years old now, and I can proudly say that everyone paid the price of independence for our children, and we don't have any regrets. We will do it again if we have to.

Pakistan Zindabad