Rawalpindi：City of Bloodshed, City of Life

Rawalpindi, Pakistan is now more than ever a city that appears synonymous with terrorism. But it is nothing new, not only was Bhutto’s own father put to death here in this city, but Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan was assassinated 56 years ago at those very gardens where Benezir died and the spot thus bears the name Liaquat Bagh(Gardens).

All too often Rawalpindi has been associated with bloodshed. Around there, tribal animosities run deep and cruel revenge is part of the political turf. Since ancient times, outside invaders like the Persians, Greeks, Kushans, Parthians. White Huns and Afghan Muslims under Mahmud of Ghazni all struggled for dominance over this region. The city is named after a local nomad tribe, the Rawals. In Moghul times Rawalpindi was a growing city. Later, Sikhs took control and the people of “Pindi” became known for their love of squabbling. My beginning Urdu textbook hints at the accepted situation there with phrases to be memorized such as: “My son has two guns”, “The enemy was seen on the hill”, “The child dropped the loaded gun that went off at once” and “ Our cavalry attacked the retreating enemy”.

For me, however, Rawalpindi brings a different image. It is where my daughter was born 32 years ago. I wonder how many Japanese can claim that city as their birth place? It was past two in the morning when we drove through the darkened streets of “Pindi” to the Combined Military Hospital in the Cantonment area where the Pakistani army makes its headquarters. To my amazement, doctors and nurses were busy preparing pre-dawn meals as this happened to be just in the midst of the month-long Ramadan fast time during the daylight hours. My daughter was born at dawn, as the mizzens on loud speakers called from the mosques for prayers, and the beginning of the day’s fast. My doctor, a female colonel in the army, came barely in time to catch her delivery. At the moment of birth, I looked out the window and caught sight of the setting moon. Her Pakistani name would be Chandni, Girl of the Moon. From then on we were showered with friendship by the generous and warm people of Pakistan.

Being born in Rawalpindi, Pakistan was an exotic start. There was always a puzzled reaction when people asked where she was born. She did, however, have a rare coincidence in meeting a very elderly British woman while on a train in Australia who had been born in that same hospital when Rawalpindi was a garrison town under the colonial rule of the British Raj. But things started to get complicated while my daughter was attending university in the United States. It seemed difficult for the American authorities to understand that place of birth did not equal to nationality. She had to continuously return the forms and make sure they noted that she was Japanese. It was only a small nuisance until after 9-11, when she had to be more careful to boast of her Pakistani roots.

As “Chandni” grew up she relished those Urdu words we had kept alive in family conversations. On turning twenty she passed up a kimono as a present for Coming-of-Age Day and instead opted for a return trip to her place of birth. We went overland from China. After crossing the border, we had to pass through the snow-covered Pamir Mountains and go along the route of the Indus River for three days before reaching Rawalpindi. The old hospital was the first stop. To our shock a severe-looking guard shouted that no photos were allowed near a military facility and his rifle came off his shoulder. My daughter, though, stood her ground and with a very determined look barked back that she was born here. The guard responded with an immediate bow and then a tip of the hat nodding that she be allowed to take pictures where she pleased. Old friendships were rekindled and we felt the warm embrace of this region again. Even now my daughter feels proud to have been born in Rawalpindi, not just a city of bloodshed but also a city of life.