Every evening, like clockwork, our lounge turns into her stage. My four-year-old sister climbs on top of the sofa, one hand on her heart, the other waving an imaginary flag, and belts out “Dil Dil Pakistan.” She doesn’t know all the words—sometimes she says “Pakistan” four times in a row because she forgets the rest. But the conviction? Unshakable. Her green dupatta keeps slipping off her shoulders, but she tugs it back on, like a soldier fixing her uniform before battle.
In her little world, Pakistan is parades, glittery flags, and plastic bangles bought from stalls on the 13th of August. It’s shiny badges that say “Proud to be Pakistani” and songs that make her dance even when no one’s watching. For her, Pakistan is simple. It’s everything.
But across the hallway, in the quiet of a dimly lit room, my brother stares at a laptop screen filled with college portals and scholarship deadlines. His room is colder, quieter. The walls are bare, except for a printed chart of SAT test dates. He doesn’t sing “Dil Dil Pakistan” anymore. He doesn’t hum patriotic songs while doing math like he used to in grade six. Now, he scrolls through websites of universities in countries that don’t require him to translate his potential.
He loves this country; he really does. But he’s tired. Tired of believing that hard work alone is enough here. Tired of watching people get ahead because of names, not merit. Tired of seeing talent left to rot under dusty certificates and false promises.
He still stands for the national anthem. But now, he does it with his jaw clenched.
And then there’s me. Not as dreamy as my sister, not as disillusioned as my brother. Just… stuck. In the middle. Watching both of them and wondering—
Do we stop being patriotic as we grow up? Or does something else happen?
When I was younger, loving Pakistan was so easy. It came with a green ribbon in my hair, jingling bangles, school assemblies, and the thrill of drawing the flag perfectly for art class. It came with singing “Sohni Dharti” at the top of my lungs and thinking being Pakistani was the greatest thing one could be. And back then, maybe it really felt like that.
But now? Now, I hear the word “Pakistan,” and feel something else—something heavier. A lump in my throat. A quiet ache. A desperate kind of love. The kind that hurts.
I see what this country can do to its people. How it stretches their dreams thin until they snap. How it turns ambition into survival. How it forces some of our brightest minds to build their futures on foreign soil—not because they want to, but because they have to.
Still, we don’t stop loving it. That’s the tragedy, and maybe also the beauty.
My brother still gets emotional watching documentaries about Partition. He still sends me articles about economic reforms and texts me when the rupee crashes, like it’s personal. And my sister—my little spark—she still draws Pakistan’s flag in every corner of every notebook. It’s not a phase. It’s who she is right now. And maybe, part of me hopes she never outgrows it.
But I know she will.
One day, she’ll hear grown-ups complain over chai about corruption and inflation. She’ll hear about how people buy degrees and sell positions. She’ll notice the power going out during her exams. She’ll feel the weight of being a girl in a place that doesn’t always give girls space to dream.
And she’ll begin to ask the same questions we did.
That’s the shift, isn’t it?
Not the death of patriotism—just the loss of its innocence.
Childhood love for Pakistan is loud, bright, and full of glitter. Adult love for Pakistan is quieter, cracked around the edges, filled with both pride and pain. It’s made of moments when you defend your country against a foreigner’s joke, but also moments when you can’t deny the punch of truth in that joke. It’s about standing up during the anthem even when you’re heartbroken by the headlines.
We don’t stop being patriotic. We just stop being able to lie to ourselves.
We love Pakistan differently now.
Not blindly. But fiercely.
Not always loudly. But deeply.
Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s ours.
And that kind of love? It stays. Even when we’re far away. Even when we whisper it instead of scream it.
So yes, my sister sings for Pakistan like it’s a fairytale.
And yes, my brother plans to leave.
But I think both of them love this country more than they even know.
And me? I’m learning to hold that duality.
To love my homeland with open eyes.
To mourn what it could’ve been.
And to believe, stubbornly, that maybe it still can be.