Partition memories still influence leaders in Pakistan, shaping the tensions between two countries.
Delhi and Karachi bear living imprints of refugee displacement and inherited trauma.
Climate disasters show shared vulnerabilities, urging cooperation over confrontation.
On 16 April 2025, Pakistani Chief of Army Staff, General Asim Munir, publicly declared to a Overseas Pakistanis Convention in Islamabad that Hindus and Muslims constitute two distinct nations. By invoking the two-nation theory, the ideology that underpinned the Partition of British India and the creation of Pakistan, he reaffirmed one of the most contentious legacies of the subcontinent’s history.
India quickly cited his statement in connection with the Pahalgam terrorist attack on April 22, 2025, framing it as evidence of Pakistan’s continued reliance on divisive ideology to justify its policies and actions in sponsoring cross-border terrorism. The fact that the terrorists in Baisaran meadows identified tourists on the basis of their religious identity was, in India’s view, a chilling confirmation of how such divisive ideology translates into violence on the ground. The attack shocked India, triggered widespread anger, and pushed the two countries into a near-war situation.
A son of an Imam of modest origins, General Munir’s remarks in 2025 were striking, given that many of his recent predecessors in the Pakistan Army had avoided overt invocations of the two-nation theory in public discourse. With ancestral roots in the Jalandhar area of Indian Punjab, Munir, like General Zia-ul-Haq before him, came from an agricultural caste background; Jat in Munir’s case, Arian in Zia’s. Both inherited family histories scarred by Partition, when communities were uprooted from ancestral lands, stripped of property, and forced to reconstruct their social and political identities within newly drawn borders. These upheavals left lasting marks on families and social networks, fostering a deep sense of vulnerability, loss of territory, and the fragility of communal coexistence.
Where Munir and Zia slightly diverge, however, is in class and exposure. Zia, having studied at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi University, absorbed elements of the subcontinent’s pluralistic traditions which was something absent from Munir’s trajectory. General Zia-ul-Haq, despite his conservative Islamist image, proved adept at engaging both India and the United States in ways that extended his influence beyond Pakistan’s borders. With India, he projected a disarming personal style, famously attending a cricket match in Jaipur in 1987 at the height of military tensions, a gesture that momentarily diffused fears of war.
With Washington, Zia positioned himself as an indispensable Cold War ally, leveraging Pakistan’s frontline role in the anti-Soviet jihad in Afghanistan to secure massive military and economic aid. This dual engagement, cultivating warmth with adversaries in New Delhi while binding Pakistan strategically to the United States, illustrated Zia’s pragmatic streak, enabling him to consolidate power at home while elevating Pakistan’s international relevance. At home, however, Zia ruled with an iron hand, enforcing martial law, curbing political freedoms, and pushing through a harsh Islamization agenda that stifled dissent and marginalized minorities.
For leaders like Munir, the legacy of Partition is not merely a historical backdrop but a formative lens through which contemporary conflicts, including those in Kashmir, are understood and acted upon. While there exists a vast corpus of Partition-related literature, we often overlook how, within the echelons of power, the conditions of displacement, loss, and re-rooting have shaped mindsets.
For many in positions of authority, Partition was not an abstract historical event but a lived family experience marked by dispossession, insecurity, and redefined identities. These formative experiences influence not only their personal worldviews but also the strategic culture of the institutions they lead.
In 2006, I attended a India-Pakistan workshop organized by Delhi-based Women in Security, Conflict Management and Peace (WISCOMP), led by the eminent educationist Meenakshi Gopinath, where an American academic introduced us to the concept of the institutional trauma of conflict that generations inherit. That one lecture has stayed with me, as it helped me situate the experiences of many partitioned I encountered globally.
Coming to the practical side, how these partition legacies translate into decision-making processes, Delhi offers a striking case. The capital city was transformed almost overnight by Partition, as waves of refugees arrived from Punjab. According to the 1951 Census, Delhi’s population stood at 1.74 million, of which 0.47 million were born in Pakistan. In other words, nearly 27 percent of the city’s residents had arrived as refugees from Pakistani Punjab in the immediate aftermath of Partition.
Most of the Punjabi elite from urban centers in what became Pakistani Punjab eventually made Delhi their home, and the city’s geography was reshaped in ways that remain visible even today. It is no coincidence that two Indian Prime Ministers namely I.K. Gujral and Manmohan Singh; both migrants from Pakistani Punjab and with little initial electoral base, rose to the country’s highest office. Their trajectories reflect how the displaced elite not only rebuilt their lives in the capital but also went on to shape India’s political and intellectual landscape.
New colonies sprang up, many named after the towns they had left behind, such as Gujranwala colony, while others, like Defence Colony, Greater Kailash and Lajpat Nagar became the settlement area of these refugees as the city moved South wards. The Seraiki-speaking population from Multan settled in West Patel Nagar, while other groups established themselves in areas like Model Town in North Delhi.
Pockets of West Delhi such as Punjabi Bagh and Rajouri Garden became vibrant Punjabi enclaves, filled with those uprooted from West Punjab. Together, these communities carried echoes of a displaced homeland, reshaping Delhi’s cultural and social fabric. Even today, reminders of that history persist such as in East Delhi, where I recently came across a newly built housing society named “Lahore Apartments” a telling sign that the nostalgia of Partition endures, even into the third and fourth generations.
