Let love be our guide . . .

They are still there.

I’m interrupting my previous continuing story to remember this.

It is the 5th of February in Pakistan right now. Around 8:30 in the morning, twenty-eight years ago, most people in Mum’s village probably didn’t realize what was going to befall them.

I’ve written about what happened, in the post below.

This was probably one of the worst attacks against a Christian community prior to the Tehreek-e-Taliban becoming a “force” in Pakistan. Nothing like that had happened there since Partition. As the late Eqbal Ahmad wrote in his op-ed “A Town Called Shantinagar”

The HRCP reports that its members returned from the scene of carnage "not just shaken by what they saw and heard. They felt alarmed at the omens it held for the future." Those who hold the reins of power today, and also, those who aspire to it, would do well to reflect on these 'omens'.

Dawn, 18 February, 1997

I’m not sure how well they reflected on the foretelling, the harbinger of more violence, not in 1997, at least.

I didn’t read any of the Western Christian media articles regarding the attack, especially the triumphalist ones. As I said in the linked post above, my anger was not directed at all Muslims. Only the ones who sought to destroy Mum’s village. At the government that has never had the balls to revoke the Blasphemy laws (and even if they did, some people would still resort to violence).

And while the anger has subsided, the memory remains. As it should. And it should not continue to separate communities, but find commonalities, ways to bring people together. And I know that is not easy anywhere, let alone a village in Pakistan.

On the twenty-eighth anniversary of the attack on Shantinagar, I remember all those in Pakistan who lost their homes and had to rebuild their churches. I remember my maternal grandparents, my uncles and aunt and their families with whom I got to know the little I remember about the village. Especially Nanaji and Naniji who were such a big part of the community. I’m glad they didn’t live to see what happened that day.

And I am glad that the village still stands. Resilience. Faith. Love. Community. I remember the day 21 years before, in 1976, when Nanaji died. The community that gathered to pay their last respects to a man who had been the principal of the school, a teacher, a politician, a man who cared deeply about his home. I don’t know how they all felt about him, but they were there. That same community, their elders and descendants had to put back together all that they once knew that was razed to the ground. With a stronger foundation, hopefully.

May the little town of Shantinagar, whose name means a place of peace, be forever blessed.