War & Conflict

[fatman17]

WAR & CONFLICT
Magazine Read: My father, the POW
A daughter's tribute to the father who never recovered from his war wounds.
Sunniya Ahmad Pirzada | 16 May 2015 11:12 GMT | War & Conflict,

It was a great source of pride to my father that he was captured and did not surrender [an Ahmad family photograph]
"Doctors filled his file with words like Dementia, Alzheimer's and Schizophrenia. Our lives were measured out in what, for want of a clearer diagnosis, we would just call his 'episodes'."

This is a story I've wanted to tell for a long time. I've carried it with me my whole life, in fact. And yet I'd never found the words or the time, or perhaps the courage, to commit it to paper. Doing so now has required me to chip away at notions of privacy and pride – the ones that tell you family hardships ought to be kept quiet lest your neighbours hear of them – that I never even knew I held.
And now, as I write it, I realise that the story I thought I had to tell wasn't as I'd imagined it at all. For what started as an attempt to share the life story of my late father, Major Naeem Ahmad, became the beginning of my own journey to truly understand the man who continues to shape my life in so many ways, big and small.

But, for now, I'll start at the beginning.
Naeem was born to a middle class Pakistani family in what was then the walled city of Lahore on January 26, 1946. He was the second of three siblings, and the only boy. During his school and college days, he developed a reputation as an avid sportsman and a daredevil with a sometimes unnerving love for speed.
At the prestigious Government College University Lahore he was a member of the rowing and swimming teams. So impressive were his sporting feats that, 30 years after graduating, he was able to secure my oldest brother's admission there purely on the basis of that reputation. In welcoming my brother, the college principal told my father: "We have had millions walk through these college gates but very few leave a mark like you; your photos still hang in our main hall."
The soldier

A photograph of my father during training in February 1968, three months before he was formally commissioned into the army [an Ahmad family photograph]
After graduating, my father was commissioned into the Pakistani army. It was June 1968. He joined a non-fighting arm that was tasked with supplying ammunition to those in combat. After passing through the Pakistan Military Academy, he was sent to Karachi for further training. It was there he met Lieutenant Khalil-ur-Rehman, a man who would become one of his dearest friends and who now says of their relationship: "Destiny brought us together."
When a war of liberation began in what was then known as East Pakistan and now as Bangladesh in 1971, my father was deployed to an ordnance depot there. The conflict was brutal, with atrocities committed by each side. "Basically, the Bengalis killed us and we killed them," Rehman, now a retired brigadier, tells me, although the stories he shares suggest horrors that simple sentence cannot convey.
But as a non-combat soldier, my father saw little of that. He was responsible for transporting ammunition and would often drive the train that delivered it himself. Later on, he'd proudly tell his children that he had driven just about everything there was to drive and only regretted never having piloted a plane or a helicopter.
Then on December 3, 1971, India entered the conflict on the side of the Bangladeshi nationalist forces. The ensuing Indo-Pak War lasted just 13 days.
On December 16, 1971, the Pakistan Armed Forces Eastern Command surrendered.
But for my father, the war was just beginning. He was asked to transport a convoy of ammunition to Dhaka, about 50km to the south of his base. But his Officer in Command had little grasp of the geography of the region and sent my father and his convoy in the wrong direction. By the time Naeem realised they were heading north instead of south, the convoy had already entered dense forest. It was there that they were ambushed by Indian paratroopers, an elite group of soldiers, led by Major Raj Pal.
A gun battle ensued, and much to the surprise of the Indian soldiers, the 150 non-combat troops my father led put up a fierce fight. By the time the shooting came to an end, three hours after it had begun, 64 Pakistanis and 26 Indians had been killed. Impressed by his bravery, the Indian troops had been ordered to capture my father alive. Major Raj Pal was later reported to have said: "We were informed that these were ordnance troops, but the way they fought was on par with trained infantry personnel."

The unknown soldier
But my father had been severely wounded. A mortar shell had grazed his left shoulder; its splinters damaging his left thumb and index finger and several pieces entering his left cheek. A bullet was lodged in his left shin and he'd lost all vision in his left eye. But the most serious damage was that done to his brain. We'd only realise the extent of it many years later when a CT scan revealed that hundreds of pieces of embedded shrapnel.
He was unconscious so an Indian soldier drove him to a military hospital in Dhaka, where his bloodied uniform had to be cut from his ravaged body. There he waited 24 hours for surgery, as even more serious cases were rushed through before him.

Unable to speak or open his eyes, and with his face swollen beyond recognition, his identity remained unknown. Thus, for a fortnight, until he was recognised by a colleague, then Captain Naeem Ahmad was listed as Missing in Action. Assuming the worst, his friends went to pay their condolences to his parents, who, in turn, refused to give up hope that their son would return alive.
Although stationed around 20km apart, Naeem and Rehman had been able to meet up regularly during much of their time in Bangladesh, exchanging clothes Rehman had purchased and eggs my father had haggled for, with no thought of owing each other a rupee for the goods. But in the chaos of the last days of war, they'd lost touch with one another.
Rehman had endured his own hardships. After spending seven days in a trench, he contracted Malaria and was sent to a military hospital. By pure chance, it happened to be the same place where my father was, his face still swollen beyond recognition by anybody but the closest of friends.
"It meant a great deal to me that I was there at that time, even if it was because I was suffering from Malaria," Rehman says now. "Otherwise, I would only have met him again upon our return to Pakistan."
Little did the two friends know then, but that day would come much later than they had imagined.
The prisoner of war

