Storywork - Amplifying missing stories in Impact Assessment

Note: This blog speaks to the story of the Pakistan-India Partition and the Indian Residential School System in Canada and may be triggering for some readers. Please read with care and discretion.

Recently, after working through a particularly gruesome story with an Elder who wanted me to document horrifying details of what happened to her at an Indian Residential School in #canada, she asked me why I was okay to keep listening. I said how could I not. This was her story. And her sharing was sacred for me.

She asked me if I found meaning in her story. I said I did.

She looked at me, grabbed my hand ever so gently and asked me why I?found meaning in her story.

I didn’t see that coming. Her kindness got me. She was being kind despite just having told me how the world continues to be so unkind to her. I also didn’t expect the sudden spike in my heart rate, and the tears in my eyes that came out of nowhere. ?

Close your mouth, breathe through your nose, I coached myself.

Turns out most of that coaching can fly out the window when s*** gets real.

I felt particularly vulnerable and meekly squeezed out the words, ‘because I can’t tell my story, so I find strength when you tell yours’.

She said I should write about that. I laughed and promised her I would. She asked me to make her a bannock promise. More laughs. I said I didn't know about a bannock promise, but I'd make her a paratha promise. More laughs. We traded recipes. I brought home a recipe for bannock and she took home a recipe for parathas.

If there’s one thing us #punjabi / #kashmiri kids are good at, its laughing in the face of practically anything. That, and if there are any promises we're serious about, its promises made over food. Gotta keep 'em!

Truth is, I don’t know my story entirely. And by that, I mean my story doesn’t start with my life. My story starts with my ancestors.

While some families have elaborate genealogies and maps to show who went where and did what, I don’t. I know that Miyan Ji (my great grandfather) barely survived the Partition and never wanted to talk about it. My Daada Jaani carried strong disdain for the British and wouldn’t miss an opportunity to hurl insults under his breath about having fought them out. Mind you my Daada Jaani hurled very similar insults every time Pakistan played against India in cricket. Go figure. And my Baaba Jaani carries that same shaat foose (‘short fuse’ – an endearing expression for someone rather short-tempered) when it comes to the British Raj.

I know my maternal roots in the #Kashmir are just as battered and bruised, if not more.

One thing they all hold in common is the pride of having ‘kicked the colonizers out’, the pride of having rebuilt their lives with sweat, blood, and tears, and the painfully silenced dismay at all the losses the Partition hurled at them all. ?

That night, I messaged my dad back in #lahore, Pakistan, hoping I’d catch him before he headed out for his Fajr prayers.

“Haanji Baba jaani, is anyone alive who I could talk to about the Partition and our family during it? Would anyone be willing to talk to me? I just want to know”

“Putter, this again? They all dead, Putter. You know that”.

“Everyone? You sure?”

“Yes, Putter. Everyone”.

“I’m not convinced. I’m going to keep looking”

“Putter kyon apni jaan nu aziyat deni en?” (trans: Why do you torture yourself like this?)

“Because Baba Jaan Ji, I am them. They are me. Their story is my story. I’ll let you know what I find out!”

“Ok Putter. Good luck. I will pray for you. You want I do sadqa for this?”.

“NOO please don’t. No goats need to die for this. I’ll let you know what I find out. Allah Hafiz. Love you”****

“Love you much much my pride”.

This is not the first time we have had this conversation. And it won’t be the last time, either.

Deep down, yes, I know. I know they are all gone. Their stories buried forever. I’ll never know what it was like for them to fight the British Raj. What it was like to be #displaced overnight, to lose everything they had, lose their loved ones to madness. Lose their friends to a border drawn for the rest of their lives. The chaos at the train stations. The smell of death, misery, and starvation in the air. The sheer panic. Doing things they perhaps regretted. Seeing things they wish they hadn’t seen. What it was like to carry those gruesome images for life, the weight of those memories for life, hoping no one can see it in your eyes, or hear it in your voice.

I’ll never know their full story. And yes, that means, I might never know my own story.

So, there you have it. This is why I do the work I do every day. Every time someone gets to tell their story, celebrate their language, celebrate who they are, I imagine my ancestors smiling. They know I carry their story deep in my soul, details blurry, sure, but its there somewhere. I imagine them straightening their backs with even more pride, despite all the grief and loss.

Its that missing story of my ancestors that I carry within me, that moves me.

Its that missing story of theirs that propels me in the work I do.

In the stories I tell.

?

?#storytelling #truthmatters #historymatters #intergenerationaltrauma #partition #pakistan #colonization #decolonization #impactassessment #history #traumahealing

****For reference, in my family back in the homeland, whenever we embark on a quest, we do a sadqa – giving – this can be anything from butchering a goat and distributing the meat to a family who may otherwise go hungry, to the more relatable ones perhaps – donating to a cause. I prefer the donation route – Edhi Foundation, Central Asia Institute, Citizens Archive of Pakistan…there are so many amazing places our sadqa can go. But my family is definitely on the goat route. We’re working on it, I promise! #goatsmatter