For many Pakistanis—particularly those whose families migrated at the time of Partition—childhood was shaped by stories of life before and after 1947. These were stories of hope, sacrifice and the excitement of building a country imagined long before it existed. For the young, Pakistan was not just a homeland; it was a promise.
Three decades ago, March 23 was more than a public holiday. Schools held events featuring national songs and debates on the Pakistan Resolution and the Objectives Resolution. Newspapers published special supplements, and PTV aired commemorative programmes. Homes and streets were decorated. March 23 and August 14 were observed with pride and reflection, not routine.
Students today still study the Round Table Conferences (1930–32), the 1940 Lahore Resolution, and the 1949 Objectives Resolution. Yet for many, these remain textbook chapters rather than lived history. Taught as distant and heavy events, they fail to spark imagination. The method of teaching—not the material—has dulled interest for these young minds who cannot relate with these events. A more engaging narrative is urgently needed.
The post-2000 generation has little emotional connection with Partition. Their great-grandparents are gone, taking their memories with them. Parents, burdened by present-day pressures, often did not pass down those stories. For many young people, the Indus Valley, Partition and even dinosaurs seem to belong to the same distant past. Contemporary political turbulence further blurs historical perspective.
Partition shaped multiple generations. Some above 55 chose migration; others stayed behind. Those between 18 and 55 saw Pakistan as a land of opportunity. Children under 18 carried fragmented memories of displacement. But for many migrants, Pakistan was not merely a destination—it was destiny.
At sixteen, Syed Mohammad Mehdi Naqvi was captivated by Mohammad Ali Jinnah. Hearing him speak ignited a lifelong devotion. Born in 1914 in Amroha, Mehdi had rarely travelled beyond his small town, yet he imagined a new life in Pakistan.
In 1948, at 35, he moved to Karachi. Working with his brother Syed Mohammad Taqi at a newspaper founded by Mir Khalil-ur-Rehman, they relocated to Pakistan, where the newspaper became Daily Jang. Taqi became its first editor. Mehdi, later known as Rais Amrohvi, emerged as a respected writer and poet.
He often recalled seeing Jinnah speak and believing every word would come true. His patriotism was reflected in his poetry. One line captured his conviction: “Mout tal sakthi hai, Pakistan tal saktha nahi” — Death can be avoided, but Pakistan cannot.
Amrohvi remained fiercely committed to his adopted homeland. He criticised rulers when necessary, enduring pressure and even house arrest. Alongside his brother and Mir Shakeel-ur-Rehman, the younger son of Jang’s founder and editor-in-chief, Mir Khalil-ur-Rehman, he helped shape editorials that echoed public sentiment and unsettled corridors of power.
During the 1965 war, he wrote patriotic songs later sung by renowned artists including Mehdi Hassan. These include “Khita-e-Lahore teray jaan nisaaro ko salam”; “Allah ke wadah pe mujahid ko yaqeen hai”; “Sialkot ke maidan-e-kar raz ko dekh”; Aye arz-e-Lahore aye ahle Lahore Data ki Nagari aye sheher-e-Lahore” and “Apnay Fizai ke yeh andaz dekhain.” Patriotism, for him, was not performative; it was lived.
Ali Muthahir migrated at 17 in the early 1950s after his father’s death. Determined to support his family, he sought opportunity in Pakistan. Life was harsh, but he persevered. His daughter recalls: “My father loved Pakistan a lot… he faced a lot of problems when he came in the early days, but the new generation had no idea what a big blessing it was to have a country to call home.”
He celebrated national days reverently and insisted his children respect the anthem and flag. “You can’t leave your mother,” he would say when he chose to return from abroad. “There is a time when she needs you.”
Sauleha Akthar was ten when her family migrated from Ghazipur near Delhi. She believed Quaid-i-Azam himself was taking them to Pakistan. Arriving in Karachi by train, she lived in a tent settlement near where Mazar-e-Quaid stands today. “The tents were interesting and unique,” she recalls. Childhood curiosity softened the trauma of migration.
Laiba Hammad, a third-generation Pakistani born decades after Partition, inherited patriotism through family memory. Each March 23, her father took her to Minar-e-Pakistan and explained its significance. “My sister and I knew the history by heart because my father would quiz us as his father had him.”
She grew up hearing of her grandparents’ journey from Lucknow. Her great-grandmother, once accustomed to privilege, adjusted to hardship in Lahore but encouraged education and progress. Inspired by Quaid-i-Azam and Fatima Jinnah, she would tell her children: if they could create a country, imagine what you can achieve within it.
Time inevitably softens memory. What once stirred emotion can fade into ceremony. Yet national days are not mere holidays; they are reminders of collective struggle and shared inheritance.
As one elderly man observed, “Pakistan is your home despite its issues including corruption. Look at refugees who have nowhere to go when they are deported. At least you have a home to come back to.”
Perhaps the question is not whether national days have become nostalgic relics, but whether we have done enough to keep their meaning alive.
