Not My War?

It is too easy to dismiss problems that at first glance seem not to be of moment to oneself. Perhaps, even a war could be dismissed as such a ‘problem’ and when in the seventies we found ourselves unexpectedly caught up in a war between Pakistan and India our first thought was to extract ourselves as soon as maybe. We had been living in Karachi for a few months when the first bombers appeared. Husband was working for FAO (United Nations) and we had with us four young children and Grandmother who was in her sixties. We adults had joined a local choir of all nationalities and had that evening sung ‘Haydn’s ‘Creation’   to a large and polyglot audience. It was the middle of the night when we became aware that Grandmother had come into the bedroom and was telling us to get up and get dressed. She was well prepared, had her passport ready and judging by the instructions she was giving was reverting rapidly to the organised days back in the other war.

Karachi stands in a desert and from our bungalow we had a clear view of the night sky over the harbour, and we watched dumfounded the golden tracer bullets which were dancing from earth to moon and then heard the resounding booming of heavy gunfire and the whine of aircraft.     The war which had been promised, had now started and we had become unwelcome visitors, unwelcome witnesses to another’s war.

I make no judgments about the local British Foreign Office representatives and what happened next because we did not have any of the information that might have influenced the advice  given to us by  the British Foreign Office at the time or of any information influencing the advice passed on to us by them  later. Just one brief letter had been sent to the British families wishing us well and reminding us to take passports and any medical forms that showed that we had had any essential vaccinations for going overseas. However, the UN told us in no uncertain terms that we had to make our own arrangements for leaving the country and advised us to do so. There seemed to be a choice between a slow boat to Bombay, whilst staying on the deck, or a car journey overland to Iran , taking with us the Pathan driver who was in charge at the Research Centre Transport and at least one other Urdu speaking official  from the Research Centre. Neither choice appealed very much. The decision about what to do was temporarily undecided.

The next day brought its own adventure. We had to ‘blackout’ the bungalow before the bombing resumed and for that we needed curtains. Driving the Drigh Road which led to the airport and to shops was the only possible route, so we set out taking with us the youngest of the children, aged two. What then?

I think the word is ‘strafed !

 Anyhow, the meagre traffic skidded to a halt and we fled to shelter against the nearest wall in company with a young man whose one resolve was to join the Pakistan forces and defend his homeland.

Once back at the bungalow there was better news. The Australians were sending in a plane which would land at the airport at the crack of the next dawn and pick up passengers during the one hour while warfare was suspended and British passengers were welcome. We were to go to Teheran!

The beautiful Aussie ‘plane and its beautiful attendants were there for us and our journey continued .

The thought of seeing Teheran was exciting. We were greeted, especially well, by helpful Netherlanders who donated warm clothes, things for the children and, good advice. We had fled sunny Karachi with only the clothes we were wearing, a few medical necessities, birth certificates and little else. Teheran was enjoying snow and ice so anything warm was greeted with delight. Son Giles had pockets full of lead soldiers of course.

 It was Christmas time and our Iranian hosts had done what they could to make the celebration fun for the children. Our fellow countrymen and women based already in Teheran were, we imagined, enjoying Christmas in their own way and working too hard amidst all that that involves to wonder too much about bedraggled evacuees and we made plans to entertain them if they were ever evacuated to Karachi!  We scarcely missed the traditional feast of turkey and Brussels sprouts amidst all the excitement of being in a city of mystery and legend. Well, we did miss everything in fact, but noblesse oblige !  The giving of Christmas presents by our hosts was part of the entertainment but the fact that we were unexpected arrivals had led to a hiccup in the organisation and by the time Santa Clause reached our table the sack was empty and all that were left were plastic dolls, (undressed but unsexed thank goodness)and these were soon confined to the rubbish shoot in the flat by small males dismayed at being thought ‘girls’. YUK.

Time slid quietly into the New Year and two of the children plus Granny went on a trip to Persepolis. My husband and his group team leader had to find work at the University according to UN rules for displaced evacuees so they were busy. I cannot really recall what I did except that I found that walking in the city without an adult male escort was frowned upon and so the two smaller boys and I visited other Europeans and heard about their lives   and I wrote letters home and took every opportunity I could to read the English news .

Eventually word came that we were to return to Karachi. We were on the first ‘plane back; the War was at an end. Our bungalow had been well looked after by the two servants we employed plus the attentions of the chowkidar and the Pathan driver. Work at the Research Centre could continue and School for the children was reopened now that there were three teachers and four children able to attend. Our lovely Pakistani neighbours were pleased that we were back and gradually life returned to what we knew as normal. 

So can I answer the question I posed, sic, ‘Not My War?’

I have never forgotten what happened and never forgotten what I learned and now treasure about the Pakistani people just by living in Pakistan for a too brief while. That 1971 war was very short lived but it did have important consequences for the world. One was the emergence of Bangladesh as a Peoples Republic and another trivial but revealing, was the disappearance of the ‘titles’ of West and East Pakistan. It was not my war. I cannot in all honesty attempt to give an opinion about what happened or why. We were but refugees and some times we were witnesses.

 We lost our precious cook who felt the call to return to family in what had been East Pakistan. The journey for him would be full of danger from many sides and all we could do was to give him money and wish him well. I hope that he reached home. Inshallah