On November 17, 2023, close to midnight, I landed at Jinnah airport in Karachi for the first time in 21 years. Although my family and I had talked about the visit to the homeland for some time, I was dreading the trip even though I knew I needed it. I had been feeling the absence of relationships in my life with aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents. And I was very aware that I may not get another chance to visit my homeland alongside my parents while they are still in good health. In the months leading up to the trip, I journaled, meditated and talked with my sisters to chip away at the armor of fear so I could land with an open mind and heart.
I would describe Karachi as a cacophony of sights, smells, sounds and sentiments. Congregations of men in public spaces dressed in mostly black, brown and gray and women shopping for rich magenta, marigold, and maroon textiles in the markets. Ailing elders negotiating with vendors the prices of bananas and karelas alongside life-filled young people going to school and playing cricket. The aromatic, hunger-inducing smells of bun kebabs and samosas from street-side dhabas followed by odors of sewage and garbage a few feet later. Emotionally-charged conversations and arguments of grown-ups from dawn to dusk and playful conversations and hysterical laughter of cousins meeting for the first time between dusk and dawn. The reverberating sound of Azan, the call for prayer, five times a day interspersed with the soul-resonating music of Young Stunners, one of Pakistan’s most popular bands.
I didn’t meditate once, ate dinner at 3 am, breakfast at 2 pm, slept no earlier than 5 am ( if I did at all) and spoke only Urdu. I saw all the fractures in my parents’ marriage; the ways in which misogyny is perpetuated by both men and women; how elders sometimes choose comfort over courage; and how the youngest are often the wisest. I ate, talked, felt, laughed and cried my way through the 21 days.
After the trip, I felt (and still feel) both energized and exhausted. Connected and lost. Deeply saddened and invigorated at my core. I’ve been sitting with questions like: Who would my sisters and I be if we hadn’t immigrated to the United States? Who would my parents be had they remained tethered to family and friends? Who would they be if they weren't harmed by those who should have protected them? Who would they be if they had the time, resources and permission to grieve and seek help? Can I re-cultivate a relationship with my birthplace without sacrificing my identity, values and safety? Can my cousins only pursue their education and economic goals outside of Pakistan, and what does this mean for our lineage? Will safety and sustainability always feel scarce in Pakistan despite the abundance of fertile land, brilliant minds, and resilient spirits? Will its government always remain beholden to the imperial interests of the United States? Will I always feel an unmet longing for safety and belonging in both?
And while I know many of these questions don’t have straightforward answers, I have finally begun to understand in my body what, up until the trip, I had only understood intellectually– how unnamed and unhealed traumas persist, tragic trade offs made by parents for their children–land and language for paychecks and passports–and the costs generations continue to pay for colonization and immigration.
And while there is very palpable grief within me, I am also filled with deep gratitude. I suppose the irreconcilable coexistence of grief and gratitude is also a cost of all of this.
It’s been a little over two and half months since the trip, and my younger cousins and I have talked every single day. After never having met or talked, we have been a part of each others’ last 85 days and counting. I am grateful for this. My parents, sisters and I have an understanding of family history and present-day dynamics in ways we never did. I am grateful for this. I finally saw where my parents grew up, went to school and got married. I am grateful for this. And I understand more acutely in my bones and tissues where I come from, and all the people, flavors, sights, and sounds I am made of. I am grateful for this.
And so I move forward. Walking a little taller, with a heavier yet more open heart, with a sadder yet more nourished spirit. Grieving and grateful.
Some photos from the trip (for safety reasons, we often didn't keep our phones with us when we were outside):
Top row (starting from the left): Piping hot cups of matka chai; my cousins, sister and I on a tour of Karachi (unfortunately, Saba couldn't join us); the fam visiting the street on which my dad (in blue shirt, gray hair) grew up.
Middle row (starting from the left):Photo of my parents from a pre-wedding celebration (fun fact: I am wearing my dad's sweater in my homepage photo); A plate of gol gappe (a delicious street snack); a page from my dad's old diary from the '70s in which he recorded rent payments.
Bottom row (starting from the left): An art installation made by my cousin in an empty box of pineapple cakes; my dad and uncle walking the street they grew up on; a beautiful basket of dates at Empress Market.
