Patriotism — why it doesn’t make sense to me
Once, on the deck of a cruise in Australia, I taught the Indian national anthem to an NRI baby cousin. I recall that as my most dramatic patriotic moment ever.
I have an aunt who detests Pakistan, and growing up, I’d often hear her speak with passionate hatred about our neighbouring country.
Today, my father made me read this beautifully written pro-nation anti-JNU Hindi poem that he got as a forward on WhatsApp. At the same time, I read an article in The Telegraph that my uncle recommended, titled “Freedom in Peril.”
Instances such as these, from when I was a little kid right up to now, have defined my view on patriotism and it is this — I feel none.
Do allow me to explain before you have me arrested.
Back on that cruise, what I felt wasn’t patriotism at all. It was a fleeting moment of pride in my cultural identity. Even when I was no more than ten years old, and didn’t have as much original thought, I would intrinsically cringe at my aunt’s hateful words against our neighbouring country. In my head I was like, “bro, people like you on either side are the problem.”
I find concepts such as patriotism and adherence to a particular religion by birth rather silly. How can I defend something I never got to choose? It’s like one of those school debates where you go “oh shit” when you get assigned the side you don’t actually want to argue in favour of.
Hinduism — my religion by birth — is too cumbersome with its bazillion gods, and I find most of the other religions rather unrealistic as well. Buddhism probably comes close to a first preference, but atheism / spiritualism suit me just fine. Similarly, if I’d to pick a country to be patriotic for I’d probably pick something like Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Switzerland… or Canada. Definitely Canada. #JustinTrudeau
As far as I’m concerned, religions are stories people wrote to communicate morals and values or for entertainment purposes or to instil faith in, and most importantly, fear of a Supreme Being so as to control the behaviour of masses by defining what is virtuous and what is sinful. Patriotism is not too different.
People marked out lines on the world map for administrative convenience, and then human emotions — or manipulations thereof— got in the way and we got super sentimental about these zones and decided that these sentiments are honourable ones and we shall call them “patriotism.”
Then, people started deciding what is patriotic and what is not. Cartoons and discussions putting forward diverse perspectives started getting labelled as “seditious” and we arrested people for being “anti-patriotic” — because that’s what hollow authorities do when threatened — shut the debate up. If the authorities had justifiable arguments that were in favour of the general good, if they were open to ideas and open to change based on better ideas, they would be thankful for opportunities to peacefully debate and discuss matters. They would welcome and consider every opinion, because India is supposed to be a democracy, ideally run of, by and for the people, and one that empowers its citizens with the freedom of speech. At least theoretically.
As for the response to the JNU protests, here’s a pro-tip: rebellion is one thing that grows the more you suppress it. The smartest move for a good government, then, is to keep channels for dialogue open. I, for instance, may never have sympathized with the sloganeering students if their protest hadn’t been shut down the way it was. In fact, if, in response, the government had invited them for a discussion on their concerns and ideas on how we can make things better for them, I’d be applauding their remarkably constructive reaction to a random student protest. Evelyn Beatrice Hall summarizes my perspective on the JNU issue — “I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it.”
Now, the moment you show a remotely “anti-patriotic” sentiment, they bring up the sacrifices of our soldiers on the border. Do I not value their sacrifice? Sure I do, but just as much as I value the sacrifice of a soldier of another nationality. At the end of the day, they’re all human lives lost, and I feel sorry that people have had to die in the endeavour to gain or protect land. In fact, I care so much that it makes me wish there were no countries at all — “nothing to kill or die for,” like John Lennon had hoped, and for the world to be one.
In no civilized world would such a large share of our resources be used for arms and ammunition. People go hungry in my country all the time, but we must spend crores every day to keep troops stationed at the borders. Before you label me ungrateful and remind me that I’m sitting peacefully because of our soldiers — I’m not saying it’s not necessary, I’m saying that it is unfortunate, and my undying hope is that of a world without war.
This song breaks my heart every time I listen to it, and I wonder how these two lines don’t bother people enough to choose humanity over patriotism —
“हम अपने अपने खेतों में गेहूं की जगह, चावल की जगह ये बंदूकें क्यों बोतें हैं,
जब दोनों ही की गलियों में कुछ भूखे बच्चे रोते हैं, कुछ भूखे बच्चे रोते हैं…”
(Why, instead of crops, do we sow ammunition in our fields, when in the streets of both our countries our hungry children cry to be fed…)
In a discussion today with my fervently nationalistic father, irked by my lack of the patriotic sentiment, he wondered aloud, “how can it not bother you that people are talking about dividing your motherland in fragments!?”
“The fact is,” I said, “that the very existence of countries divides my Mother Earth and that’s the part that really bothers me.”
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