For this article, I reached out to my Pakistani-American friends, who pointed out that a similar dynamic unfolded in Karachi, where colonies were named after towns left behind in India. One example is Delhi Colony, created by migrants from Delhi. Multiple areas and businesses in Karachi also invoke the name “Bombay,” such as Bombay Street, Bombay Bazaar, Bombay Bakery, and Bombay Fruits, all established by migrants from colonial-era Bombay (now Mumbai). Another case is CP & Berar Society, named after the Central Provinces and Berar, whose capital was Nagpur which was founded by Muslim migrants from that region (present-day Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, and Chhattisgarh). By contrast, there are far fewer visible markers in Pakistani Punjab, where cultural continuity of West Punjab with East Punjab was stronger. Yet the institutionalized trauma of Partition continues to endure in memories, family narratives, and inherited anxieties.
In both India and Pakistan, the places where refugees settled absorbed the imprint of trauma, memory, and resilience, becoming living archives of Partition. In India’s case, the national capital is one of the places that continues to carry this legacy. Some of the reactions to Pakistan-related developments are inconceivable without factoring in Partition’s shadow, particularly in a city that wields disproportionate influence by virtue of being the capital. Yet, in a country as vast as India, where power is mediated through democratic processes and electoral muscle, these impulses are often diluted, surfacing more as undercurrents than as direct drivers of policy. Moreover, the larger societal impact of Delhi’s Partition memory has itself been softened over time by the city’s ever-changing demography today increasingly shaped by huge migration from the wider Poorvanchal region for the last three-decade, which has added new cultural, social, and political layers to the capital’s identity.
On Pakistan’s side, the reality is differently shaped by the country’s political structure and the ways in which it has been conditioned by its societal fabric. For military leaders, Partition is more than a historical rupture; it is a formative influence on their worldview and sense of national purpose. The trauma of displacement and the accompanying narratives of loss and survival often translate into a deep-seated preoccupation with security, borders, and strategic dominance. In practice, this manifests in uncompromising stances toward India, a constant emphasis on internal cohesion, and heightened sensitivity to perceived threats, both external and internal. The ongoing insurgencies in regions such as Balochistan add another layer of urgency, reinforcing a worldview in which protecting territorial integrity is paramount, and aggressive rhetoric functions both as a reflection of personal history and as a tool of national mobilization.
We often underestimate the role of personalities in shaping institutions. For instance, generals such as Qamar Javed Bajwa, a native Jat, who did not carry the same Partition-inflicted trauma, were more candid in acknowledging Pakistan’s economic fragility.
In essence, the experiences of Partition do not remain confined to family memory; they permeate strategic calculation, shape public rhetoric, and define the broader posture of Pakistan’s military leadership. To understand Pakistan’s behavior, whether in its dealings with India or in the management of its own internal insurgencies, one must first recognize that these leaders operate not merely as contemporary policymakers, but as inheritors of a history marked by upheaval, survival, and the relentless pursuit of security and cohesion.
General Asim Munir’s invocation of the two-nation theory in 2025 was thus not an isolated outburst but the continuation of a deeper current. His words echoed not only a state ideology but also a personal inheritance stories of displacement, rupture, and survival that have long shaped Pakistan’s military elite. Just as Delhi continues to carry the imprint of Partition in its demography and politics, Pakistan’s generals remain products of that same cataclysm, their worldviews forged as much by inherited memory as by contemporary realities. To understand why Munir chose to reaffirm one of the most divisive legacies of the subcontinent, one must return to the trauma of 1947 a wound that still informs national identities, fuels animosities, and, nearly eight decades on, continues to dictate the grammar of conflict between India and Pakistan.
At the same time, the recent rains once again reminded us that the fate of North India and Pakistan is tied together, as global warming accelerates the melting of Himalayan glaciers and produces increasingly unpredictable weather patterns. Both countries rank among the world’s most climate-vulnerable. Pakistan contributes less than 0.1 percent of global greenhouse gas emissions yet faces catastrophic impacts, while India, responsible for about 7 percent of global emissions as the third-largest emitter, after China and the US, is also acutely vulnerable given its vast population, fragile Himalayan ecosystem, and exposure to erratic monsoons and extreme weather.
In Jammu and Kashmir, at least thirty-four people were killed due to heavy rains in recent days, while an earlier cloudburst in Kishtwar claimed the lives of at least sixty-four pilgrims, with several still missing. As the Tawi swelled in Jammu, before joining the Chenab river in neighbouring Pakistan’s Sialkot district, India informed Pakistan twice about the rising waters. In Pakistan, some 200,000 people had already been evacuated as floods devastated large parts of Punjab province, where more than 800 people have died since June.
Interestingly, while sections of Pakistan’s polity and media sought to blame India for the recent floods and devastation, Pakistan’s Defence Minister Khawaja Asif, who is originally from Sialkot, minced no words in acknowledging India’s warnings and stating candidly that it would be wrong to blame New Delhi for Pakistan’s floods.
The juxtaposition of Partition’s enduring scars with the floods along the Tawi is instructive. The trauma of 1947 continues to shape worldviews, reinforcing hardened postures and divisive rhetoric. Yet the recent floods served as a stark reminder of shared vulnerabilities: water does not recognize borders, and survival in the face of climate-driven disasters demands cooperation rather than confrontation. Khawaja Asif’s candour in recognising India’s timely warning stood out precisely because it departed from the habitual script of suspicion.
If Partition bequeathed a legacy of fear and fracture, and incidents like the Pahalgam terrorist attack only exacerbated it, such moments suggest the possibility of a different inheritance; one in which shared ecological and human challenges compel New Delhi and Islamabad, however briefly, to look beyond their history of division toward a recognition of their intertwined destinies.
