End Of Shame

Ramanjit Singh

Reflecting on the events that took place in Jalandhar in 1947 is a heart-wrenching reminder of the depths of human cruelty. The brutality inflicted upon the Muslim community was devastating, shattering it irreparably. Trying to piece together our fractured history now feels like an overwhelming task, especially in the face of the uncertain path we find ourselves on.

Punjabi writer and poet, Afzal Tauseef was born in Simbli, Nawan Shahar, Jalandhar in 1936. During the Partition violence, she and her mother were the only survivors, her entire family was massacred. Such was the tragedy of her life, that she described Partition and the massacre of her family in her book "Lahu Bhijjian Batkhaan" where family ducks are slipping on the blood wet floors of her family house.

She never came to terms with this division and wrote so painfully in her East Punjab travelogue while visiting her birth town:

“Kal loki jadun mainu vaikhan gay tay kehn gay ‘Eih Simbli vãliaan di dhee ay, Chaudhary Niamat Khan di Bhateji, Mehndi Khan di dhee, Vichaari pehli vaar aaee ay’. Miary Vadkaay Mussalmaan kiss tarah ho’ay mainu patta nahi par Mussalmaan hon day Jurm wich 1947 vich apni dharti tay maaray ga’ay mainu patta ay. Unhaan apna des chaddan tu inkaar keeta….issay wajja tu ohnaaN day ghar da sona tay sonay vargyaan dhiyyãn lutte’aan gayaan"

Tomorrow when people will see me, they will say She is a daughter of Simbli, niece of Chaudhary Niamat Khan, daughter of Mehndi Khan, poor girl has come here for the first time. I don't know when my ancestors became Muslims, but our crime was that we were Muslims and in 1947, we were killed in our own land. We refused to leave our birthplace, and that is why they violated our beautiful daughters.

While translating this into English, a strong feeling of sadness and guilt overwhelmed me. I had to rewrite that final line several times. The struggle with finding the right words was real, as there are no words sufficient to convey her suffering. I had realized long ago that my efforts to comprehend Partition would be tinged with guilt, stemming from the atrocities committed by my community that remain unaddressed. In a way, the content of these blogs represents my humble attempt at seeking forgiveness for the events in Punjab, a small plea to God for absolution for our actions. They wished to remain, but we refused to let them.

Writer Salman Rashid narrates the story of his family’s sufferings during partition. He said during his visit to Jullundur in 2008, he came face to face with the son of the man responsible for killing his family members. Rashid narrated 74 year old Mahindra Pratap Sehgal’s description of communal tension in the city of Jullundur in 1947. Sehgal’s father had killed Rashid’s grandfather at this time. Rashid said he could not feel any anger or hatred against Singh, who had witnessed the events as a 13 year old boy.

“He wanted to speak about the events that unfolded during partition, particularly about the killing in my grandfather’s neighborhood. It was as if he wanted to shed his guilt, and perhaps even his father’s”, Rashid said.

Sehgal described in detail how Rashid’s family had gone into hiding and were eventually killed by their neighbours. Often calling his own father as ‘foolish’ and ‘cruel’, Sehgal described the brutal murder of Doctor Sahib – Rashid’s grandfather.

I recall a heart wrenching interview of Mohammad Sharif, from Jullundur district, telling the interviewer that as a small boy he ran door to door asking for help, pleading with his neighbors to save his family. He saw his parents and most of his extended family murdered by the villagers. The village of Mohammad Sharif is Kularan (map).

In a different account, a Hindu woman named Hira Devi and her son Balraj rescued a Muslim family of eight by providing them shelter in their home in Kot Krishna Chand. Balraj understood the dangers involved in their actions. The following day, he visited the nearby refugee camp established for Muslims heading to Pakistan and consulted with the officials present. It was only after receiving confirmation of their safety that he disclosed his mother's courageous act of sheltering a family of eight on her own.

An army officer in charge of the refugee camp was deeply impressed by Balraj's bravery and decided to express his gratitude to him and his mother in person. He arrived in his jeep to meet them and ensure the safe journey of the refugee family. The unexpected arrival of the officer and his team outside Hira Devi's door left everyone in a state of shock, as no one had anticipated a formal military escort.

After conversing with the families briefly, the officer expressed gratitude towards Balraj and Hira Devi for their care of Fazlu's family. Subsequently, he proceeded to recognize Hira Devi's efforts by gifting her a shawl and respectfully bending down to touch her feet. This officer was Muhammed Zia-ul-Haq, who would later serve as Pakistan's chief of army staff and eventually as the President.

The men escorting the family to the camp were getting impatient but they continued to sob. "You must go now," Hira Devi urged them gently. And so they did, with their parting words: "Gyarah lakh Pakistan baney, par hum apne watan Hindustan ko bhula nahin saktey." (Let 11 lakh Pakistans be formed but we will never forget our motherland Hindustan.)

We had ceased to be compassionate beings, consumed by hatred. In our animosity, we failed to recognize that the women being subjected to violence were our own daughters, the women being brutally murdered were our own mothers, and the men being slain were our own brothers. We forced women to take their own lives, we forced fathers to murder their own daughters, we did not even spare the children. We hacked their limbs, we struck when they were at their most vulnerable, we showed no mercy, we showed no remorse. We stopped being humans, and we did not stop, when they pleaded for mercy, we did not stop.

The level of violence is beyond words, leaving a trail of devastation that defies comprehension. The sheer scale of the tragedy had shattered innumerable lives, each story more heartbreaking than the last. Our collective descent into madness had extinguished the lives of hundreds of thousands of souls prematurely. The weight of this guilt is a burden we must carry, never allowing us to forget the lives lost. To dismiss their significance and attempt to move forward would be a betrayal of their memory. For my part, I vehemently refuse to accept such a notion.

Following Partition, our community has undergone a profound transformation, drifting away from the values that once defined us. We have lost touch with our sense of shame, compassion, and empathy, forsaking the wisdom imparted by Baba Nanak and Baba Farid. The echoes of love and solidarity that once resonated within us have now faded into silence. Instead of reaching out to others in their times of need, we have become consumed by our own struggles, turning a blind eye to the suffering that surrounds us. It is a heartbreaking realization of how far we have strayed from the path of unity and empathy.

Partition marked the end of an era, and it marked the end of shame.