■Into the nation’s heart, Shaheed Zia-ul-Haq breathed lasting love for the flag and the cherished spirit of Independence Day■
A few evenings ago, on 31 July, while absent-mindedly scrolling through the WhatsApp messages on my mobile phone, one message suddenly stopped my thumb. It had been posted in a group called CAF (Chakwal Awami Forum).
It read:
“Remember: To express your love for your homeland, the National Flag should already be flying on your house before sunrise on the 1st of August.”
It was a simple message.
No slogan.
No rhetoric.
No politics.
Yet it touched something deep within me.
When I looked at the sender’s name, my heart responded even more warmly. It was Brigadier Mazhar Husain.
Suddenly, those few words carried a different weight.
They were not merely written by a citizen. They came from the heart of a soldier—a man who had once stood watch over Pakistan’s frontiers, looked across hostile borders with unwavering resolve, and dedicated years of his life to protecting the Green Flag beneath which millions sleep in peace. When such a man asks his fellow Pakistanis to let the Crescent and the Star greet the dawn before the sun itself, his appeal deserves more than a casual glance.
It deserves respect.
To Brigadier Mazhar Husain, I offer my humble salute.
His message remained with me long after I had put my phone aside.
It awakened memories.
Not one memory.
Not two.
But an entire lifetime.
Allah Almighty says in the Holy Qur’an:
«”Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.”
(Surah Ar-Ra’d 13:11)»
Nations are not transformed by speeches alone. They rise when the character of their people rises. A flag, therefore, is not a magical object. It is a reminder—a daily reminder—of the values that a nation promises to uphold.
Many people see only cloth fluttering in the wind.
I see something else.
I see the hopes of those who crossed burning frontiers in 1947 carrying little more than faith and determination.
I see mothers who buried sons wrapped in that Green Flag.
I see soldiers standing through freezing nights and blazing summers so that the Crescent and the Star may continue to fly freely over our homeland.
I see generations of children looking upward with innocent pride, believing that the future belongs to them because that flag still flies.
People often ask why I become emotional whenever I speak of Pakistan’s flag.
I have no simple answer.
Perhaps because, throughout my life, wherever destiny carried me—whether through the streets of Islamabad or the avenues of distant American cities—my eyes instinctively searched for only one flag.
The green one.
The one carrying the Crescent of Hope and the Star of Light.
The one that has followed me through the decades like a silent companion.
Or perhaps…
I have been the one following it.
The message from Brigadier Mazhar Husain refused to leave me.
It remained with me throughout the evening and accompanied me into the following day. Perhaps that is what sincere words do. They knock gently on the door of the heart and then quietly make themselves at home.
The next morning, I took my faithful mustard-coloured Volkswagen—my beloved “Foxy”—for a drive through Islamabad. The city was already wearing the colours of August. Here and there, children waved tiny paper flags. Shopkeepers were hanging green-and-white bunting across their storefronts. Roadside vendors were arranging flags of every size, from those that fit into a child’s hand to those destined to fly proudly above homes and public buildings.
As Foxy rolled along, another familiar traveller seemed to occupy the seat beside me.
It was “BāBĀ Tāl”—[the Bell-man] accentless dervish. His weathered blue robe carried tiny brass bells stitched along its folds, and whenever he walked, they sang more gently than they rang. He belonged to no sect, no political party and no worldly ambition. His homeland was wisdom, and his language was humanity. He spoke little, but every sentence he uttered lingered long after the soft music of his bells had faded.
He smiled.
“So,” he said, “the Crescent and the Star have started talking to you again.”
I smiled back.
“They never stopped.”
BāBĀ Tāl looked through the windshield, where a child was proudly carrying a small Pakistani flag almost as tall as himself.
“Do you remember,” he asked softly, “the Augusts of your youth?”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
How could I forget?
Those were my university years—the 1980s.
Long before the arrival of the fourteenth of August, Pakistan itself seemed to awaken. Streets blossomed in green and white. Schools, colleges, universities, markets and government buildings all prepared to celebrate Independence Day with remarkable enthusiasm. Patriotic songs floated from radio and television from morning until night. Every neighbourhood organised competitions, flag-hoisting ceremonies and national celebrations. Children painted crescents and stars on their cheeks. Young men proudly fastened miniature flags to their motorcycles and bicycles.
It was more than an annual celebration.
It became a national habit.
