East Pakistan was not merely a piece of land that disappeared from my map; it was a part of my own body, a part of my history, and a painful lesson written in the blood of my children.

But my children did not always receive the full benefit of those achievements.

Whether I rise again with renewed strength or slowly disappear into the fading pages of history depends not upon the land beneath my feet, but upon the hearts and hands of those who call me their own.

I am Pakistan. I was born on a humid August night in 1947, after a long and painful struggle in which millions sacrificed their homes, possessions, honour and, above all, their lives. I did not come into this world as an ordinary state. I was carved out of a dream, watered with tears and blood, and entrusted to a people who had promised to make me a homeland where they could live with dignity, faith and freedom.

I still remember those first days. I was young, fragile and surrounded by uncertainty. Millions crossed borders carrying little more than memories, prayers and the hope of a better tomorrow. Trains arrived filled with refugees, and some arrived carrying only the dead. I watched mothers searching for children, children searching for fathers, and families burying their loved ones before they had even found a roof over their heads. Yet I survived. I stood upon my own feet because my people refused to let me fall.

Look at me today and then look back at the map of my........

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