Roots Unshaken

The land that I call home is a peculiar one, indeed. Pakistan—this vast, intricate mosaic of four provinces, each with its own tongue, its own history, yet, a national language imposed on us that belongs to none. Urdu, an outsider, an uninvited guest, maybe brought forth with noble intentions, but still foreign to the soil beneath our feet. It does not pulse through my veins, it does not shape my dreams. When I speak it, it feels like wearing someone else’s skin, tight, uncomfortable, suffocating. My thoughts do not swim in the current of Urdu; they race in another tongue, one more ancient, more authentic to me. Pushto. And yet, here we stand, bound by a language that was never ours.

Even the name of this nation, Pakistan, is a patchwork of foreign syllables. ‘Pak,’ a word rooted in purity, resonates with us, but ‘stan’ borrowed from Persian, an outsider once again feels misplaced. The very identity of this land is built upon a language not born of it. Yes, Urdu has borrowed heavily from Persian, threading its phrases with elegance, but why must our collective name reflect a lineage that is not wholly our own? Would it not be fitting to be named by the language of our soil, by the words that we breathe from birth?

Take, for instance, the absurdity of the name NWFP, North West Frontier Province. It carries no weight in Pashto, no resonance with the people who live upon that soil. It’s a relic of another era, when our identities were carved by distant hands. Finally, after decades of a name that felt hollow, the province became Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, a closer reflection of its people. But why not Pukhtunistan? Why must we stop short of fully embracing who we are? This, too, was imposed. This is how things are in Pakistan: decisions made from above, imposed from afar, and we are expected to bow, to conform. It is the bitter reality of our existence.

But let it be clear, this is not written in malice, nor in enmity toward my country. No, my loyalty to Pakistan is unwavering, for it is the land that cradled me. But that loyalty does not, and cannot, erase my identity as a Pushtun. First, always first, I am Pushtun. Before I am anything else, before I can be loyal to this nation or any banner, I am loyal to my people, to my heritage. This is a truth so deeply embedded in my being that it cannot be severed, not by force, not by decree.

And the absurdity of it all extends even to the national anthem. How many Pakistanis even understand its meaning? Not only is it not written in any local language, it’s not even in Urdu, this imposed language we are expected to accept as our own. An anthem, a song that should ignite a spark of belonging, of unity, yet its words are foreign to the very people who sing it.

Culture, you see, is not something that can be remade. It is not a garment to be worn or discarded at will. It is woven into our souls, it shapes our very essence. For us Pushtuns, our way of life, our thinking, our problems, they are all born of a culture that runs deeper than any political border. The solutions to our struggles, too, are our own, forged by the same cultural fires that have sustained us for centuries.

The way we Pushtuns see the world is through the lens of a proud and ancient tradition, a tradition that has survived, that will survive, despite the impositions that rain down upon us. Our identity is carved into our very DNA, immutable, resilient. We do not reject Pakistan. But we will not forget who we are. Our culture, our language, our history, they are not burdens, but the foundations upon which we stand. And that foundation cannot be erased. We are Pushtun first, and nothing, not even the weight of a nation, can strip us of that.

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