History will debate many aspects of the era of Shaheed General Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq, as every political period invites differing judgments. Yet one observation, in fairness, deserves acknowledgement: during those years, respect for the National Flag and the spirit of Independence Day became deeply rooted in public life. Patriotism was not confined to official ceremonies; it reached classrooms, homes, bazaars and hearts.
I was a university student then.
Those memories do not belong to childhood innocence.
They belong to youth—to an age when one begins to understand that a homeland is not merely inherited; it must also be honoured.
BāBĀ Tāl listened quietly.
Then, with the faintest smile, he asked another question.
“Do you remember walking down East 43rd Street in New York… not because it was the shortest route, but because your heart had already chosen its destination?”
His bells chimed softly.
And suddenly, I was no longer driving through Islamabad.
I was walking once again beneath the towering buildings of Manhattan.
The streets of Manhattan have a rhythm of their own.
Thousands of hurried footsteps. Endless streams of yellow taxis. Towering walls of glass reflecting the ambitions of the world. During my stay in New York City, I attended many meetings, exhibitions and community gatherings. There were numerous ways to reach my destination.
Yet, whenever time allowed, I deliberately chose one particular route.
I would walk from Times Square along East 43rd Street.
Friends occasionally asked, “Why this street?”
I would simply smile.
Because they were seeing a street.
I was seeing a destination.
At the eastern end of East 43rd Street, just across First Avenue, stands the headquarters of the United Nations. Before it stretches the magnificent row of the flags of the world’s nations, standing shoulder to shoulder in the breeze.
One hundred and ninety-three flags.
One hundred and ninety-three stories.
One hundred and ninety-three identities.
Arranged alphabetically—from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe.
And there, among them, stood Pakistan.
By a beautiful coincidence, Pakistan’s flag appeared almost directly in line with East 43rd Street. Every time I reached the end of that road, my eyes searched for only one flag.
Not the largest.
Not the highest.
Not the first alphabetically.
Only one.
The green flag bearing the Crescent of Hope and the Star of Light.
The moment it came into view, something inside me became wonderfully still.
People around me admired the architecture of the United Nations building.
Some photographed the skyline.
Others hurried towards meetings that would shape international diplomacy.
I stood there for another reason.
To salute my homeland silently.
Many visitors see the flags as symbols of sovereign states.
I saw them as members of one human family, each carrying its own history, victories, wounds and aspirations.
Yet, every son has only one mother.
Among one hundred and ninety-three flags, my heart recognised only one as its own.
BāBĀ Tāl’s gentle voice returned.
“So,” he asked, “did you go there to see the United Nations?”
I smiled.
“No.”
“I went there to see Pakistan.”
He laughed softly, and the tiny brass bells on his robe answered him.
“There are people,” he said, “who travel around the world searching for famous monuments.”
He paused before adding,
“And then there are a few who travel the world searching for their own flag.”
His words reminded me of the saying by the English-born American writer Thomas Paine:
«”Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.”»
Freedom is never maintained by speeches alone.
It survives through sacrifice, responsibility and love.
As I stood before the United Nations Headquarters, watching the Crescent and the Star dance gracefully in the New York breeze, one thought quietly settled in my heart:
I do not merely love my flag.
I adore it.
Little did I know that another encounter with the same beloved flag awaited me hundreds of miles away—in the harbour city of Baltimore—where, for a few unforgettable moments, my heart would outrun my reason.
The journey to Baltimore began as an ordinary business trip.
My cousin Salman Khan and I were travelling across the United States on what we jokingly called our “Trade on Wheels.” The back of our truck carried a precious cargo of Pakistani and Iranian oriental carpets. Back home, such a vehicle would have been called a Dala-wagon. In America, it was simply a truck.
Crossing Maryland, we entered the historic harbour city of Baltimore.
Its rolling hills reminded me, in their own way, of the landscape around Sukkur in Sindh. We drove downhill towards the waterfront, where the road suddenly opened to a magnificent view of the harbour below.
And then…
My eyes froze.
My heart struck against my ribs with such force that I could almost hear it.
At the far end of the descending road stood a large building. In front of it, high upon a flagpole, fluttered the green flag of Pakistan—the Crescent of Hope and the Star of Light. Around it were the flags of many other nations, but I saw only one.
For a breathtaking moment, emotion defeated reason.
I honestly believed the building belonged to Pakistan.
It did not.
As we drew closer, reality quietly corrected my imagination. It was not the Embassy of Pakistan, nor any building owned by my beloved homeland. The position of the flag, viewed from the crest of the hill, had simply created that beautiful illusion.
