Two Punjabs, One Pain: A cry for Peace

I write this not just as an Indian or Punjabi, but as a human being.

I usually refrain from speaking on politics or ongoing national conflicts. I often tell myself—this is not my place. But then I remembered: this is my voice. And if I don't use it to stand for what truly matters to me—then what's the point of having it at all?

What happened in Pahalgham shattered me. And what continues in the name of “revenge” shatters me even more. This cycle of loss, this war of pride where only ordinary people suffer—makes me wonder if we’ve truly learned anything from history. Before we are divided by borders and flags, we are human.

And as a Punjabi, I must say: Punjab says no to war.

The love between both Punjabs—on this side and that side of the border—is not hidden from anyone. Whether it's through music, shared language, poetry, or pain, we have always found our way back to each other.

We remember 1947. We endured 1984. We survived 1991 riots. My own great grandfather was killed in our home during these riots. I still hear my grandparents, my father telling us how they survived. We remember the Partition. The stories still haunt us—they’re in the silence of our elders, in the homes split between two lands, in the photos we still hold onto. Our families still endure that loss. We have seen the bloodshed. We have lived through families being torn apart, and generations being scarred. So no, we do not want war. Not now, not ever.

Whenever we meet even in foreign lands there is no bitterness in our hearts. Whether it’s in Canada, the UK, or Australia, Punjabis from both sides greet each other like long-lost kin. When someone crosses the border to visit their ancestral home, we welcome them with open arms, not suspicion.

This moment took me back to a story I read in school. It was called Shaheed, written by K.L Garg and in it, a child has a conversation with his father wondering who is a true martyr. Listening to this horrifying news the other day, i went back and revisited this beautiful story.

ਇਕ ਦਿਨ ਦੇਸ਼ਭਗਤ ਇਨਕਲਾਬੀਆਂ ਦੀਆਂ ਜੀਵਨੀਆਂ ਦੀ ਕਿਤਾਬ ਪੜ੍ਹਦਾ ਪੜ੍ਹਦਾ ਪੁੱਛਣ ਲਗਾ, “ਡੈਡੀ, ਸ਼ਹੀਦ ਕੌਣ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਨੇ?”One day, while reading about the lives of freedom fighters, my son asked, “Daddy, who are martyrs?”

The boy had likely seen those who died for the country—faces printed in black-and-white, labelled as heroes.

“ਨਿਤਾਣਿਆਂ ਤੇ ਨਿਥਾਂਵਿਆਂ ਲਈ ਮਰਨ ਵਾਲੇ ਸ਼ਹੀਦ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਨੇ, ਫਾਂਸੀ ਦੇ ਰੱਸੇ ਚੁੰਮਣ ਵਾਲੇ ਮਰਜੀਵੜੇ ਸ਼ਹੀਦ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਨੇ, ਮੇਰੇ ਬੇਟੇ!”“Those who die for the helpless, those brave enough to kiss the noose—those are martyrs, my son,” the father replied.

“ਲੜਾਈਆਂ ਵਿਚ ਕਮਾਂਡਰ ਵੀ ਤਾਂ ਹਜ਼ਾਰਾਂ ਬੇਦੋਸ਼ੇ ਲੋਕਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਮਰਵਾਉਂਦੇ ਨੇ ਡੈਡੀ। ਦੋਸ਼ਾਂ ਦੇ ਲੋਕਾਂ ਦੀ, ਫੌਜੀਆਂ ਦੀ ਕਿਹੜੀ ਦੁਸ਼ਮਨੀ ਹੁੰਦੀ ਐ ਆਪਸ ਵਿਚ। ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੇ ਤਾਂ ਇਕ ਦੂਜੇ ਨੂੰ ਕਦੀ ਵੇਖਿਆ ਵੀ ਨ੍ਹੀਂ ਹੁੰਦਾ।”“But in wars, commanders make thousands of innocent people die. What enmity do soldiers have with each other? They’ve never even met,” the boy said.

He wasn’t wrong. Most wars are fought by people who don’t know each other, for reasons they don’t fully understand.

“ਫੇਰ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਕਮਾਂਡਰਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਤਾਂ ਕੋਈ ਫਾਂਸੀ ਚਾੜ੍ਹਦਾ ਨੀਂ। ਸਗੋਂ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸੋਨੇ ਚਾਂਦੀ ਦੇ ਤਗਮੇ ਦਿਤੇ ਜਾਂਦੇ ਨੇ।”“Then why aren’t those commanders punished, Daddy? Why are they given medals?”

And then came the innocent yet thought proving question of the child.

“ਇਕ ਦੇਸ ਦੇ ਬਹਾਦਰ ਦੂਜੇ ਲਈ ਕਾਫਿਰ ਹੈ, ਨਾ ਡੈਡੀ?”“A hero of one country is a kafir (enemy) for another, right Daddy?”

Where do we draw the line between nationalism and humanity?

We call soldiers who die for us martyrs. But don’t they, on the other side of the border, do the same? Don’t their mothers grieve just as much?

This is not a post against anyone. This is a post for everyone.

If we continue to teach our children to cheer revenge instead of understanding, if we forget that peace is also a kind of bravery—then what future are we building?

The ones who start wars don’t fight them. The ones who fight them don’t start them. War doesn't make heroes, it breaks home.

And so I ask again: Who is the real shaheed?