7 min read

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Apr 29, 2025

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My Dada, Ramesh Butani, at age 18 a reporter for the Karachi observer

On April 23, 2025 20 people (the majority whom were Hindu men) were killed in Kashmir. As someone who regularly researches the partition, I immediately wanted to understand the entire landscape and why my instagram was being flooded with both anti-India and anti-Pakistan propaganda. I was surprised to stumble upon an article written about my Dada (paternal grandfather) from 2019, shortly before he passed. Remembering his story provided perspective to why nationalism has and continues to constantly fail the South Asian diaspora.

Dada was a Sindhi Hindu freedom fighter. He was put in jail for standing up for his people. He was meant to be killed, but he survived.

He lived through a time when borders were drawn by men who had never even been to the places they were dividing. Leaders were caught between trying to protect their communities and making choices that would end up haunting millions of lives.

Partition wasn’t just about land. It was about who was allowed to belong. Who was allowed to feel safe. Who was allowed to stay.

For people like my family – Sindhis, Kashmiris, Biharis, Muhajirs – the answer was never simple. Many of us haven’t fully belonged to either country.

Partition didn’t end in 1947. It’s still happening.

When people talk about Partition, they focus on the migration and the violence that happened in that moment – the trains packed with (dead) bodies, the neighbors who turned on each other, the millions who were displaced overnight. But the violence didn’t end there.

Some families were lucky enough to escape. Families like mine, Sindhi Hindus and Sikhs, who were able to leave Pakistan and start over. Many leaned on business to rebuild. But for the people who couldn’t leave, who didn’t have the resources or the connections, the outcome was different. Many were killed. Many were forced to stay quiet about who they were in order to survive.

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My Dada at his wedding in Sindh shortly before they moved.

My parents grew up being told not to say they were Sindhi. My mom was told to say she was Gujarati, Bengali, Marwari– anything that matched the state her parents were living in that year. My dad was told to say he was Marathi. Despite my Dada’s work fighting for the rights of Sindhis, my dad was never taught Sindhi. His parents ran an English-only household, partly as a way to show they were educated, modern, and safe.

This is the kind of violence that doesn’t show up in history books. The kind that makes you feel like the best way to survive is to erase yourself a little.

We weren’t the only ones. In Pakistan, Bihari Muslims who fled India during Partition are still stateless in refugee camps, generations later. They crossed the border hoping to find safety, only to be treated like outsiders from the moment they arrived.

This was never just about religion. It was about who ended up on the wrong side of a line they didn’t draw.

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My Nana & Nani circa May 1968 in Mumbai, India. Despite them both being Sindhi Nanakpanthi Sikh , their families intentionally choose not to conduct any Sindhi wedding rituals to detract attention.

Both India and Pakistan have used communities like Sindhis, Kashmiris, Biharis, and Muhajirs as political symbols when it serves them. But neither has fully accepted us.

In Pakistan, Muhajirs – the Muslims who migrated from India – were branded as outsiders from the start. The word “Muhajir” literally means migrant, but in practice it became a slur. Many leaned into nationalism as a way to survive, hoping that proving their loyalty would mean they could belong. But that power often came at the expense of ethnic Sindhi Muslims, who still face discrimination in their own home.

In India, Muslims from Rajasthan, Bihar, and Hyderabad who stayed behind also faced suspicion and violence. Their loyalty was always under question.

Wealth and privilege shaped who survived. My family, like many Sindhis who were able to flee, had the means to start over. But too often, the success of the people who made it out becomes an excuse to ignore the ones who didn’t.

Borders didn’t save us. They forced us to prove we deserved to exist.

There’s this lie that keeps getting repeated – that Hindus and Muslims have always hated each other. But if you look at the actual history, that’s not true.

Ordinary people have always found ways to take care of each other, even when their governments were telling them not to.

My Dada’s life is proof of that. He helped Aruna Asif Ali, a Muslim woman, at a time when it wasn’t safe to do so. She went on to become a freedom fighter and the mayor of Delhi. When my Dada himself was ordered to be killed, it wasn’t the government or his political allies who saved him. It was a Sikh man who stepped in to protect him.

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These stories aren’t rare. They just aren’t the ones we’re taught.

During Partition, there were Muslims who hid and protected their Hindu and Sikh neighbors. There were Hindus and Sikhs who helped smuggle their Muslim neighbors to safety. In Kashmir, there are Muslim families who have continued to care for Hindu temples, even while military violence surrounds them.

In Palestine today, Jewish activists are standing with Palestinians and refusing to let their own history be used to justify oppression.

People have always chosen each other, even when their countries didn’t.

What Modi’s government is doing right now – the rise of Hindu nationalism, the persecution of Muslims, the silencing of dissent – is horrific. It deserves outrage. It deserves resistance. And I don’t believe there’s any excuse not to call it out.

But it’s also true that the violence didn’t start with Modi, and it won’t end with him.

Pakistani nationalism has caused deep harm too. The persecution of Sindhis, Sikhs, Hindus, Ahmadis, Shias, Biharis – this is part of the same story.

It’s not fair for Pakistani nationalists to point fingers at India while refusing to take responsibility for the violence their own country has caused. And it’s not honest to talk about Hindu nationalism without acknowledging the ways India’s neighbors have used religion and power to harm people too.

This isn’t about who’s worse. It’s about what happens when nationalism wins. Because nationalism has always needed someone to sacrifice. The names just change depending on which side of the border you’re standing on.

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My Dada at a press conference where he got to speak to Jinnah.

A lot of people compare Kashmir to Palestine. And there are some real parallels – military occupation, land theft, governments using violence to hold onto power. But these aren’t the same situation. Kashmir is not Palestine. The history is different.

What’s the same is the logic behind it. The belief that walls and weapons will make you safe. The belief that borders can erase the people who were there first.

In Kashmir, when 20 poor Hindus were murdered, it wasn’t the Indian government that protected them. It was their Muslim neighbors who stepped in.

That’s the part of the story that never makes the news. But it’s the most important part.

I didn’t know my Dada well. From what I’ve been told, he wasn’t the best dad to my dad. But I do know that he believed in standing up for what’s right, even when it meant putting himself at risk.

The more I learn about him, the more I realize that what he was fighting wasn’t just colonialism. It was the idea that power is what makes you safe. That following the rules will protect you. That a flag will make you belong.

It won’t.

The real tragedy of Partition isn’t just how many people were killed. It’s how many of us were convinced we had to erase parts of ourselves just to survive.

The borders that decided who got to belong were drawn by Cyril Radcliffe – a British lawyer who had never even been to South Asia. And we are still living with the consequences.

There are Sindhis who still can’t get visas to visit the land where their grandparents were born. The ones who do make it back often face hostility instead of welcome. There are Kashmiris who are too scared to return home. There are Biharis stuck in refugee camps decades later with no citizenship.

Partition didn’t end. It just keeps getting repackaged.

But we don’t have to keep buying into the lie.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from my family’s story, it’s that the state will never love you back. Power will never save you. But people might.

Solidarity has always been possible. It’s always been there, quietly holding things together when the world is falling apart.

The question isn’t which side you’re on. The question is whether you’re willing to refuse the sides entirely.