Because of boundaries, borders and soldiers with guns

An entire lifetime has gone by, as I hang helplessly between India and Pakistan. Sometimes I wish I was born in an earlier generation, a time when there were no boundaries, no borders, no soldiers with guns, and no passports and visas.

Ahmadiyya Times | News Watch |
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By Abida Mahmood Anjum | April 3, 2011

A 30-year wait to be called an Indian

I am Indian. The blood in my veins is Indian. My bones feel Indian. I have given birth and raised four intensely patriotic Indian children. Yet, they (the authorities) refuse to accept me in my true country. I have been waiting for nearly 30 years and am prepared to wait till my dying day. Perhaps they will finally engrave “Indian” on my grave. On June 16, 1982, I was married off to my khala’s (maternal aunt) son Anwar Iqbal Cheema, an honest and hardworking Indian from Qadian (Gurdaspur). My birthplace is Rabwa near Chaniot (in Pakistan’s Jhang district), and I was just 20 years old when I left my mother’s home. Today, I am a grandmother.


Setting foot in Qadian was like coming home for the first time in my life. So, when everybody here advised me against frequent visits back to Pakistan because that would negate my claim for Indian nationality, I never had a problem. For the first seven years, I did not step out of Qadian. But that wasn’t really difficult at all, because I was very happy here. My husband and khala were most loving. Anyhow, they told me that in 10 years, I would be accepted as an Indian citizen.

But it was around then that I had a miscarriage. My first child, a son, died shortly after he was born. I became sick, dangerously anaemic, but getting medical help was tough, because if I needed to travel to anywhere out of Qadian, I would mandatorily require permission from the government authorities at Gurdaspur.

So, for the first time since leaving home, I accompanied my mother, who had come to attend the Jalsa Salaana (annual Ahmadiyya Muslim convention at Qadian), back home and went for treatment to a hospital in Chaniot, in Pakistan. I remember being very restless throughout the time I was in Pakistan, and returned to India the moment I was healthy enough to travel again. My biggest fear even then was losing time on getting an Indian citizenship.

Barring that and another brief visit when my mother passed away in 2007, I have lived here, in India, my country, for more than 29 years. But everyone still calls me “Pakistani”. You see, but for my four children who were born over the years, I have been very alone here. My husband works for the Ahmadiyya Jamaat (administration), and spends most of his time in London. I am not permitted to travel outside Qadian and have no real means of pursuing my case for Indian citizenship. I must rely on the efficiency and pace of the establishment and usually need to pay people to go and check the status of my file.

Things have been excruciatingly slow, but I refuse to give up. Many other Pakistani brides have been granted citizenship, so there must also be some hope for me… no? At the beginning, they wouldn’t accept my nikahnama (marriage certificate) because it was registered in Pakistan. “We must have a certificate from Qadian where you and your husband live,” they told me. I asked the clerk whether I was required to get married a second time after becoming a mother. He had no answer. I guess he was only following the rules. Even the local Ahmadiyya office refused to issue me a certificate because they maintain a formal record of the community in Pakistan. It was only after many years, decades actually, that they finally agreed to endorse my marriage in Rabwa. Recently, I managed to get this attested from all the relevant authorities, including at the Patiala House courts in Delhi.

My papers have only now been accepted at the deputy commissioner’s office in Gurdaspur. I have now grown used to staying indoors, at home. But the problem, like several times in the past, is when my visa runs out. I also live in constant fear that the Pakistan High Commission would refuse to renew my passport… what will I do then? People here are scared of breaking any rules. I would be turned out, separated from my children.

An entire lifetime has gone by, as I hang helplessly between India and Pakistan. Sometimes I wish I was born in an earlier generation, a time when there were no boundaries, no borders, no soldiers with guns, and no passports and visas. I remain “Pakistani” despite becoming a naani (grandmother). With Allah’s grace, my oldest daughter Taiyba Sadiqa, who married a bright young Ahmadiyya boy serving on the police force in Mauritius, had her first child recently. But I haven’t even been able to hold my only naati (grandchild) because I must remain here in Qadian.

I can only dream of going and seeing Taiyba’s baby and her home some day. But right now, there is nothing I can do about it but to sit here and cry my heart out. She calls every week, but, you know, it’s just not the same thing. I’m her mother, after all. Qadian, India is where I have itminaan (at peace). Even if someone were to offer me all the riches in the world to go back and live in Pakistan, I wouldn’t go. There is only death and destruction and persecution there.

I refuse to travel anywhere on a Pakistani passport. I will go only when I have an Indian passport, even if that takes the rest of my life and I die waiting. It took them 29 years to accept my certificate of marriage to Anwar Iqbal. Even now, I have all my fingers tightly crossed and recite a thousand prayers in every waking moment. They may just change the rules and demand another bunch of papers. I have been made to submit many kilos of documents — more than the weight of my dowry — over all these years. And yet, I don’t have any guarantee that they won’t ask for more. I am very tired now. I am an Indian. Please accept me.

As told to Asit Jolly


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