Choosing to remember

On August 14 this year, Prime Minister Narendra Modi made an unusual announcement using his Twitter handle. He wrote, “Partition’s pains can never be forgotten. Millions of our sisters and brothers were displaced and many lost their lives due to mindless hate and violence. In memory of the struggles and sacrifices of our people, 14th August will be observed as Partition Horrors Remembrance Day.” What did these words evoke in you?

As a person who believes in peace as a real possibility, I recognise how important it is to acknowledge that wounds exist before we can start healing. At the same time, I find myself a bit distressed by the prime minister’s suggestion that pain can never be forgotten. My daily practice as a Buddhist teaches me that identifying too deeply with our pain deepens our suffering.

He further wrote, “May the #PartitionHorrors RemembranceDay keep reminding us of the need to remove the poison of social divisions, disharmony and further strengthen the spirit of oneness, social harmony and human empowerment.” Memorialising in order to prevent history from repeating itself sounds like an honourable intention, but the nature of memory is fraught with chaos. It can bring up emotions that we may not have the skills to work with.

What can we do to ensure that the anger that arises from reading and hearing about murder and rape does not crystallise into hatred? Is it helpful to consume such information without knowing how to sit with it? Are we equipped with the resources to handle it responsibly? Do we have a safe container such as a therapeutic setting or a meditation practice to watch, release and transform thoughts of resentment and revenge into beneficial mental states?

If we want to remember the Partition, we must also make an effort to dig up and share stories of those who resisted the horrors by protecting friends, neighbours and strangers belonging to religious groups and communities other than their own. These narratives show that, there were people of courage and compassion who risked their own lives to do right by others. They were able to put humanity above religion in the most desperate of times.

In 2005, the National Institute of Design in Ahmedabad produced Mukand and Riaz, an animation film written and directed by Nina Sabnani based on “the fragmented memories” of her father Mukand who grew up in Karachi with his best friend Riaz. Mukand was only eight years old when he was forced to leave due to the Partition. Riaz’s family helped Mukand’s family disguise themselves, and drove them to the Karachi harbour to board a ship safely.

In his book, The Punjab Bloodied, Partitioned and Cleansed (2011), published by Rupa, Pakistani political scientist Ishtiaq Ahmed writes about Pushpa Goel who belongs to “a Hindu family that had protected the family of the famous Pakistani cricketer Inzamam-ul-Haq in Hansi, district Hisar.” When the cricketer was in India, he wanted to visit his ancestral home but the Indian government did not allow him for security reasons. Goel’s son managed to meet him at his hotel.

Goel recalls, “Inzamam told the story to his parents and his father immediately remembered me and my parents. We had saved their family during the riots. A mob had come looking for them but my father was able to send them away. A telephone call came from Multan. Inzamam’s father talked to me.” She was invited to attend the cricketer’s wedding. The visa came easily as prime minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee was going to Pakistan at the same time.

In 2018, Indian artist Manisha Gera Baswani showcased her project “Postcards from Home” at the Lahore Biennale. Sponsored by the Delhi-based Kiran Nadar Museum of Art, it included photographs and stories of 47 Indian and Pakistani artists whose family histories are intertwined with the Partition. Her artist statement mentioned that she wanted to “rekindle love and memories…touch a chord and revive the shared connection of a common history.”

Going through the set of postcards that emerged from this project, I stumbled upon a photograph of Indian artist Gargi Raina. She narrates the story of a group of Muslim men who saved her childhood home in Ajudhyapur, in Pakistan, from “being burnt to the ground by a huge mob.” Her father was only 17 years old at the time, and was inside with his family. When Raina visited this house on a trip to Pakistan in 2001, “the entire village” turned out to meet her.

I hope these anecdotes impress upon us what historian Rajmohan Gandhi has pointed out in his book titled Punjab: A History from Aurangzeb to Mountbatten (2013) published by Aleph. “Carnage was not the whole story,” he writes. Many unsung people chose to heed the call of their conscience in 1947. Today we have the opportunity to honour their sacrifices with gratitude.