My father was awarded a yellow stripe – something only ever given to seriously wounded soldiers and rarely to an ordnance officer [an Ahmad family photograph]
My father remained in hospital for eight months. And, upon being deemed well enough to leave, was sent to a prisoner of war camp in Bihar, India. He was transported there, along with other Pakistani soldiers, in a train boarded up with wooden planks intended to hide those inside from the angry mobs outside. But if the people who gathered along the railway track couldn't see the men inside, it didn't mean the POWs couldn't hear the hate-filled slogans they shouted.
When my father disembarked at Camp 95 Ranchi he had nothing but the hospital clothes he wore. A fellow POW gave him some fabric from which he stitched his own trousers. It was a camp for officers, and for every four there was an orderly tasked with caring for them. But my father's needs were greater than any orderly could cater to, so a campmate from the Army Medical Corp. kept a close eye on him over the months it took him to recuperate. As he grew stronger, my father, who was a deeply spiritual man with a strong belief in the power of prayer, began to teach the Quran to his fellow POWs.
Then, in February 1974, along with 93,000 other POWs who had been held by India, he was repatriated to Pakistan. But the country they returned to did not extend the welcome they had expected. The hostility was palpable. Pakistan had been shamed by its surrender and the reports of rape and mass murder attributed to some of its troops. Civilians would often question returning soldiers about their involvement in such atrocities. But those stories couldn't have been further from my father's experience of the war. Until the gun fight that caused his injuries, he hadn't even had to use a weapon during that conflict.
Surely, though, if the general population was less than welcoming, the army would embrace its returning soldiers?
Not so, says Rehman. "An army whose top officials are all sent home on the same day is automatically shaken to its core .... There was a lack of leadership. They neither realised nor acknowledged what the POWs had been through in their two to three years of captivity."
"We were all declared 'black' – meaning that we should be sent home and deemed not fit for service. It's a global procedure that upon return you have to be questioned in order to eliminate any doubts about your possible loyalty towards the enemy. After further enquiry, your status might be changed to 'white' or 'grey'."
But their professional troubles ran deeper than this. "The support extended by the army and the government was almost non-existent," Rehman says. "We should have been offered some monetary compensation that could have facilitated our rehabilitation. The army hadn't drawn up a plan, [despite] knowing full well that all of these POWs would be returning and in need of practical help with housing and so on."
Instead, the returning soldiers found that, while they'd been away, peers who hadn't been captured had advanced their careers, usurping them in new skills, confidence and position. Many felt that there was little place left for them in an army that had – literally and otherwise – left them behind.
But for my father, his injuries added another layer of doubt and uncertainty. After he was debriefed, he was posted to Lahore on compassionate grounds so that he might be close to his family. It was during his medical assessment there that the bullet that had remained lodged in his shin for more than two years was removed.
A few months later, his condition was re-evaluated and he was declared 50 percent disabled due to the loss of vision in his left eye. It was a decision he challenged, with some success.
"Nobody realised how seriously he had been wounded, his medical history wasn't sent with him," explains Rehman, who remains angry about the situation his friend found himself in.
"The fact that this [the ambush and gun fight] happened after the Pakistan army had surrendered shows the brutal nature of that conflict," he says, attributing blame to both the Pakistani army and the Indian one.
"It was a command failure; the command of the Pakistan army had been completely paralysed at that stage. The command was just 'extricate yourself'. It was the last signal that was transferred from the Eastern Command. It was very clear that from then on we were on our own. There was no indication that the command was going to support us in terms of guiding troops towards a safe route [home]."
"A reasonable evacuation plan for our troops would have been planned and approved well in advance," Rehman says, puzzled by why it was never implemented.
But, he adds, "I believe the Indians could have done more …. They should not have held him. What threat did a seriously wounded, completely unarmed, physically incapacitated soldier pose to the Indian army?"
"Had he been sent back to receive the medical care and attention he required, it may have reduced the amount of suffering he had to bear in the last 15 years of his life. Perhaps he could have been saved had he been sent to Pakistan and then abroad for the complex surgery he required."
The husband
My father would most likely have had a more positive perspective on it all, such was his nature. He believed firmly in finding the joy in everything. And one of the things he threw himself into with his characteristic energy and enthusiasm upon his return was marriage.
Many of the returning men were quick to marry, Rehman explains. Perhaps it was a natural desire to build a future in the form of a family, to establish a new sense of normalcy, to find a place to belong.
Talks between my mother's family and my father's began in September 1975. They were married that December. My mother was just 19 and studying for her BA. My father was 29.
Rehman's marriage followed soon after. In fact, the friends were married within two months of each other.
"I remember that when my marriage was being arranged, it was Naeem who resolved issues that arose during the talks between the two families. In fact, Naeem was at the forefront, while my own family took a backseat," Rehman recalls.
And once the deal had been done and the marriage confirmed, it was my father who took Rehman to the tailors to get him fitted for his wedding suit.

The father
Within two years of their wedding, my mother gave birth to their first child, and to my big brother, Zeeshan. I came along two years after that.
The early years of mine and Zeeshan's childhood were filled with laughter and adventure. Our father would take us on long drives, boat trips and hikes. Our home was filled with the sound of him singing. He kept a notebook filled with the lyrics of his favourite songs from the time he was a POW and tried to infuse me with the same musical spirit, urging me to "sing it with passion, sing it like you can feel it, sing it from your heart". It may have been a lost cause but my father didn't believe in those. So we sang and we sang and we sang. And life was good.
At work, his popularity crossed barriers of rank and class. He'd offer words of advice, his prayers, friendship and what little money he had to anybody who needed it. Instead of eating in the area reserved for officers, he'd often eat with the men. He said he wanted to make sure that their food was of a suitable quality. In reality, he enjoyed their company and liked to immerse himself in their daily lives, doing all he could to ensure that they were happy.
But, gradually things began to change. It started in 1984, when my father was posted to Quetta. It was just small things at first; slight changes in his behaviour that even he didn't notice. He'd remember numbers and dates, but other things would just slip away from him, obscured by an inexplicable fog. Then, the following year, he was posted to Karachi and the changes became more extreme, more noticeable, less easy to deny.
On March 23, 1986, he was admitted to a navy medical facility, where he was kept in a 'lock-up' with drug addicts and the mentally ill. A psychiatrist diagnosed him with Paranoid traits.
By then, a third child, Hasnain, had arrived. My mother diligently kept the details of his diagnosis from us all, resiliently carrying on with as little disruption to our lives as possible. It was only then that she learnt that my father had no vision in his left eye, a detail revealed to her by a doctor who first checked whether she would leave her husband if she were to discover such a thing. I cannot be sure why my father hadn't revealed this himself, but I suspect he didn't want to burden her and feared anything that might make him appear less able in the eyes of his family. But my mother wasn't – isn't – the sort to be put off by something like that, which was fortunate, I guess, as much worse was to come.
Her visits to the 'lock-up' were difficult. Guards would examine everything she took with her, as though she were entering a jail rather than a hospital, which was apt, she says, as punishment, rather than treatment, seemed to be the order of the day there. My father remained there for six long months. It was a time that took a heavy toll on him, making him wary of hospitals ever after.
In 1987, we returned to Lahore, where my father was admitted to another military hospital. For a year, he wasn't permitted to wear his uniform. It came as a huge personal and professional blow – and, a couple of months later, fearing that he might be invalided out of the army and unable to face such a prospect, he applied for early retirement. His application was rejected on the grounds that his mental illness made him incapable of making such a decision.
Later that year, my youngest brother, Mustafa, was born.
The patient