But my heart refused to apologise.
Some illusions are born not from deception but from love.
BāBĀ Tāl looked at me with the knowing smile of a dervish.
“You mistook the building,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“But not the flag.”
He nodded.
“That is because your eyes recognised it before your mind did.”
Perhaps he was right.
There are moments when reason walks slowly, but love runs ahead.
Have you ever heard the song by the Scottish singer Lulu, “I Only Live to Love You”?
Its sentiment has always reminded me of something different.
If I were to borrow its spirit, I would say:
I live because this Green Flag lives within me.
The Prophet Muhammad (Peace and blessings be upon him) said:
«”The believer is the one from whom people are safe with regard to their lives and their property.”
(Jami’ at-Tirmidhi, Hadith 2627)»
That Hadith teaches us that love is proved through conduct.
The same is true of patriotism.
A nation is not honoured merely because its citizens wave its flag on Independence Day.
It is honoured when they protect one another, deal honestly, uphold justice, respect the law, and leave their country stronger than they found it.
To salute the flag with our hands is easy.
To honour it with our character is far more difficult.
As Foxy rolled quietly through Islamabad once again, BāBĀ Tāl rang his tiny bells with the gentlest movement of his robe.
“There is still another sound you have not told me about,” he whispered.
“The sound that no one else seemed to hear…”
And instantly, another memory returned—one that did not begin with the sight of the flag, but with the music of its flutter in the wind.
There are sounds that the ears hear.
And there are sounds that only the heart remembers.
One such sound has remained with me for decades.
I was seated in the front passenger seat of a ministerial car with Ijaz-ul-Haq, the son of Shaheed General Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq. We were driving through the broad, tree-lined avenues of Islamabad. Mounted on the front of the official vehicle was a small Pakistani flag.
It was a pleasant day. The breeze was gentle.
Then the little Crescent and Star began to dance.
With every passing gust of wind, the tiny flag fluttered happily against its staff, producing a soft, rhythmic whisper.
To most people, it would have been an ordinary sound.
To me, it was extraordinary.
I felt it before I understood it.
The sound travelled through my entire body. Every hair on my skin seemed to awaken. A strange current of emotion flowed through me. I could neither explain it nor resist it.
I was not merely listening to a piece of fabric moving in the wind.
I was listening to Pakistan.
Some people remember a melody.
Some remember a speech.
I remember the whisper of my flag.
BāBĀ Tāl remained silent for a long while.
Finally, he spoke.
“You have spent your life searching for the Crescent and the Star.”
I gently corrected him.
“No, BāBĀ Tāl.”
“I never searched for it.”
“It always found me.”
It found me in the patriotic Augusts of my university years.
It found me at the end of East 43rd Street in New York, where among one hundred and ninety-three nations my eyes sought only one flag.
It found me on the hillside road descending into Baltimore, where love momentarily convinced me that an entire building belonged to Pakistan.
It found me in the whisper of a tiny flag dancing before a ministerial car in Islamabad.
And it found me again, on the evening of 31 July, in a simple WhatsApp message from Brigadier Mazhar Husain, reminding Pakistanis to let the National Flag greet the dawn before the first rays of the August sun.
Perhaps that is why I become uneasy when I see our flag treated as a decoration for a single day.
The Crescent and the Star deserve better.
They deserve honest citizens more than loud patriots.
They deserve clean streets more than crowded slogans.
They deserve justice more than empty promises.
They deserve unity more than division.
They deserve a generation that understands that the honour of a flag is protected not only by soldiers standing at the borders, but also by teachers in classrooms, judges in courtrooms, workers in factories, journalists in newsrooms, farmers in fields and parents raising children to love their country without hating another.
As another Independence Day approaches, let us raise our flags proudly.
But when the celebrations end and the lights are taken down, let us not fold away our patriotism with the bunting.
Let the Crescent continue to shine in our conduct.
Let the Star continue to guide our conscience.
Only then will the Green Flag remain what it has always been—
Not merely the flag of a country,
But the flag of a people determined to remain worthy of it.
■□■POTEARS■□■ [coined by T. Hejazi-where tears become poetry and poetry becomes tears]
Raise high the Green, but higher still your soul,
For flags are honoured when good hearts are whole.
The Crescent lights the path the brave have trod,
The Star shines brightest for a people true to God.
Also Read: AHLAN WA SAHLAN MARHABA! – Gen. Al-Baqami
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