Reminiscences of the 1965 War
By Colonel Riaz Jafri (Retd.)
Rawalpindi, Pakistan
In September 1965 I was attending a Japanese language course at the Transit Camp Karachi. Clouds of war were gathering ominously but had not by then burst. On 5th September a van stopped alongside my car at the Elphinstone Street crossing and its driver seeing me listening to the news on my car radio, eagerly asked, “Has Pakistan declared war?” “No” I replied as we moved on with the change of the traffic signal.
Somehow I could not help noticing the disappointment writ large on his face. Early next morning, the Indians launched the attack but treacherously without declaring a war. The Karachi Oil Refinery, Naval Ship Yard and other strategically important targets were hit by the Indian Air Force causing little damage to the targets. The ‘air raid’ and “all clear” sirens kept on howling most of the day but did not seem to be taken seriously by the Karachites. However, our Japanese lady teacher was visibly shaken and distinctly distraught when she came to the class. She was simply amazed at the unbelievable courage and valor of the Karachites as the city streets hummed with normal traffic and business was as usual as if nothing had happened. She was apparently in no mood to teach and we all discussed the war and its ramifications. She unhesitatingly confessed that Tokyo would have presented a much desolate picture under similar circumstanes. She was so much overwhelmed by it that she sent a telegram to the GHQ “offering her services to the Pakistan Army in any capacity”!! I hope this memorable document is still present in the archives of the MT Directorate GHQ.
I was at Karachi for the first three days of the war and witnessed many an instance that would make anyone immensely proud of! The entire city seemed to welcome the war. Morale was high. The Recruiting Office at the Transit Camp was crowded with thousands of young men from all walks of life who were keen to get themselves enrolled as ordinary soldiers in the army. Many of them, dressed in jeans and joggers, were heard talking in English to their moms and dads from the Camp telephone to apprise them of their whereabouts. They all just wanted to be taken from there and then as they were to wherever the war was being fought.
Lahore was no different. On around 13 or 14 of September I came across a remarkably dressed up old man. He had a big white turban (to serve as his kafan) on his head and wore a green angrakha over shalwar. His beard was freshly dyed in henna. Two leather bandoliers full of 12 bore cartridges adorned his chest. A double barrel gun was slung over his left shoulder and a sword was held in his right hand. He looked every inch a Mujahid. Waiving frantically he stopped my jeep and requested to be taken to the front where the fighting was going on. When I tried to explain to him that it was a different kind of war and that he would not be able to do much with his DB gun and sword the old Mujahid with a stern look in his eyes admonished me and asked me not to underestimate him. He just wanted to take part in jihad and become a Shaheed if Allah so willed. I had no option but to drive him to the demolished bridge over the BRB canal near Jallo beyond which we could not go. “But where are the kafirs?” he enquired anxiously. “About a mile away”, I replied, “You cannot see them from here”. Visibly disappointed, he inquired in anguish, “Then how can I fight them?” On our way back the old man who had been fondly reciting Talbiah all his way to the front, now sat quietly, dejected, with head bowed as if deprived of a great opportunity in life. Then suddenly, he asked me to stop the jeep and quickly jumped out of it. He had spotted a few army men digging a pit at some distance – probably for an artillery gun. He ran towards the men asking me to go with the remark, “Beta, yeh khodana bhi tau jihad hey, meri kismat men yehi likha hoga”.
On September 7th or 8th the BBC TV showed a Lahore Omni Bus with Indian soldiers purportedly on a sight-seeing trip in Anarkali, Lahore. Actually the Indians had found an overnight parked bus at Bata Pur – Jallo and filmed it with the Indian soldiers on board in the bazaars of Amritsar claiming the scene to be that of Anarkali, Lahore. Watching the film on the BBC the brave Lahoris in the UK
WAR, P31 and other countries dashed to Lahore. Similarly, the Lahoris on vacations or visiting other cities on business, rushed to Lahore to create the worst traffic jam on the Ravi Bridge. The rush even impeded the movement of troops from up country. Whoever heard of a people running into the war zone rather than running away from it? Only the Lahoris could! It was common practice for the Lahoris to watch aerial dogfights between the PAF F-86s and MIG-19s and the IAF Mysteres and Gnats from rooftops. No amount of advice, persuasion or warnings could keep them away from shouting Bo Kata exultantly at the downing of an Indian aircraft.
Strange are the ways of the proud Pakistanis. A van driver disappointed that war had not been declared. Air raids or no air raids the business in the streets and the traffic on the roads goes on as usual. Jeaned, joggered dandies lining up to enroll as ordinary soldiers. Old Mujahids with kafan around the head eager to embrace shahadat. Lahoris rushing to Lahore when anywhere else the people would flee the scene of war. The entire nation unified – soldiers and civilians alike – like a seesa pilaie deewar to face the enemy.
If it happened in September 1965, why couldn’t it happen again?
Pakistan Paindabad.
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