In January 1989, my father began private treatment with a young psychiatrist who, unlike many of his peers, favoured behavioural therapy to medication. He was treated for Schizophrenia and hallucinations. And while there were slight signs of improvement, they were, ultimately, insubstantial.
Later that year, he finally retired from the army. But with no place of work to head to each day, he'd accompany friends to theirs or go to his brother-in-law's textile unit – anything to keep himself occupied. After a couple of years spent shadowing the work lives of others, he was offered a job in the real estate department of the Army Welfare Trust, an organisation that employs former officers. His colleagues were accepting of his limitations, making him feel valued and of use, even when he couldn't really perform his duties.
My mother believes the seven-and-a-half years he spent there added years to his life. But that period wasn't without its difficulties.
When he was three-and-a-half, Mustafa was admitted to hospital with meningitis. The doctors had little hope that he'd recover and warned my parents that even if he were to survive, he would most probably be left with some form of physical or mental disability; quite possibly both. As my mother kept vigil at Mustafa's bedside, my father became the primary carer for the rest of us. Even as our family was shrouded in sadness, he made sure that when we weren't in the hospital, our time was filled with his songs, stories and sense of fun. One day, he took us to see an air show. As we drove home from it, he turned to speak to us in the back of the car. But the words just wouldn't come. As hard as he tried to find them, the only sound he could make was a kind of groan. Without warning, he'd lost the ability to speak – and, with it, any way to reassure his worried children. Somehow finding my own voice, I told him: "Abbu [dad], it is okay, we understand. We'll get home and you'll be fine." But I didn't really believe that.
What I was certain of, however, was that my mother would know how to handle it – just as she handled everything: my father's illness, his stubborn refusal to take his medication and attend his medical appointments, her youngest son's battle to survive. And, sure enough, she did, with a quiet stoicism I still marvel at today.
My father eventually got his voice back, and Mustafa turned out to be just as much of a fighter. He pulled through with no long-term side effects.
The fighter

The black and white photograph was taken upon my father’s return from India in February 1974, when he was 28 years old. The colour photograph was taken in 1986, a year after he was first diagnosed with Paranoid traits. He was just 40 then, but people would regularly mistake him for our grandfather. We didn’t always correct them [an Ahmad family photograph]
In December 1993, my father suffered his first epileptic fit. That it took place at work must have pained him greatly. That it meant he was no longer allowed to drive and had to relinquish control of the wheel to his wife and oldest son, must have demoralised him further still. But, of course, he didn't show any of this.

In March 1994, his doctor suggested a full medical evaluation, including a CT scan of his brain. As it was conducted, at Lahore's general hospital, the doctors present wondered at how he was even alive. It revealed that hundreds of foreign bodies were lodged in his brain.
A medical board, featuring a psychiatrist and a neurosurgeon, concluded that he had Alzheimer's disease. The neurosurgeon predicted that he'd be in a vegetative state within six months.
Alarmed by the prognosis, my mother decided to stop private treatment and return to Lahore's military hospital. In a psychiatric unit there, the doctors set about filling his file with words like Dementia, Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. They concluded that it was impossible to remove the shrapnel without causing further damage to his brain, and warned us that his was a progressive illness: it would only get worse. We lost count of the number of times he was admitted to hospital after that. There were seizures and comas; he'd lose his ability to speak and to walk.
Our lives were measured out in what, for want of a better word or a clearer diagnosis, we'd call 'episodes'. There was one just before I was due to sit my matric examinations in February 1994. Then another, in November of that year, when he suffered a 36-hour long epileptic fit and remained comatose for weeks. Doctors told us then to prepare for the worst. But the man we knew was a fighter. He'd infused us with his own positivity and we weren't going to give up believing in it now. Sure enough, he made a near complete recovery and began walking and talking again.
Then, one day in 1995, as all of us sat in the front room of our house, my dad humming, me trying to sing along, my younger brothers chasing each other around a coffee table, he suddenly slumped in the sofa and then fell to the floor. His body contorted, his mouth twitched as white foam gathered at its corners, his eyes rolled back in his head. My mother called for the family doctor, who lived across the street and had become a close family friend, helping my father handle his illness from home as much as was possible. She came immediately and tried to administer an injection that would end the seizure. But my father's body shook so violently that she just couldn't do it. Another family friend who was an anaesthetist was called in. As all of this went on, my mother noticed Mustafa, who was now seven, sitting alone, his head in his hands, clearly disturbed by what he'd witnessed. She comforted him as best she could but his was a kind of sadness that couldn't be easily eased; his worries the sort that couldn't be wished away.
We didn't speak of what went on to our friends – not because we consciously sought to conceal it, but because as the only reality we knew, we never realised that it warranted being mentioned. In fact, my friends' parents only came to learn of it when they happened to discuss my alarmingly poor mock exam results with a friend of my father's. "But you know what she's going through, right?" his friend had said to them. They didn't. They'd never asked why my father looked so much older than his years – so old, in fact, that he was sometimes mistaken for a veteran of World War II. If they asked why the man who answered the phone sounded drunk, we didn't explain the cause of our father's slurred speech. We just carried on. Because, for us, normal meant living every day on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the time we'd inevitably fall off.
And then that time came. In the summer of 2000, I was misdiagnosed, as it turned out, with Tuberculosis. My father did what he did in any time of trouble: he prayed. On August 25, 2000, as he was deep in prayer for me, he had a seizure. He was rushed to the military hospital, where he remained in a coma for 10 weeks. A neurophysician suggested he may, in fact, have been suffering from Cerebral Atrophy, a shrinkage of the brain that had caused his Alzheimer's and Dementia. It was the first time that a medical professional had questioned how somebody of such relative youth could have been inflicted with so many illnesses.
On October 30, I visited him in hospital, as I did every day. As I waited outside while the nurses checked on him, I heard the evening call to pray. For the first time, instead of asking God to make him better, as I always did, I simply asked that whatever was best for him should come to be. When the nurses had finished, I returned to his bedside and held his hand. I felt him squeeze mine and stir. For a second he woke up and lifted his head from the pillow. Then he took his last breath.
He was pronounced dead at 6.36pm, and buried the following afternoon in a funeral attended by people from across the country. At a time when few used email, news of his death spread by word of mouth. We had never even met many of those in attendance, but they had each been touched in some way by my father. And, while it wasn't an official military funeral, members of the Ordnance Corp. insisted upon arranging it – with full military honours.

