She was once radiant. The kind of radiance that lit up the darkest corners of history, born from blood, built on dreams. Her face told stories written in sweat and sacrifice, in ink and independence. Her green dupatta shimmered with pride, stitched together with the crescent of hope and the star of resilience.
She stood tall in her youth, elegant in her resolve, her voice thunderous yet nurturing, calling each of us to build her future. We called her ‘Maa’, our beloved Pakistan.
But now, as August rolls on beyond its day of celebration, I see her with different eyes, not less loving, but more aware. The years have passed. Her eyes are clouded, not just with age, but with sorrow. Her once-proud shoulders have slumped under the weight of betrayal. Her breath is heavy, not from time, but from decades of abandonment, from children who grew up and turned their backs.
She is not just ageing. She is aching. Her hands, once lifted in prayer for her children, now tremble. Her shawl, once vibrant with culture and identity, is torn and stained, not just with dust but with tears. The scent she carries isn’t of jasmine or earth after rain, but of sweat and struggle. Because she still works, endlessly, silently, without complaint. In classrooms with broken chalk, in hospital wards with no medicine, in homes where the roof leaks but the soul still sings. She has never been allowed to rest. And here I stand, not as a citizen, but as a son, at a painful intersection of choice. Do I turn away from this mother in her twilight, or do I take her fragile hands in mine and say, I am here. I will not leave you.
Many of us have already made our choice. Some fled to other lands and called new places ‘home’. Some traded passports and pride for opportunity and silence. Others stayed, but drained her spirit. We became strangers in her house, living off her, mocking her, manipulating her. She fed us, clothed us, educated us, and in return, we stole her ornaments. We crept into her chambers and pawned her jewellery. Her land, her rivers, her mountains, her soul, sold for profits, for quick wins, for shallow comforts. We auctioned off her gold to buy imported happiness. We stripped her dupatta, her culture, her conscience, and sold it in marketplaces that never knew her name.
And still, she watched – not with anger, but with heartbreak. A mother’s hope dies last, they say. She still believes her children will return. And yet, we continue to justify our absence. “There’s no future here”, we whisper. “There’s no justice. No safety. No dignity”. Maybe so. But the question is not what she gave us. The question is: what have we done for her? Migration isn’t betrayal, but abandoning the one who gave you her all, without ever looking back, is. What if the minds who built empires abroad returned to rebuild homes in Bahawalpur or Gilgit? What if the hearts that once belonged to her beat once again in her service?
There is an economy of love too – not measured in remittances or real estate, but in belonging. In the smell of rain on home soil. In the lullaby of language. In the comfort of prayer whispered in the mother tongue. This emotional economy is collapsing. And yet we say she failed us. That her system is corrupt, her spine too bent, her voice too tired. But she is not the system. She is not the corruption. She is not the failure. She is the mother who bore it all, and still stands. Exhausted, yes. But evil? Never. If she has collapsed, it is because we let go. If she is disrespected, it is because we did not defend her. If she is bruised, it is by our own hand.
This year, as August 14 passed and the flags came down, I found myself asking not what my country has done for me, but what I have done for my mother. Not the poetic one we romanticise once a year, but the one who cries quietly in the dark when her children forget her. The path of service isn’t grand. It’s not glamorous. It’s holding her hand when it trembles. It’s feeding her when she’s weak. It’s standing with her when she’s ashamed. Anyone can love a mother in her beauty. Only a real son or daughter loves her in her brokenness.
Taking care of her now means more than ceremonial celebrations and filtered pictures. It means protecting her remaining dignity. It means defending her honour – not in slogans, but in systems. It means stopping the thieves at the gate, even if they look like us. It means refusing to let anyone, including ourselves, sell off her soul. It means restoring what was stolen: her education, her health, her sense of pride. It means patching up her wounds: the visible ones from poverty and the invisible ones from exclusion, inequality and ignorance. It means standing up and saying, I will not let you hurt her anymore, not even in my silence.
Independence is not a day on the calendar. It is a decision we must make daily. It is not just freedom from others; it is accountability to ourselves. It is the moment when we stop being consumers of the motherland and start becoming caretakers. When we start mothering her back. She still breathes. Her anthem still echoes softly in her sleep. She still believes her children will come home, not for selfies or parades, but to hold her wrinkled hands and say: I remember you. I never left you.
In 2025, I will sing the National Anthem not only on Independence Day but every time I serve her cause. I will raise not just the flag, but my standards. I will celebrate not just her birth, but her survival – because she doesn’t need saviours. She needs sons. She needs daughters. She needs us. And I am choosing to be one.
Are you?
The writer is a public policy expert and leads the Country Partner Institute of the World Economic Forum in Pakistan. He tweets/posts @amirjahangir and can be reached at: aj@mishal.com.pk
