Kashmir's glory from Pakistan

  Dear Pakistan! I recently graduated from Chala Kalan. Winter is coming to anend. The poplar buds are about to sprout, the forests are covered with snow, but where the snow has cleared, the violet flowers have begun to rise.

This winter is also very strange, freezing the traces of life. Lush forests and valleys are covered with snow, while all around is white. My goodness! Chala Kalan and Khurd come every year, freezing the valley with the whole Joban, but after two months this intensity disappears. Life begins to live, the birds begin to flutter, the songs of cuckoos, hawks, squirrels and birds begin to resound in the valley, the coke of coil announces spring in the valley.

My Pakistan, my Mohsin! Today 74 years have passed. The weather changed 74 times in those seven decades. The valley is bathed in greenery and flowers again after being covered with a white sheet. But the sons of this valley have been wearing white shrouds daily for the last 74 years, buried under the green crescent flag. His life has been frozen for seven decades. His life has become so long that he no longer has the opportunity to sing. These young people also want to chant the word of Allah in the forests, mountains and valleys. They also want to live in the open air like partridges, crows and coyotes. But these chakras of Kashmir do not get a chance to reach their moon, ie you.

My goodness! You have been very kind to this valley. I have bowed down to the young men of your plains, the herdsmen of the deserts, the sailors of the rivers, and the farmers of the fields. My Pakistan! The morning in the valley begins with the hope of reaching you, but in the darkness of the night the grief of your separation runs away to eat. My Pakistan! While your sons are walking on your land with their chests wide open, at the same time my sons are searching at a checkpoint with their hands up. When your daughters are raising their heads with pride, at that very moment my daughters are closing the windows of their houses to save their honor. She is watching your green crescent flag in the street through the half-open doors. My goodness! Maybe you don't know how much my sons and daughters love you. You know, no, the river Jhelum, which comes to you, in this river the bodies of my sons, screams and drains also come to you.

My dear Pakistan! I think this time I will tell you about the resurrection that will befall my sons in addition to the fear of hunger in winter. I try to write to you all the grievances, all the sorrows that my son suffers. But my Pakistan! My sons will be angry with me, because you are their love, you are my sons' madness, they love you blindly. They say that the beloved is not glorified. Love is the name of sacrifice. Right now only a few lakhs have been sacrificed, for this love we will destroy our very existence.

My goodness! My beloved! My Pakistan! There is an endless stream of hugs, grievances and complaints. My son, don't say anything to you, but my relationship with you is one and the same. I can complain to you. My Pakistan! Your sons sacrificed for my freedom. But you won the battles on the field and lost the houses. I have warned you many times about the thinking of India, but you have always trusted the enemy. The enemy who always hit you in the back. My goodness! If I sit down with a 74-year-old story, I'm sure it will be difficult for me to hold back my tears. The case, which began with the UN Security Council in January 1948, is still locked in the UN's cupboards. The Lahore Declaration, the Tashkent Agreement, the Shimla Agreement, the story of love or war, have all become old stories. But to this day no practical steps have been taken for my release.

My beloved! My ambassador! While you were celebrating the new Pakistan, India took away my identity, my existence was erased. Tried to imprison my soul. But my ambassador! You went out for me, prayed for my freedom every Friday. But my beloved! Prayers do not bring freedom. You have made me the shroud of the shrine, which is sacred, but an inanimate being, which is identified with the shrine. Even its sanctity outside the shrine becomes insignificant. My ambassador! If you remember the last 74 years. Imagine for a second you were transposed into the karmic driven world of Earl. Have your sons, who are spread over seven continents, ever spent seven hours for me? In the last 74 years, you have fought my case in every forum, from the United Nations to the OIC, but have you ever wondered why your speeches are ineffective?

My beloved, my ambassador, my Pakistan! I tell you, when you are financially independent, when your foreign policy is free, when your sons are your hands and arms, then your speeches will have an effect, your words will be heard. It will be easier for you to fight my case. Your sons are holding hands today and expressing solidarity with me. My freedom base camp in Muzaffarabad is also very colorful. I have heard that there is a lot of activity in Lahore, Islamabad and Karachi. But from Jammu to Srinagar and from Ladakh to Poonch, there is deep silence in the entire valley. My sons and daughters are in fear of the unknown. They don't care as much about losing my identity as they do about ignoring me.

My beloved! It's a 74-year-old story to write, but thank you so much for dedicating a whole day to me today. Take care of yourself and your sons.

Only your Kashmir