 

[fatman17]

Family photography

 

[rockstar08]

Family photography

means they are your Family members ?? some Grandpa or uncle sort ?

 

[Capt.Popeye]

@fatman17 sahab; thank you for posting this moving yet courageous account, by a brave and sensitive daughter.
It again reminds us both of the Courage and the Stupidity that we Humans possess; more so when we deal with each other.

 

[fatman17]

This is the other side of war which is seldom seen or read. We all get caught up in the jingoism of war not realising the physical scars it leaves behind for these brave souls.

 

[Capt.Popeye]

This is the other side of war which is seldom seen or read. We all get caught up in the jingoism of war not realising the physical scars it leaves behind for these brave souls.

Actually @fatman17; by getting caught up in the maelstrom of the jingoism of war, we do a great disservice to our Men in Uniform who fight for us. In effect we thus reduce them to 'Tin Soldiers' or shiny playthings to just pander to our egos.
Sadly, the veterans in the account above had that inflicted on them ; even by some of those around them.

That is a status that I would never find acceptable.

 

[Levina]

War is a proof of man's failure as a thinking animal.

This is the other side of war which is seldom seen or read. We all get caught up in the jingoism of war not realising the physical scars it leaves behind for these brave souls.

war is delightful to those who have no experience of it.
@Zarvan you must read this.

These lines from the article come close to another story of 1971 that i had read, the only difference was it happened on the Indian side.
From the article .....
"An army whose top officials are all sent home on the same day is automatically shaken to its core .... There was a lack of leadership. They neither realised nor acknowledged what the POWs had been through in their two to three years of captivity."
"We were all declared 'black' – meaning that we should be sent home and deemed not fit for service. It's a global procedure that upon return you have to be questioned in order to eliminate any doubts about your possible loyalty towards the enemy. After further enquiry, your status might be changed to 'white' or 'grey'."
But their professional troubles ran deeper than this. "The support extended by the army and the government was almost non-existent," Rehman says. "We should have been offered some monetary compensation that could have facilitated our rehabilitation. The army hadn't drawn up a plan, [despite] knowing full well that all of these POWs would be returning and in need of practical help with housing and so on."

On the Indian side ......
"Joe told me afterwards, ’I did not mind what they did to me in Pak, after all they were the enemy. But what the MPs did to me afterwards in Red Fort was completely unjust’. He said all that with a smile. A man who had been to hell and back had much resilience and tenacity".

I'm posting the complete story.....

Story of the last POW (Prisoner Of War) -1971
May 20, 2012 at 11:52pm
Story of the last POW (Prisoner Of War) -1971 - Joe's Story (then 2nd Lt )..... Life journey of Late Col AGJ Swittens (37 NDA), of the Indian Army by his course mate & close friend, Gp Capt Unni Kartha (Veteran)


There is a Prisoner Of War (POW) story of my course mate Joe I would like to tell.

He passed away last year in Pune of brain haemorrhage.

My story below is what I recollect of it from what he told me about it in 1973-74. Afterwards he never talked about it despite my repeated urging him to write an auto biography because his life’s story from beginning to his end was one of tenacity and resilience against incredible odds which would have made you cry on every page. I have never known life to f*** any one with such zest on daily basis as it did to Joe.

I first met AGJ Swittens (Joe) when I was returning home during term break after my first term in NDA in Jun/Jul 1967. While haunching and front rolling in the corridor of the first class special compartment, simply to entertain a few bored seniors, I discovered that Joe and I came from the same place in Kerala. He from the coastal town of Alleppey and I from a village called Ambalapuzha, about 13 km further south. During the front rolling and haunching in confined space, around three feet of the compartment’s corridor, we bumped into each other many times and as a result we fused into a lifelong friendship that surpassed the ordinary feeling of brotherhood.

Because neither of us had any meaningful friends at home, during the holidays in that term break, as well as all the other term breaks that followed, Joe and I travelled the 13 km coastal strip to and fro to meet practically on daily basis. We did many interesting things together including joining a typing school because a large number of pretty Mallu girls were found going to the typing school. As a result of this very innovative idea we not only learnt to type but also the use of ‘Brail’ for man-woman communications after the sun set on Alleppey beach. Sometimes we managed to get hold of a ‘Pauwa’ Rum (smaller bottle with just 6 pegs) and learnt to drink it neat because the sea water did not taste good with Rum. It was difficult to climb a Coconut tree for coconut water and Coke was too expensive on our meagre pocket money. Hence, it was cheaper and more stimulating to sip neat rum, passing the bottle from one to the other, swearing everlasting friendship between each sip. Licking lime pickle in between helped tone down the euphoria. The packet of lime pickle came free with the Pauwa.





Joe and I were just 16-19 yrs old when we were in NDA. Joe was the eldest son of the keeper of the lighthouse at Alleppy beach and had more than a dozen siblings of all shapes and sizes, mostly girls who giggled loudly from behind closed doors when I visited their house. His younger brother Johnny (now an AF officer) was just a tiny toddler then. It was only natural that both our parents soon began to treat us like twins because of the NDA induced behavioural pattern that made us indistinguishable one from the other. While my father thought of me as someone incapable of earning a livelihood, Joe’s father was counting the days when Joe would get a commission and add something to the family pot.





In our 4th term, ‘Rangila’ the terrible, in the equitation lines kicked Joe in the face and he lost four of his front teeth and had to get dentures when he was 17 yrs old, a compulsive reason he had to use Brail to communicate with our GFs from the typing class. I think it was a blessing in disguise, probably the only time God was kind to Joe and I. His troubles were just beginning. We passed out of NDA in Dec 1969, he from J Sqn and I from F Sqn. The war clouds were beginning to rise in East Pak (now Bangladesh) border, but we had no idea of such things then and were single-mindedly interested only in the tactical manoeuvres of typing and Brail at Alleppey without misfiring our guns in the cockpits, a condom was unheard of those days. The tactical manoeuvre we had to master ourselves at our young age was ‘Coitus Interruptus’, a failsafe military tactic, not taught in NDA, but which we believed was perfected by the Roman army of Julius Caesar on their visit to Alexandria (Cleopatra).





