September of My Childhood

In September 1965, Squadron Leader Rais Ahmad Rafi commanded No. 8 Squadron and lived with his wife and two children, my brother and I, at PAF Station, Mauripur.  I must have been an exceptionally bright four year-old because, defying biological impossibility, I remember!

Haroon's Birthday with Ammi and I behind him on the left. Aunty Bey standing to the right.

As the bombardiers took off every night with Abbi at their helm,  a gaggle of women with all sizes of children in tow would gather in one flat, I think Uncle Bey’s, to collectively pray for a successful mission and the bombers’ safe return.  Uncle Bey was probably from admin branch and tasked to look after the families, a responsibility he did not take lightly. Shotgun in hand, he would patrol the family compound every hour (later, Abbi and he would laugh about this for many years), then step into the flat, take in a cup of tea and exchange words of encouragement with the women before heading for his rounds again.  Uncle Bey’s flat was probably unsafe.  As per SoPs, he should have been directing us to the trenches recently dug by the MES “fatigue” alongside the family barracks.  But every night, even before the hooter shrieked, he and Auntie would throw the doors to their modest flat open and everyone would file in.  Uncle Bey knew his wards, “Bhabhi-ji and Beta-ji” all, preferred companionship over safety and he was not about to withhold compassionate hospitality just to fulfill SoPs.  There would be rounds of tea, constant prayer, and a slumber party adventure for the children...all by candle light for fear the enemy may spot a lit bulb and attack.  I remember being loved by many mothers and playing with many brothers and sisters.  Against the surreal harmony of soft sobs and loud Allah ho Akbars, a vague recollection of President Ayub Khan’s resonant voice over radio rekindles in me a child’s fear that her mother may be the one crying, and that could not be good.  I remember searching Ammi’s face for signs of despair but never finding any. Ammi never cried, at least not in my presence. During those seventeen most dangerous days and nights of my life, I felt as secure as ever a child could because my mother’s demeanor conveyed courage and confidence and I internalized both. Of course, all was not well, and in the wee hours of the morning, as slumber overtook exhausted children,  our mothers would count the sounds of load-lightened bombers landing not far away.  “Yah Allah, Aaj do kum hain” one of them would say.  Stoically, those brave women would step out of dear Uncle Bey’s flat and head for home to await their fate.


Every morning, upon his return from a mission, Abbi would mumble something to Ammi’s and, after putting Haroon and I to bed to catch up on missed sleep, they would both leave. I didn’t know then, but they would be headed to the homes of a pilot and a navigator (they went in twos, on B-57s!) to break unbearable news. Their loved ones would not be returning home.  It didn’t take me long to figure out that, sometimes, dads go away forever although I did not understand how the choice was made.  Surely there was some formula, otherwise why would Abbi return home and Uncle Alam Siddiqui not?  In the following years, my parents would recall their difficult assignment, as Squadron Commander and wife, of being daily bearers of bad news.  Ammi said it was exhausting and she felt drained.  Abbi remembered that he remained high spirited through missions but the moment his aircraft touched down safely, he would feel a weight descend upon him so heavy that he could barely unharness himself and alight.  Many times he wished someone was carrying his news rather than vice versa, so he said. The bomber squadrons of Mauripur suffered heavy casualties in 1965 and were awarded equally generously.  Abbi wore his Sitara e Jurrat with pride but also with tremendous humility, in memory of his lost air comrades.  My parents never forgot the heavy price their community paid for the defence of our land.

Many of my September recollections are in fact accounts etched in my memory by my storytelling father.  I don’t directly remember them, but I carry them in the tradition of tales told by one generation to another.  Abbi loved to tell stories and I would rather do nothing than listen spellbound.  Later, my siblings joined the audience, but I admit that I consider myself a privileged patron.  I am responsible for imparting these precious jewels to our children, and I do so with utmost detail, as accurately as possible – as told to me by the air warrior himself.

While nights were devoid of normalcy, days were almost routine.  Abbi slept a lot, but we would often climb into the Beatle and head out to town for a meal. South China Restaurant, Beach Luxury Hotel, Chandni Lounge at Intercontinental and Salatin’s were Abbi favorite eateries. Our Karachi ended at Karsaz and the best of it existed around Victoria and McLeod Roads, Elphinstone Street and Saddar (Today’s Karachiites will have difficulty wrapping their heads around this).   Ammi had no preferences and other than enforcing drill sergeant like discipline 24/7, she was quite satisfied to let Abbi and I haggle over choice of venue. Abbi would let me win often but regardless of where we finally settled, I recall that the restaurant management would refuse to let Abbi pay the bill.  We were regulars, they knew us well.  They also knew that Abbi was flying nightly missions. It was their way of thanking him.



The officers of No. 8 Squadron had a favorite pastime. Every evening, I presume at the outset or conclusion of their mission briefing, they would decide what songs would be good accompaniment to take-offs.  A junior officer would be charged with calling Radio Pakistan to request a particular “milli naghma”.  I believe Radio Pakistan transmitted live in ‘65, so I have no idea how this was executed, but Abbi insisted that Madam Noor Jahan came to Lahore radio station and sang “Ae watan ke sajeeley jawano” when he conveyed a “farmaish”! Abbi was given to embellishment and drama no doubt, but others have confirmed that not only the great lady, but Mehdi Hasan with “Apni jaan nazar karun” and the inimitable Alam Lohar with Abbi’s favorite “Jugni” also obliged.  Indeed, Abbi had in his substantial music collection, all on looped tapes, a recording of Noor Jahan saying “Yeh merey Shaheenon ke liye…” and launching into the goose-bump inducing “Ae puttar hataan te naeen vikde”.  Abbi flew many a mission listening to “Jugni ja vari Halwarey…etc etc” before his bomber would cross the border and the airwaves would be silenced.

At the end of September, many of my friends left Mauripur or moved into alternate living quarters.  They had lost their fathers.  Their mothers either started working or they were all taken away, into the “civilian” world, to live with grandparents. The same happened in 1971 when yet more friends lost their fathers. Many years later, in 2003, it happened to us, my children and I.  The last time my father broke the news of a slain air warrior, with Ammi by his side, was to me about my shaheed husband.  “I had all the practice I needed” he told me years later when we had supposedly reconciled with our loss, “But the weight that descended upon me was heavier than ever.  I truly wished it was he carrying the news about me, rather than me telling you about him”. He could never quite recall how he did it or what he said, but I remember.

Feb 20th, 2003:

Abbi, on the phone with me as I am on a work assignment in Karachi, the first time I am speaking to him since the crash. “Samina, you are a ghazi’s daughter, now a shaheed’s wife.  There are very few in this world like you.  Be proud. Shahadat Mubarak.” When stressed, Abbi resorts to my full name instead of the more endearing “Seemi”. I can hear the tremor in his voice.    

Ammi, as I step out of the car and walk into my unrecognizable home filled with a sea of concerned faces. “Aap meri bahadur beti hain, himmat ke saath…acha beta…Razi ko sharminda nahin karna”,  Forever the disciplinarian, Ammi is trying desperately to hold back her tears. It is not working.
     
The resolute courage of my community, air warriors and their wives, has reverberated around me all of my life. I was baptized with it in September 1965, retaining memories while nearly all other, unrelated ones of that age are forgotten. Perhaps I was being prepared for my fate, as if some Divine Power felt compassion and decided to ease me into my tragedy so that I would be spared trauma. It almost worked.  

Come September again, I hope to be sitting with my siblings, our children and grandchildren, telling them stories of those fateful seventeen days when I was introduced to courage under fire by the most dashing and graceful of all couples, a Pakistan Air Force pilot and his wife.