We Were Soldiers
By Maria Jafry
“It’s not about money or glamour; there isn’t any. Nor can these ever be as strong a reason to join the army as the patriotism we feel. We do not look at the army service as a job or career. To us, it’s a complete lifestyle, filled with its unique challenges and risks,” says Colonel Agha Haseeb.
Sure enough the life of an armed forces officer is tough and the risks are high. Even though we are not in a war with another country at present, the casualties faced by the army in battling an internal enemy are increasing by the day.
This reality struck me a couple of months ago when I witnessed one of our friends receive the news of the martyrdom of his cousin, Capt Hussain, in an operation in North Waziristan. He received the news calmly and, putting up a brave face, responded: “Congratulations. He is in a better place now.” Although I had met the captain only a couple of times, I was struck with grief, but my friend’s apparently ‘cheerful’ reaction dumbfounded me.
Another friend, Maryam Zara, who was also present on the occasion, looked at my astonished face, smiled and said, “It is an honour to be a shaheed and we don’t mourn them.” She would know. Her father and both her brothers have served in the army and one of the brothers, Capt Farhan Ali, was killed in action.
“It might amaze you but none of us cried when we received the news of my brother’s passing. Even my mother did not cry; she was proud of Ali because the officers told us that it was due to him that the operation was a success. At least 12 militants were killed in that operation in Darra Adam Khel,” she relates.
You will hear many such stories in families like these; Stories of stoic acceptance and silent struggle. “We are better off not telling people (about our lost family members) because it hurts even more when people know and still don’t appreciate their sacrifice.”
Maryam Zara agrees: “It really disappoints me when people sit and curse the country which has given us so much,” she says.
Thousands of civilians and soldiers have been killed in the more than decade-long militancy that has so plagued Pakistan; behind every number is a story and a family that has been left behind.
These soldiers are selected after undergoing trying physical, academic and medical tests. This can be judged from the fact that of the 92,000 applicants only 514 made it to the Pakistan Military Academy (PMA), Kakul for the current passing out batch. Once at the PMA they go through rigorous training which includes military training, academics and physical fitness regimes that truly test the mettle of the cadets. After two years of such tough training the officers are ready to face real action.
Why would someone willingly subject themselves to such a gruelling regimen and such an uncertain fate?
“Apart from the love for your country, the honour and pride that you feel in a uniform cannot be compared to anything — be it a white collar job or being a CEO of a company,” says Saad, a young cadet about to pass out from PMA.
However, there are those who disagree with this reasoning.
“People join the army for the privileges; look at their lifestyles. They enjoy the benefits which are paid by our tax money,” says Taha who comes from a business background.
But Umme Farwa, daughter of an army officer, does not agree: “If you have a family member out there fighting, and you are unaware whether they will make it home or not; I doubt the ‘benefits’ make a difference in such a situation.”
Shayan Haider, currently a cadet at the PMA, was only 11 years old during the Kargil war in 1999 when, on returning from school, he heard his father’s car rushing in through the gate. Then he noticed the driver camouflaging the car by throwing mud all over it. There was a commotion all around the Cantt area. They could hear trucks and tanks making their way out. His father signed some blank cheques and told his mother about their various assets. His eyes were wet with tears. “Then he told me that ‘now you have to take care of your mother and the family as now you are the man of the house’. It was the most difficult time of my life.”
It was difficult to hear, but Shayan tries to understand the reasoning.
“His duty to the forces comes before his duty to us, his family,” Shayan says. Being children Shayan and his siblings could not understand the gravity of the situation till his sister asked, “When will you come back?” to which he replied, “I won’t come back” and left. The next contact he had with the family was weeks later. Then, till his return, the family had no knowledge whether he was alive or not.
“The most difficult part is to leave your family behind; it is indeed an honour for a soldier to embrace martyrdom but the pain of making your family go through that torment is unbearable,” says Colonel Umer.
“It truly shakes us when we hear crude comments in sympathy with the militants. Step into our shoes and then you will feel our pain. Think how it feels when there is no one there to pick up the bodies of your loved ones. You sleep at night because we are awake defending the borders and all we want in return is appreciation, recognition and respect,” says Lieutenant Colonel Maqsud Khan, a veteran of the ’65 and ’71 wars.
“Fighting is never easy,” continues Khan. “One reason is that the soldiers on the other side have families too who are waiting just like ours are waiting. But when you see your fellow soldier dying that’s the time you start fighting. You lose a friend, a shoulder to cry on, but his death gives you strength.” - Courtesy Dawn
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