While I went to the flying school in Bidar, Joe went to the Military Academy in Dehra Dun. He was commissioned into the Gorkha Rifles on 20 Dec 1970. After a short break he joined his Battalion (I think 1/4 GR). His unit at that time (I think) was deployed right on the Indo Pak border in Chamb sector somewhere near Mole and Phagla ahead of the Munawar Tawi river with Sikhs (5 Sikh ?) on their northern flank and Assam Rifles (5 AR ?) on their southern flank facing Koel and Bakan Paur, a few km ahead of them, probably held by the 111 Brigade of the **** army.





Joe went through the usual initiation ceremonies in his battalion and by end of Nov 1971, he was already a hardened soldier and had endeared himself to his company commander. His company was deployed some 2 km away from the Unit HQ - rear administrative location with his CO and the 2 i/c. For tactical advantages Joe’s Company Commander had established an observation post (OP) about 400 mtrs ahead of the company deployment area ahead or almost on the Cease Fire Line (CFL) of 65 war which was at that time the border. The OP was around 50 feet higher than the surroundings and hence had a commanding view. The company itself was deployed in well prepared bunkers and trenches. The OP was simply a fox hole behind a low bush about four feet by three and around three feet deep, very painstakingly and surreptitiously dug over a period of time, at night, using helmets and Khukris so that it’s existence would not be noticed by the enemy. Every night the Company Commander would send someone or the other crawling forward towards the OP and they would replace the OP crew who had been there for the previous 24 hrs. The OP crew generally consisted of a junior officer (or an NCO) with two Jawans simply for company and for time pass, usually playing cards while staying hidden and surreptitiously observing enemy movements and deployments across the LOC. The enemy was deployed in depth and hence there was not much that one could see from the OP foxhole. So the OP duty was considered a boring and unproductive job, though it gave 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens some respite and relaxation from the daily rigours of infantry life.





On the evening of 3rd Dec 1971, a Friday, it was Joe’s turn to do the OP duty. So after sunset, after an early dinner, he collected his two Shakarpara packets (next day’s breakfast and lunch), filled his water bottle, and along with a Naik and two soldiers crawled to the OP to replace those who had spent the previous night and day there. Everything looked peaceful, there was no noise or activity or any lights from across the border and so Joe called up the Company Commander and reported, ’All quiet on the western front.’ He could not have been more mistaken, it was the lull before the storm. To his horror, Joe also discovered that the battery discharged and soon afterwards the ANPRC radio set went completely dead. But Joe was not too concerned, his entire Company was deployed just 400 mtrs behind him and that gave him a tremendous sense of security, adequate to fall asleep in the fox hole, a habit inculcated in NDA, to sleep instantly, anytime, anywhere, in any position.





Unknown to Joe, around 1800 hrs while he was on his way to the fox hole, the **** AF crossed the border and launched a massive pre-emptive strike on various Indian airfields in the western sector. But all was quiet around the fox hole and Joe slept and dreamt, the kind of dreams that a healthy happy 20 yr old would have, I presume the Brail kind.





At around 2020 hrs Joe was rudely woken by incredible explosions of heavy calibre artillery shells. There was nothing that fell on him, but when he looked back he could see that his Company position was being obliterated systematically, inch by inch by a creeping barrage. He could not see from where the guns were firing, they were located beyond comprehensible distance in the west. However, he could see the entire sky filed with artillery shells streaking like meteors, each going overhead with shrieking banshee wail. Some were aimed at his Company position, but most of them were going deeper eastwards towards the other deployments of Indian infantry and armour. There were more than 150 enemy guns, probably 105 mm variety firing at them with deadly accuracy. Soon a similar number of Indian guns, probably of bigger calibre, began to return the fire. Heavy calibre artillery shells were firing to and fro, hundreds of them every minute over Joe’s head, but none fell on him. Joe and the three soldiers with him lay flat in the foxhole, one on top of the other for lack of space, cringing and shivering, covering their ears from the unbearable and most frightening sounds.





After about 30 minutes, they felt the ground begin to tremble like a mild earthquake. They heard clanking and grinding noises. When Joe peed out of the fox hole he saw a **** Sherman tank about fifty meters ahead, heading straight for him. Joe ducked back into the fox hole and the tank rolled right over them almost crushing the fox hole and burying them into the ground. Soon there were other tanks going over them or around them and after a while he lost track which way they were coming or going, there were shouts and battle cry, soon he could hear soldiers running about, but he had no idea whether they were friends or foe. This went on all night.





In the twilight hours that arrived after an eternity (4th Dec 71), Joe poked his head out. He found himself surrounded by **** soldiers and two Sherman tanks. When he looked backwards, he could not find any trace of his company. Unknown to Joe, when the shelling started, the Company along with the entire Indian Brigade had been ordered to withdraw, leaving poor Joe and his companions in the foxhole.





In the Foxhole the Naik took out his Khukri.



‘Shhaab’, he advised Joe, ‘Kafar Hunu Bhanda Marnu Ramro (Better to die than live like a coward)’.



The three soldiers took out their Khukri and Joe took our his revolver.



‘Ayo Gorkhali’, they screamed at the top of their voice, jumped out of the fox hole and charged out. They caught the Pakis completely by surprise, they were brewing or sipping tea with their weapons at ease. One of the tank crew jumped up, climbed his tank and let fly a burst of MMG fire at them. Joe tripped and fell down. The burst of bullets miraculously went by Joe, but cut up the other three Jawans into pieces. By then the **** soldiers had grabbed their 303 rifles and formed a ring around Joe, twenty to one. Joe kept pointing his revolver from one to another, he turned round, fired one round and because his hands were shaking, the round went over the enemy’s head. The circle of enemy soldiers got closer and closer. Finally Joe gave up. He unhooked the revolver from his lanyard and put it on the ground. He raised his hands in surrender. A **** JCO gestured to him to kneel. They ripped out the lanyard and bound his hands behind his back. For next half an hour they played ‘Russian Roulette’ with his own revolver. They would insert one round, twirl the drum and empty the gun on Joe’s head. Each time the gun clicked but did not fire, the **** soldiers would laugh aloud, pass lurid comments and poke him with a bayonet several times. This went on and on and Joe died a thousand deaths.





After about half an hour, a **** officer, probably a Colonel came by in a jeep. First he was unmoved by the fun that the **** soldiers were having. Then better sense seemed to have prevailed. ‘Stop it,’ he ordered. ‘Put him behind my jeep.’ Joe was then taken to what he perceived as 111 Brigade HQ, large number of tents under camouflage netting, for interrogation. He was also given field dressing by a **** MO who stitched up 64 bayonet wounds without the use of any morphine. Joe realised the futility of resistance, he was far too gone, he was just 20 yrs old, and he probably was the first helpless Indian POW of 1971 war.





