Thread:

I left Pakistan when I was two years old, sitting on the lap of my mother, journeying from Punjab into Sindh and then Karachi and finally London, shortly after General Zia ul Haq passed his infamous Ordinance against Ahmadis in April 1984. /1

For the next two years we flitted between England £ Pakistan, before settling there for good in 1986. We were amongst the first Ahmadis to leave Pakistan after the passing of the anti-Ahmadi laws, forming part of a diaspora which has now swelled into tens of thousands. /2

On that final journey out, I wore an oversized grey suit, draped over me as part disguise and part uniform to help me blend in and insinuate myself into this new world and make it my own. /3

But despite leaving Pakistan, it never left me. My identity remained lodged in its pale memory, its language, attitudes, culture, customs and its betrayal. For the longest time I was too young to understand its presence, but inside of myself I felt and sensed it everywhere. /4

More than anyone or anything else it was my grandparents that kept Pakistan alive. Our home was buried in their memories, filling up all the in-between spaces like the fragile morning light. /5

Their longing was was personal and private, but it was also political. It was collective. It held together the sense of loss and mourning and entanglements of our whole family. Of others. Of everyone who ended up leaving the county and everyone who stayed behind. /6

If I’m honest I don’t think I ever appreciated the depth of their pain even though I saw it everyday. When you are young you tend not to notice too much outside of yourself, and I was quite happy with our new life in London. /7

But still Pakistan was always there. In the nimko tray that always sat on the dining table for the afternoon tea, in small trinkets and ornaments I vaguely understand but could not explain, in picture albums and videos and stories of aunties, uncles and cousins I didn’t know. /8

So many night we listened to those stories after dinner; my grandfather joking, laughing about his exploits as a child, but in the small moments that punctuated his laughter a sadness would etch across his face; a sadness for all that once was and all that had been lost. /9

My grandparents always thought that they would go back eventually. We all did. But our hope rose from a failure to recognise how far Pakistan had betrayed our dreams. /10

I was ten when my grandmother died. My dad woke me up late into the night gently rubbing my back as he told me the news. I was too young to understand the permanence of her departure, but I knew that things had changed and I cried because of it. /11

Then my dad woke me up again on an April morning at almost a quarter to ten. When I awoke I did not know that April would never end. What I did know was that my grandfather had gone, passing away in exile from a betrayal that had been too deeply set. /12

For all the love they had for this country my grandparents were never able to return here, but somehow, abruptly, unexpectedly, I did, at the end of one period of my life, but not quite at the beginning of another, but somehow coming full circle nonetheless. /13

I was just a 22-year-old kid. Stupid, naive, arrogant and unmoored, carrying inside of all the half-truths and incomplete stories that made me an unwanted stranger both in my own mind and the world around. Harassed constantly by my own insecurities. /14

But still I knew coming back was the right thing, even if it meant my constant loneliness. I couldn’t admit it to myself but I knew. /15

Pakistan for me is where my story started. Where my past and present have always met, and where the unfinished space of my future stretches out before me. But living here is not peaceful. Too many times it is like a death, and dying is hard work. /16

Dying takes effort. Even now a whole 16 years on (16!!) I am unsure of myself here and my footing in this place, only ever being able to understand see myself in the bodies of strangers. /17

Today is a celebration of this country, of this crazy, frenzied, deranged stretch of land that we call home. But for me it’s much more personal. It’s a reminder of my grandparents and the fact that even after 73 years there is no peace in Pakistan for so many of its people. /18

I remember coming to Pakistan once a few years befor I moved here. I took pictures of everything I could because I wanted to go home and be able show my grandfather these small vignettes of the country he loved so much. /19

What I also remember coming back, printing out the photos and taking them to show him; I remember his eyes becoming more withdrawn, sad, sorrowful as though he was looking at something that had already vanished beyond the horizon. /20

There is not a single Independence Day that I have spent in this country where the look in his eyes doesn’t bring tears to my own. Not a single one. 16 years - 16 times I’ve cried at that memory. /21

Memories are a weird thing, they weigh you down and they free you at the same time. Kind of like what Pakistan has become for so many of us. A type of home, a type of prison, a sanctuary which refuses to let you fully belong. /22

Tainted by our identities. /23

I don’t know if I am writing this as a way of working through my grief at everything Pakistan has become, or as a way of processing another Ahmadi death, or because like every year on this day I just miss my grandparents. /24

I’m so stupid right I don’t even know how to end this ridiculous thread, but I’m going to try. /25

There is so much to love about this country. It has the most hospitable people, mountain ranges that are the greatest and most awe-inspiring in the world, the fact you don’t really have to wear a seat belt, maghaz masala and probably they best breakfasts on the planet. /26

And for me it has a connection to the two people I’ve loved more than anyone I’ve ever known. They never got to come back but inside of me they intersect and overlap, still in love with this country even as their imprint here grows more and more distant. /27

As always you end up coming back to the places you belong. This is how memories invade me, abruptly, unaware and without warning. This is how I maintain the link to my grandparents. This is how I will always be able to call Pakistan home. /28

So happy 73rd anniversary old friend. Your story remains our story. And so much of it is still to be told. I just wish my grandparents had been able to see it. /29

Anyway sorry for that, I’ll stop tweeting now. Bye /30

...tor humare hai wahi.