After maintaining a self-imposed radio silence, Gurmehar Kaur has finally spoken up. In a detailed blog, Gurmehar has given us some in-depth insight into her mental state after being trolled only for saying that it war that killed her father, not Pakistan, and for challenging ABVP in Delhi. 


The Lady Shri Ram College student has written a blog with the concluding remarks, "My father is a martyr. I am his daughter. But, I am not your 'Martyr's Daughter'," indicating that she was holding on to her beliefs. 


Read full text here:

Who am I?

A question, I could’ve answered without any inhibitions or a trace of wariness in my standard cheerful tone only 
a few weeks ago. Now, I’m not so sure.

Am I who the trolls think I am?

Am I what the media portrayed me as?

Am I what those celebrities think of me?

No, I can’t be any of that. That girl you saw flashing all over your television screens, holding a placard in hand, 
eyebrows raised, gaze fixed at the tiny round lens of a cellphone camera, definitely looked like me. The intensity 
of her thoughts that reflected in the picture definitely had traces of me. She looked fiery, I relate to that but 
then the ‘Breaking news headlines’ told a different story. The headlines were not me.

Martyr’s daughter

Martyr’s daughter

Martyr’s daughter

I’m my father’s daughter. I’m my Papa’s Gulgul. I’m his doll. I’m a 2-year-old artist who did not understand words 
but understood stick figures, which he drew in letters addressed to me. I’m my mother’s headache, her opinionated, 
reckless, moody child- a reflection of her. I’m my sister’s guide to pop culture and her sparring partner before 
the big matches. I’m also the girl who sits on the first bench during lectures with intentions of interrupting 
the teacher and starting fiery debates on everything and anything, just because literature is more fun that way. 
My friends’ sort-of-kind-of like me, I’m hoping. They say my humor is dry but works on certain days (I can live with that). 
Books and Poetry are my solace.

A bibliophile, the library at home is over flooding, and my biggest concern for the last few months has been on how to 
convince Mom to let me shift her lamps and picture frames to create another shelf.

I’m an idealist. An athlete. A peacenik. I’m not your angry, vindictive war mongering bechari you hoped me to be. 
I don’t want war because I know its price; it’s very expensive. Trust me I know better because I’ve paid it everyday. 
Still do. There is no bill for it, maybe if there was, some wouldn’t hate me so much. Numbers make it more believable.

The news channel polls screaming, “IS GURMEHAR’S PAIN RIGHT OR WRONG?”, with a certain vote ratio as a result 
makes so much more sense to us normal public.

And hey! What’s the value of our suffering in front of that? If 51% people think I’m wrong, then I must be wrong. 
In that case, God knows who’s polluting my mind.

Papa is not here with me; he hasn’t been for 18 years. My limited vocabulary of about 200 words, learnt new words 
called death, war and Pakistan on the days following august 6th, 1999. For obvious reasons it did take me a few years 
to actually understand the implied definition of them. I say implied because, honestly, does anyone even know their 
true meaning? I live it and I’m still trying to figure it out especially in the sense of the world.

My father’s a martyr but I don’t know him as that. I know him as the man who wore big cargo jackets with pockets full of sweets,
 whose stubble scratched my nose every time he kissed my forehead, teacher who taught me how to sip from a straw and introduced 
me to chewing gum. I know him as my father. I also know him as the shoulder my tiny self clung to extremely tightly hoping 
if I held him strongly enough he won’t go. He went. He just didn’t come back.

My father is a martyr. I’m his daughter.

But.

I am not your “Martyr’s Daughter”.