About an hour later, there was a flurry of activity and the Pakis began dismantling the tent. Their HQ was being moved elsewhere. He was handed over to two villagers who put him into a bullock cart and took him westwards, he had no idea where they were taking him. His hands were put around his legs and tied tightly with his lanyard so that he was in a very uncomfortable yoga posture, completely immobile. En-route, along the villages where they stopped, children pelted him with mud and stones, while their parents watched with disdain. He was not given any water or food. After a long ride, he was taken to a police station and locked up, probably at Kakian Wala. The Military Police visited twice. They stripped him naked, hung him on a hook and beat him with a thin Malacca cane. All the bayonet wounds which had been stitched up, tore open once again and he started to bleed profusely. Joe gave them his life history, that he was just twenty years old, that his father was a light house keeper, about how Rangila kicked him and how he lost his teeth, how much he yearned his typing class in Alleppey and probably about a stupid friend called Unni in the AF, but he stuck to his story that he had joined his unit just two days earlier and that he did not even know the name of his company commander leave alone deployment locations or strength of the Indian army in Chamb. They beat him some more, just for the heck of it, but they fed him tea and rusk twice a day and two chapatis with dal at night. A local civilian compounder was called and he applied raw Iodine on his wounds, just as bad and painful as the beating. After a day he was put into a local bus handcuffed to a policeman and taken by road to Rawalpindi jail. He was incarcerated there along with common criminals. He was issued prison clothing. However Joe did not throw away his OG jersey, a memento of his Indian army uniform.





Around the 7th or 8th Dec 1971, because Joe’s name was not announced on **** radio as a POW, or the names of the three soldiers in the OP with him, his unit presumed that he was ‘missing believed killed’. Soon afterwards, the Army HQ sent a terse telegram to his father. ‘Your son/ward missing / believed killed in action’.





For several nights, though the lighthouse continued to go round and round beaming high power lights to the ships at sea, there was gloom and darkness in the household below the lighthouse. The war had extinguished their aspirations and livelihood.





Seven months later, on 2 Jul 72 the Shimla accord was signed by Madam I Gandhi and Mr Bhuto. The two armies, both Indian and Pakis, went back to business as usual with their guns pointed at each other. A new Line of Control (LOC) was defined, doing away with the earlier CFL of 65. All captured territories by both sides were returned, except that in Chamb where Bhuto managed to convince I Gandhi that it was to be gifted to them. Sacrifices, blood sweat and tears, in Chamb and at Hajipir Pass were soon forgotten and in the diplomatic circle at Chanakyapuri both the Indian and **** envoys began to once again have Mushairas and Mujras, excuses to hug and kiss each other as well as each other’s wives. Everyone went home happy and there was large acclaim internationally about how well India had handled the handing back of 98,000 **** POWs. No one asked how many Indian POWs were still in **** jails. Who cared, everyone was celebrating, writing their own citations and congratulating each other in Delhi.





Joe managed to make friends with his ‘Ward Supervisor’ in Rawalpindi jail, a convict with a life sentence for murder. He was very tall and well built sympathetic Pathan who was ‘desperately seeking Susan’. In Joe he found his Susan, a life’s companion. As Joe told me later with a sad smile, ‘What did it matter, what difference did it make, I was just 21. What choice was there, it was either being public property or exclusive private property. God probably decided that it was payback time for what we did to the typing girls on Alleppey beach’.





Despite his going around wearing his OG Jersy with two pips on either shoulders with 4 GR written on the epaulets, no one asked who he was, what crime he had committed and whether he had ever been tried for any crime in any court of law. He had no access to any news papers, magazines or a radio. In the Pathan’s cell, which Joe shared, he had a **** calendar in Urdu on which he kept ticking the days and months as they flew by. Several times he wrote to the jail authorities, advising them that he was a POW, an Indian being kept in a civil jail with convicts without any trial and that he should be moved with other Indian POWs if there were any in Pak. But because the application had to be routed through the Pathan ward supervisor, who knew no English and who did not want to lose his Susan, none of his appeals were ever given to any one in authority. Two years went by. Everyone including me forgot about Joe Swittens. Joe had no idea that the war was over, that there was a Shimla accord and that 98,000 **** POWs had been returned to Pak and in reciprocity all known or publicly acknowledged Indian POWs had been sent back to India.





Then one day, in Feb 1973, the Pathan told Joe that there was a team from ‘Amnesty International’ who was to visit Rawalpindi jail, to check for human rights violations. He wanted Joe to act as the interpreter. Joe really had no choice, he had to do whatever the warder told him to do. So he went and had a haircut, shaved, got his prison clothes pressed, rubbed toothpaste on his 2nd Lt’s cloth pips on his OG jersey so that it looked bright, rubbed shoe polish on 4GR to get it to lose the faded look, polished his torn and tattered shoes and was ready for the Amnesty team when they arrived.





‘Ladies and gentlemen, follow me, I shall take you on a conducted tour of the prison’, he announced like Dev Anand in the movie Guide, smartly saluting the ladies and shaking hands with the gentleman. The Pathan had briefed him that he was to make all efforts to show off and to make belief that there was no human rights violation in Rawalpindi jail.



‘Of course not, everyone is treated well here’ Joe kept saying with a sad smile whenever someone questioned him.



There was an elderly Swiss woman from the Red Cross in the team who was more curious and inquisitive. She took Joe aside.



‘Mon Ami’, she asked, ‘Who are you and why are you wearing an army jersey with a pip on each shoulder, were you in the **** army ?’.



‘No Mam’, replied Joe vehemently. ‘I am a POW. I am 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens of the Indian Army.’



‘Arme de terre l’Indianne ? Incredible’, the lady exclaimed. ‘Don’t you know that the war finished two years ago and that all POWs went back home last year ?’.



The Pathan did not like Joe having a private conversation in a language which he did not understand, he sensed that something was going wrong. He quickly herded the lady away. But before they left the jail, the lady asked the Pathan, ‘May I take your photo and one of this young man for my personal album ?’.



The Pathan had no choice because there were **** jailors present at that time who desperately wanted to please the foreigners.



The lady took several photographs of the Pathan and one of Joe too.



