The Legendary Qawal, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (Pakistani,) performing in Delhi, India in 1997.
The political lie The deeper I dug into our shared history, the angrier I became, not at Indians, but at the politicians who fed us these lies. It became painfully clear, the hatred between Pakistan and India was never about ordinary people. It was, and still is, a tool. In Pakistan, we were raised to believe that India was an existential threat. The media hammered it home daily, India was the enemy, India wanted to destroy us, India hated Muslims, often forgetting the fact that India has more Muslims than Pakistan but what was conveniently left out was why this narrative was kept alive. The answer? To distract us. Whenever the economy crashed, when corruption scandals broke, or when poverty levels rose, politicians didn’t face accountability, they just pointed fingers across the border. “Look at India!” they’d shout. “Forget your empty pockets, your broken schools, your crumbling hospitals. We’re under threat!” The same game plays out in India. Leaders there rally their voters with anti-Pakistan rhetoric, especially before elections. It’s easier to inflame nationalism than to answer for unemployment or social inequality. Defence budgets balloon on both sides, while millions of citizens struggle to access clean water or basic healthcare. The Indian Prime Minister, Narendar Modi, in 2016 after the Uri attacks openly said in an interview, “Pakistan has been trying to destroy India by exporting terrorists. They should now realise that this is a new India, and we will hit you where it hurts the most.”
stories of how his dad often spoke of his Indian friends from before Partition, friends he called brothers and sisters. When I asked my grandfather about stories before Partition, he told me, “My dad would tell me stories of him visiting Taj Mahl with his Indian friends.” My grandfather also mentioned how his dad’s voice would soften as he told stories of playing cricket with “Raju” or sharing mangoes during hot summers. It was clear that the heartbreak was still fresh when they recalled how those friendships were ripped apart in 1947, not by choice, but by brutal politics.
It’s a well-oiled cycle of fear. I remember seeing headlines about India testing missiles, followed instantly by Pakistan doing the same. Yet, behind closed doors, trade deals quietly continued, and VIPs from both countries still enjoyed luxury abroad—while we, the people, were left to simmer in anger and suspicion. One line from the great Pakistani nuclear scientist, Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan keeps echoing in my mind: “Politicians need us to fear each other because if we ever unite, we’ll ask why they’ve failed us.” The biggest betrayal? We were taught to see each other as enemies when, in truth, we were both victims of the same manipulation. The border may have divided land, but it also divided hearts and that was the real victory for the political elite. The lie worked for decades. But standing here now, with Indian friends I trust like family, I know one thing for sure, the truth is stronger than their propaganda. My Unlearning The roots for my unlearning started growing when I visited the Wagah border for the first time in 2021, when I was 13 years old. I had always imagined it as a line of hostility, but standing there, watching the dramatic flag ceremony, something cracked wide open inside me. On both sides, people cheered and waved flags but underneath the noise, I felt a strange closeness. Their faces looked like ours. Their pride felt like ours. I realised then that we weren’t enemies, we were reflections. Even though I realised all these things then, my time in Australia gave me a firsthand perspective of it.
That visit haunted me in the best way. Thirteen-year-old me began asking my Elders questions I’d never dared ask before: “Did we always hate them?” My grandfather through the stories of his father, who had lived through Partition, surprised me with his quiet honesty. He spoke of his Hindu friends from school, how they celebrated Eid with his family, and how he attended Diwali at their homes. My grandfather also mentioned how his father’s eyes softened as he described the heartbreak of losing those friendships overnight. “We were brothers once,” his dad said, he told me. “Politics made us strangers.” When I came to Australia, my unlearning deepened further. Each festival, each shared meal with my Indian friends peeled back another layer of prejudice. I realised that hatred isn’t born, it’s taught and just as powerfully, it can be unlearned. Today, when I call my Indian mates “bhai,” it feels more than symbolic. It feels like justice, like reclaiming something stolen from us by history’s cruel hand. Some advice to my younger self I look back now at that child sitting cross-legged in a Pakistani classroom, absorbing every word of division, and I feel a deep sadness but also hope. Hope that we can break the cycle. We are one blood. We pray differently, we sometimes dress differently, but beneath the surface, we are stitched together by history, pain, and resilience. The lies of politicians tried to poison that bond, but truth is stubborn, it finds its way through the cracks.
Just days ago, the fragile peace between India and Pakistan shattered once more. In a so-called retaliation for a terrorist attack in Indian-administered Kashmir that killed 26 tourists, India launched Operation Sindoor, targeting what it described as militant infrastructure. Pakistan reported that these strikes hit civilian areas, even places of significant religious importance, resulting in more than 30 deaths, including children, and 57 injuries. In response, Pakistan claimed to have downed five Indian jets and engaged in artillery exchanges along the Line of Control, leading to further casualties on both sides. The Director General of Pakistan Army also claimed that Pakistan’s response is yet to come as the shooting down of Indian jets was just an act of defence. Despite the escalating violence, my anger is not directed at the Indian people, but at the politicians who perpetuate this cycle of hostility. My journey taught me that real strength isn’t in missiles or borders, it’s in humanity. And if we can see through the lies and reach across the divide, maybe one day, the only thing left between us will be friendship.
We are also bound by our history, the Mughal architecture that graces both sides of the border, the shared heroes like Bhagat Singh (Indian), who fought for a united independence, and poets like Faiz Ahmed Faiz (Pakistani), whose verses resonate in both nations. The more I learned, the clearer it became, the differences we were taught to obsess over religion, politics, borders were tiny compared to the rich tapestry of what we share. Our blood, our culture, our histories are forever woven together. We were brothers long before we were divided.
It’s time to stop fighting battles we didn’t start and reclaim the brotherhood we were always meant to have.
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