Every 14th of August, green and white flags unfurl across a homeland I carry in my veins. Anthems echo, televised tributes roll, and patriotic melodies swell. But what does Azadi mean when you are a Pakistani woman-when freedom, decades after independence, must still be negotiated, reclaimed, or imagined differently?
I write not from Islamabad or Karachi but from Europe, with a voice unmistakably Pakistani and unapologetically female. I navigate multilingual classrooms, policy rooms, and global forums where I am often the only Pakistani woman, usually the youngest. I speak on subjects with masculine weight-nuclear policy, borders, climate diplomacy-often in rooms full of men in suits while I walk in wearing traditional attire, carrying not just knowledge but memory, identity, and refusal.
Refusal-inkaar-has always been at the heart of postcolonial womanhood: the refusal to be boxed into victimhood or tokenism, the refusal to accept that our national story begins and ends with men's speeches. Pakistan was shaped as much by women's resistance as by any formal declaration of statehood.
Fatima Jinnah did not just stand beside her brother; she stood against dictatorship, risking her safety to defend democratic principles. Benazir Bhutto navigated the minefield of power, patriarchy, and assassination attempts. Beyond these icons are women almost erased from public memory: Begum Jahan Ara Shahnawaz, who presided over a legislative session in British India, breaking ground for women's political voice before partition; Shaista Suhrawardy Ikramullah, who addressed the inaugural UN session advocating human rights before the term became global currency; Parveen Shakir, whose poetry challenged a culture demanding women's silence; Abida Parveen, whose voice transcended gender and borders to invoke the divine; Justice Ayesha Malik, Dr Ruth Pfau, and Maryam Faruqi, who transformed law, healthcare, and education without fanfare.
These are not footnotes to Pakistan's story-they are foundations.
Living abroad complicates that inheritance. My roots are in Pakistan, but my everyday is elsewhere. I am asked endlessly: "Where are you really from?" The question is layered-sometimes about race, sometimes about accent-but always about place in the world's hierarchy of voices. My skin speaks before I do. I carry the mark of the Other in spaces that imagine neutrality as white and authority as male.
In academic and diplomatic arenas, one learns the language of power-fluent in theory, polished in delivery-yet remains aware of a double consciousness: seeing oneself through one's own eyes and through the gaze of a world not built for you. It is a constant translation of self, culture, and legitimacy.
Am I less Pakistani for living outside its borders? Postcolonial thought teaches that nationhood is not just territory but memory, language, and cultural continuity. The diaspora is not a dilution but an extension, rooted in Pakistan yet branching into overdue global spaces-like Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy's films, which travel farther than any passport stamp. My identity is layered, hybrid, and rich, though often flattened by the world's limited frameworks. Women like Lieutenant General Nigar Johar or footballer Karishma Ali show that Pakistani women's visibility is no longer anomaly but an emerging norm.
Even speaking is political. To occupy space as a young, brown, Muslim, Pakistani woman in global forums is not just presence-it is quiet resistance, a continuation of generations before me who challenged the status quo. Abroad, I have also grown closer to Urdu. Once dismissed in elite schools as "impractical," it is now my refuge. I read Faiz with new urgency, listen to Mehdi Hassan more tenderly, and dream in Urdu. In refusing to forget, I reclaim.
Pakistan's history has too often been told through a patriarchal lens-men at podiums, in textbooks, in power-while women taught, legislated, healed, sang, and resisted. Our presence has always challenged the boundaries of power and the narrative of nationalism.
This Independence Day, I offer no easy slogans. My love is laced with critique, my pride shaped by pain. I carry Pakistan not just in my passport but in my choices, my questions, and my defiance. I am one of many women reimagining belonging, each of us a living archive of resilience. If we are to truly celebrate freedom, we must see Pakistan through its women-those who never waited for permission to build, speak, or stay.