‘Please send one photo to my father, he is at Alleppey light house in India,’ Joe whispered to the Swiss lady from Red Cross.





So it was that one fine morning in Jun or Jul 1973, a Photo card came by ordinary post, addressed simply to ‘Mr Swittens, Light House Alleppey, India’, on which there was an address and tel number of the person who sent it from Switzerland. And the photo at the back was a black and white close up of a smiling Joe Swittens with no teeth, in a torn OG jersy, but with shining pips and 4GR on his shoulder. Below the photo was inscribed ‘Rawalpindi Prison’. There was much consternation as well as incredulity at the light house. Mr Swittens, Joe’s father immediately sent a telegram to Army HQ and MoD describing the event. It took MoD almost four weeks to send a reply by normal post. ‘You son/ward missing/believed killed in action’ the Under Secretary simply said. They had not even bothered to type it – it was a cyclostyled unsigned letter and left it to the recipient to cross out what was not applicable.





Mr Swittens went to see the local MLA in Alleppey who then had an agenda of his own. He raised the issue in Kerala assembly and soon there were questions asked by MPs in Delhi. It became a starred question in the question hour. The defence minister Jagjivan Ram sought time to reply. The R&AW were told to go and investigate in Rawalpindi Jail. They embarrassed the Pak Govt, the system in Pak did not want to accept that they had made a mistake by sending POWs to ordinary jails. They did not wish to proclaim that that POW camps were set up only after 15 Dec 71 and that there could be others who had suffered the same fate as Joe.



‘There is no 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens in Rawalpindi Jail’ was their reply.



‘There is no 2nd Lt AGJ Swittens in Rawalpindi Jail’, Jagjivan Ram announced in parliament with a sense of finality.





Mr Swittens, Joe’s father, did not give up.



He mobilised a few sympathetic Mallus and they in turn mobilised some more Mallus.



There was a demonstration outside the Pak embassy in Chanakyapuri. The press picked up the news. Someone, (I think the ‘Hindu’ paper) managed to get a sworn statement from the Swiss lady that she had indeed met a person in Rawalpindi jail who claimed that he was Joe and corroborated it with several photographs that she had taken. MEA asked the US Ambassador to intervene. Finally Pakis bowed to international pressure. They admitted that they did indeed have a person in Rawalpindi jail named ‘Wasim Khan Akram’ or such a name arrested for murder in general area of Kakian Wala and if the Indians think he is one of their army officers, Indians were welcome to have him.





2nd Lt AGJ Swittens walked through the Wagha border into the waiting arms of Indian military police (MP) sometime Sep Oct 1973. He was the last POW to be exchanged after 71 war. Promptly, as soon as he set foot in India, he was arrested and incarcerated in Red Fort in Delhi. He was accused of being a spy, that he voluntarily stayed back in Pak and that he was brain washed.



Joe told me afterwards, ’I did not mind what they did to me in Pak, after all they were the enemy. But what the MPs did to me afterwards in Red Fort was completely unjust’. He said all that with a smile. A man who had been to hell and back had much resilience and tenacity.





There were more protests by Mallus in front of the Red Fort and after a month of ill-treatment by our own MPs, Joe was asked to go and join his unit in Arunachal, at a post called Gelling which took about 22 days to back pack (walk) from the Unit rear.



I think that is where I met him in 1973 or 74, and where he told me his POW story. Gelling was another POW camp of sorts, at least for a 23 yr old.





The last time I met Joe was in his flat in Hinjewadi in Pune, around two years ago (2010). He only smiled, and said very happy things about our life and times while we passed the same Pauwa back and forth. After 1973 Joe Swittens lived to fight again and again, with tenacity and resilience, and with the same chant ‘Ayo Gorkhali’ , the last time in Kargil war in Jul 99 after which he retired and settled in Pune. Col Swittens spoke perfect Gorkhali besides several other languages. The last time I spoke to Joe was around three days before he died.





Joe died of a brain haemorrhage last year in the middle of the night with just his Alsatian dog for company. He died a lonely man. I can say this with certainty that his last words may have been the same, ‘Kafar Hunu Bhanda Marnu Ramro’.





I went to the lighthouse in Alleppey,



With half bottle of rum looking for the youth that I miss.



They looked at me with suspicion, ‘Are you a terrorist ?’, they asked.



I went out into the setting sun and to the beach where we learnt to Brail,



The Typing Girls are all grand moms in Dubai,



The sea water tasted just the same.



So I passed the bottle from left hand to right hand



And took sips from each hand, one for Joe and one for me.



Joe my friend, I am glad you are gone, A prisoner of life no more.



Set a table for me, where ever you are,



And keep the chair tilted for me, I am bound to come after this life.



I walked back in the dark, the sun had set.



The band began to play



Sare Jahan Se Acha, Hindustan Hamara,



The band began to play..............





With an apology to Rudyard Kipling as well as Joe. I stole the story from both of you.



Please forgive me.



Cyclic







ETERNAL VIGIL



In the National Defence Academy (NDA) at Khadakwasla , at the entrance of the dining hall there is a small round table, all by itself, with the table set for one. The chair is tilted forward. This is a special table, set in the honour of those missing in war, those believed to be still Prisoners of War (POW) somewhere amongst the enemies. The wars are forgotten quickly and missing persons forgotten even faster by all except the soldiers and comrades who fought alongside them. They cannot and will not forget, the soldiers hang on to their undying hope and confidence that the missing persons will return one day. The table shall await them too if such a fate was to befall them.



The Placard on the table reflects the sentiments of a soldier for his fallen comrade, it has the following written on it.





‘The table set is small, for one, symbolizing the frailty of one prisoner against his oppressors. The single rose displayed is to remind us of the families and loved ones of our comrades-in-arms who keep their faith awaiting their return. The Red Ribbon on the vase is reminiscent of the red ribbon worn upon the lapel and breasts of thousands who bear witness to their unyielding determination to demand a proper accounting of those missing in action. The candle is unlit, symbolizing the upward reach of their unconquerable spirit. The slice of Lemon is on the bread plate, to remind us of the bitter fate. There is salt upon the bread plate - symbolic of the families’ tears as they wait. The Glass is inverted, they cannot toast with us this night.



The chair – it is empty. They are not here.



Remember ! All of you who served with them and called them comrades, who depended upon their might and aid, and relied upon them, for surely, they have notforsaken you. Remember them until the day they come back home......





The table was installed on instructions of Air Mshl Randhawa (38th) when he was the Commandant NDA around 2007-08.



