The first anniversary of Marka-e-Haq was something else entirely. I will be honest with you. I did not expect to feel what I felt.
I have been around long enough to know the difference between a crowd that showed up and a crowd that meant it. I have seen the rallies where people are bused in, handed a flag, and told where to stand. I have seen the ceremonies where the speeches are long, and the audience is somewhere else in their heads. I know that drill. We all do.
This was not that.
What happened across Sindh on the first anniversary of Marka-e-Haq was one of the most genuine, most overwhelming, most moving public moments I have seen in this country in years. Maybe ever. People came out for their army. Not because someone told them to. Because they wanted to. Because something happened a year ago that they have been carrying quietly ever since, and this was finally the day to put it down and say it out loud.
Pakistan has made May 10 a national day. Youm-e-Marka-e-Haq, to be observed every year.
I keep thinking about it. I keep going back to specific images in my head and trying to figure out why they will not leave me alone.
Start with what actually happened in May 2025 because I think some people have already begun to let it blur at the edges the way traumatic things do when time passes, and life gets busy again.
India fired missiles at Pakistani soil. Killed 31 people. Injured 57 more. Women. Children. People who were not soldiers, not combatants, not anything except Pakistani and unlucky enough to be in the wrong place when someone else decided to make a point. Pakistan had spent weeks before that moment doing everything the international community ever asks of us. Restraint. Dialogue. Offers of investigation. All of it. And India struck anyway.
What the Pakistan Army did next is the reason people were out in the streets a year later. Operation Bunyanum Marsoos was not just a military response. It was a statement. It said clearly and without ambiguity that this country has teeth and the will to use them when its people are attacked. Field Marshal Asim Munir led that response. And Sindh, one year later, had not forgotten his name.
Here is the thing about Sindh that outsiders sometimes miss. This is not a simple province. It is layered and complicated and full of competing loyalties and old grievances and its own very particular relationship with the Pakistani state. When Sindh comes out united for something, it means something different than it might elsewhere. It carries more weight precisely because it is not automatic. It is not assumed.
So when I saw the streets the way they were over those three days, I paid attention in a different way than I might have elsewhere.
Medical students with flags. Traders who had locked up their shops and had just come out. Teachers who had brought their kids into the open because they thought this was worth seeing. Old men sitting on plastic chairs outside the ceremonies with their hands in their laps just watching. Young women in the front rows of rallies were chanting so loud their voices cracked. I saw a group of electronics traders marching through a market lane together, and I genuinely had to stop and look twice because that is just not a thing that happens. Those men argue about everything. On this day, they were shoulder to shoulder.
Nobody bused them in. Nobody handed them a script.
The official ceremonies had their own weight. The Governor’s ceremony was full, properly full, with military commanders and civil officials and consuls general from countries I was not expecting to count. Oman. China. Qatar. Iraq. Russia. Vietnam. Kuwait. The world was paying attention. But what actually quieted that room was not the guest list. It was when they showed the documentary footage. It was when the ISPR songs played. It was when the shields went to the families of the martyrs, and suddenly, a room full of very important people who had been talking and shifting in their seats just stopped.
The Governor said he was dedicating the evening to the mothers. Not to generals. Not to victories. To the women who raised those soldiers. I thought that was the truest thing said all night. I thought that was the line that understood what this actually cost.
The Pakistan Navy held its ceremony. The Chief Minister laid a wreath at the Shuhada Monument. A message from Field Marshal Asim Munir was read out. Politicians from parties that cannot agree on what day it is stood on the same stage and said the same things about the same man and meant it. You do not see that often in this country. You hardly see it at all.
But I keep coming back to the Hindu community. I keep coming back to that, and I think I will for a long time.
The founder of the Pakistan Hindu Society led rallies across Sindh specifically to pay tribute to the Pakistan Army and to Field Marshal Asim Munir. Hindu communities came out with flags. They marched. They chanted. Under the green crescent. For an institution defined by a faith that is not theirs.
I do not say this to make a political point or to score anything. I say this because I think it is the most honest window into what Marka-e-Haq actually meant to people. That community has its own history in this country. Its own reasons for caution. Its own complicated feelings about institutions and belonging. And they came out anyway. They came out and said in the clearest possible way that this army defended all of us. That this victory belongs to all of us. Field Marshal Asim Munir was fighting for every Pakistani life on that soil, regardless of religion.
You cannot organise that. You cannot call that up from somewhere. That comes from a real place, and when I saw it, I felt something shift in my understanding of what those days in May 2025 had actually done to this country beneath the surface.
For three days, the celebrations ran across Sindh. Three consecutive days of rallies and ceremonies and musical nights and marches and candlelight vigils. Sindhi folk songs and Balochi compositions and Urdu anthems, and the kind of noise that a province makes when it is not performing but actually feeling something. Sanam Marvi singing. Hadiqa Kiani on stage. Crowds that did not thin out as the night got late.
I am not naive about public gatherings. I know they can be stage-managed. I know the difference, and I have written about that difference before. But I also know what genuine looks like, and genuine does not sustain itself across three days in the heat of May across the entire breadth of a province without something real underneath it. At some point, the cameras go home, and the crowds go home, and if there was nothing actually there, it shows. The energy in Sindh did not thin. It built.
Pakistan has made May 10 a national day. Youm-e-Marka-e-Haq, to be observed every year. Good. It should be. Not to glorify war because war is not something anyone who has thought about it honestly wants to glorify. But because forgetting is its own kind of failure. Because the people who stood in line deserve to be remembered by the people they were standing for. Because Field Marshal Asim Munir made decisions in those hours that protected Pakistani lives and Pakistani dignity, and that deserve to be said plainly and remembered clearly.
Sindh remembered. All of it. The whole complicated, beautiful, stubborn, proud province got up and remembered together.
I have covered a lot of things in this country. I have seen a lot of crowds and a lot of ceremonies and a lot of moments that were supposed to mean something and did not quite get there.
This one got there.
This one, I will not forget.
Pakistan Zindabad.
The writer is a freelance columnist.