My last post got picked up by metafilter, (hello metafilterwalas), but I am not Pakistani-British, I am born in the UK from Gujarati parents, who arrived here via East Africa. However, my wife is Punjabi.
A fortnight or so ago, it was Pakistani Independence day, adjacent to Indian Independence day. We had a two day long party. Well, in our first year of marriage we did, as it was a novelty then. Now, we had completely forgotten. If one is in London, in the vicinity of Southall, or Green Street, or even Wembley, it is difficult to forget.
But, in Brum, On independence day, I was just having a good lunch with an old friend at Lahores Kebab House. Our conversation did not cover anything to do with India, Pakistan or even theological issues, but I couldn’t help staring at the map behind his head, with Kashmir being ambigously undefined.
Kashmir, like Bosnia, Chechnya and Palestine, has been the stock Friday-Generic-Prayer-For-Muslims-in-Peril, back as far as I can remember. (Despite my scoffing I know it comes from a sincere place). This afternoon, I happened to come across this article by Arundhati Roy on Kashmir. The following passages caught my eye The entire article is worth reading.
The Indian military occupation of Kashmir makes monsters of us all. It allows Hindu chauvinists to target and victimise Muslims in India by holding them hostage to the freedom struggle being waged by Muslims in Kashmir.
India needs azadi from Kashmir just as much as – if not more than – Kashmir needs azadi from India.
I leave you with the pictures on the wall at Lahore. Notice the picture of Princess Diana in hijab (some of you crazy youngling will not know who Princess Diana is, she was the People Princess, and being on the wall at Lahores Kebab House, well, it is What She Would Have Wanted). Also notice Imran Khan with two gun-toting tribesmen, and a map of Pakistan with the borders of Kashmir suitably undefined.
My Walee was born of Gujerati lineage in Uganda, you don’t happen to speak (or your parents speak) kachee, do you?
A lot of the folk in Leicester, where I spent my later youth, speak kuchee (or kutchi as we spell it), and I learnt enough from friends and neighbours to crack a few jokes. However, we spoke our own version of Gujarati at home.
My mother was raised in Tanzania, in a village that spied Mount Abu in the distance.