Personally I think it is a most touching, emotional and motivating tradition that he started.





Reminds me of Joe Swittens.



Source: Cyclicstories

This thread deserves more audience.
@nair @SpArK @thesolar65 @utraash @Abingdonboy

 

[nair]

What a refreshing thread......... Have been to several threads filled with hatred and calls fro War/Terrorism in last 2 weeks......None of those idiots ( i am sorry to use that word) are aware of the aftermath of a war or a conflict........ As key board warriors, we could ask our forces to set the scores by killing each other, but to know the pain of a war, you need to meet some one who actually lost his loved one in a conflict.... Or a Soldier who has seen a war........

@fatman17 Thanks for posting this, rated positive,

 

[utraash]

Every war leaves its brutal scars ......Every human life is precious lets hope it doesn't happen ever....

 

[Arsalan]

Really heart touching.

Thank you @fatman17 and @levina for sharing this with us!

I hope this war never ever happens again and good sense prevail on both sides.

this one have been shared earlier as well but still reading it again always have the same effect:

A PAF pilot's tale
On September 7, 1965 - day one of the Indo-Pak war - Squadron Leader Alam Siddiqui of the Pakistan Air Force said goodbye to his 21-year-old bride and took off from Karachi.

He flew into the enemy territory in his B-57 bomber, never to return again.

"The day he died, he came home to tell us the war had started. He asked my mom to look after us. I was happy he was doing some service to the country. It was the last time that I saw him. I saw his plane take off, says Squadron Leader Alam Siddiqui's widow, Shenaz.

Shenaz remembers her husband as someone whose intensity of love was very strong. "I was too young to respond. I wish he was alive so that I could respond to it," she says.

After his death life for this 21-year-old came to a complete standstill. The only source of strength came from friends and family.

Alam's best friend, Najeeb Khan, who was also from the same squadron, says, "It never comes to into our mind that we're seeing someone for the last time. There is an internal optimism about life as an Airforce pilot. When I came back from my mission, my OC told me that Alam hadn't returned."

He believes that an anti-aircraft gun must have hit Alam's plane.


"After 5 months, when some prisoners were exchanged, they sent his wallet back with my photo in it. I knew he had crashed in Jamnagar, but I thought they would send his body back if he was dead. Since they did not, I though he was still alive," remembers Shenaz.

For the next 40 years, Shenaz kept alive with the hope that Alam would return. One day, five years had passed, her mother suggested that she remarry.

"I got remarried but told my second husband that I was still in love with Alam. My husband was a good man. He said if Alam returns, he would be the first one to hand me over to him. Even in my second husband's home, there were photos of Alam," she says.

Najeeb's wife Surriya says, "Many war widows remarried, but they never forget their first husbands. After all, first love always remains."

Love knows no boundaries and understands no reason. Does it? Otherwise why would a Pakistani woman, sitting in Toronto watching an Indian film, think that Squadron Leader Veer Pratap Singh in reel life could perhaps be Squadron Leader Siddiqui Alam in real life.

Shenaz confesses that when she saw Veer Zaara in Toronto, she was very depressed.

"Shani kept saying - Najeeb bhai, do you think Alam is alive in the Indian jails somewhere. I knew it couldn't be true. But just to put a final chapter to the to the whole sad event, I wrote to Yash Chopra, the air chief and Shahrukh Khan," says Najeeb.

"I wrote a mail that Alam had been killed in 65, but his wife hadn't reconciled. It's my duty and wish to bring a closure. I wanted to know if Alam had been killed, if there was a grave and if they could help us with visas," he says.

And Najeeb's request was well-accepted. "The way he wrote the mail that he had crossed the sound barrier but he was not sure if he could cross the barrier of the heart. He said that he wanted to do this for his friend's wife. It struck an emotional chord in me," says the air chief.

"I did research based on his request. This had come from one collegue to another, so it was special. I am an air warrior, I've taken part in these wars. I could understand these sentiments," he added.

Old records were opened, history was delved into and villagers questioned. "It took us a while. Whatever info we got, we wrote to Najeeb bhai, says the air chief.

The investigation carried out by the Indian Airforce confirmed what Shenaz had never wanted to believe for for decades - Squardon Leader Alam Siddiqui's B-57 bomber, stacked with explosives, had crashed in a field near Jamnagar in Gujarat.

Nothing remained of either the plane or the pilot. There was no grave, no epitaph for this Pakistani pilot who died on the first day of the 65 war.


Just a field that became a shrine of the fighter pilot she had loved and lost miles away from her hometown, in a small village in Jamnagar in Gujarat.

There was no doubt in Shehnaaz's mind that this was one pilgrimage she had to make. Even if it meant that this journey would dash the very hopes that Shehnaaz had clung on to all these years. And here's where the story begins.

"All the way in my flight from Toronto to India, I kept thinking that maybe the investigation has gone wrong somewhere. Alam is still alive," says Shenaz.

"I have always wanted to come to Jamnagar in my alternate reality. I have often thought that I would be here one day and I would find him here," she adds.

And when she reached Jamnagar, she did find him here, though not in the way she had hoped to.

In her conversation with the investigation officer, Shehnaaz asked him of how the crash took place and if any of the villagers were hurt.

"No, ma'am. Nothing like that happened. The village was evacuated. It wasn't his mistake," he asnwered.

At the site where a Pakistani Airforce plane crashed with the pilot on board, an Indian Airforce officer comforts the widow of the supposed enemy.

This is where borders cease to exist. Sometimes it doesnt matter which flag you wear on your chest as long as you have a soldiers heart beating inside you.

"Alam was born in India, but he couldn't visit India often. He often told me that he would bring me to the Taj Mahal since it symbolised eternal love. He said he would share the same sentiment of love with me there," says Shenaz.

Alam's friend, Najeeb confesses, "The sadness hasn't gone away. But we know that we did whatever we could in this context."

Overwhelmed by the help provided by the Air Chief, Najeeb saluted to the Air Chief. "I had not saluted any one in a long time, but with my full heart, I salute you with honour and dignity," he said to the Air Chief.

As she visited the Amar Jawan Jyoti at New Delhi, she paid homage not just Indian soldiers, but to their families as well, who shared the same pain with her even though the borders separated them.

"We are the same people, the same region, sharing the same culture. This war, it's so useless. It's the common people like us who lose. I hope there's never any war between the two countries. I hope nobody else suffers like me," Shenaz appeals.