Papa is not here with me; he hasn’t been for 18 years. My limited vocabulary of about 200 words, learnt new words called death, war and Pakistan on the days following august 6th, 1999. For obvious reasons it did take me a few years to actually understand the implied definition of them. I say implied because, honestly, does anyone even know their true meaning? I live it and I’m still trying to figure it out especially in the sense of the world.My father’s a martyr but I don’t know him as that. I know him as the man who wore big cargo jackets with pockets full of sweets, whose stubble scratched my nose every time he kissed my forehead, teacher who taught me how to sip from a straw and introduced me to chewing gum. I know him as my father. I also know him as the shoulder my tiny self clung to extremely tightly hoping if I held him strongly enough he won’t go. He went. He just didn’t come back.My father is a martyr. I’m his daughter.But.I am not your “Martyr’s Daughter”.
Source: I am | Gurmehar Kaur