Acknowledgements, an essay

I often hesitate in sharing certain accomplishments publicly because they can be so misleading. These are usually only small respectable slivers of very difficult, complex moments. Rejections, all kinds of heartbreaks, fears, loneliness, and failures are often not included in these social media accomplishment updates. But these so-called accomplishments are not mine alone. Just as I haven’t had to and don’t have to weather many of the difficult moments in my life on my own—friends, mentors, family members, loved and loving ones have held on to me—all that I have to celebrate has not been accomplished or achieved on my own. These moments of joy are not just mine. So I write this out of gratitude to my community, to people who have held me up, who’ve shared time and parts of themselves, lent themselves and their words to me. I write this to be public about my gratitude and to celebrate them. 

I suppose I offer this as a kind of acknowledgements page that one would find at the end of a book or at the beginning of a dissertation. 

A caveat: The way South Asian middle-class respectability works is that you don’t talk about being low-income—until you’ve somehow ‘made it’ and then you can turn back and point to the fact that you used to be low-income because you are no longer. You’re quiet about the struggle of being between jobs until you’ve found a job. You are only allowed to talk about the difficult moments if you’ve survived them. It’s supposed to feel shameful. It goes like this: I went through this, but then I preserved, and now I’m here, and you can be too. Here’s some neatly bounded, packaged insta-worthy inspiration. You should feel bad if you didn’t get ‘here’ like me. 

People don’t like sharing their failures until it’s become part of a success story. Myself included. I am only able to share what I am no longer truly threatened and afraid of. Some of what I’ve survived, I’m not yet ready to share, but I hope to someday. Not as inspiration, but as testimony, as bearing witness. 

Even the ‘now I’m here’ rings false. The ‘here’ is misleading—a way to separate oneself from the past. But really, it doesn’t end. Neither does the climbing, the aspiring, being asked to live your life like a LinkedIn page. It also misleadingly points to a neat sort of happy ending, a series of success stories, often with a price tag attached, a class marker of some kind that you’ve ascended, where things are less precarious and frightening. There are many stories in our lives, some chapters have a sort of resolution, things work out, we come out of the other side of things, but they’re not neatly bounded, they spill, they’re left open. Time isn’t linear, neither is my life, neither is my class status. There will always be a chip on my shoulder, certain fears that I will always carry. 

My education gives me a kind of security that I did not have growing up as a low-income first-generation immigrant in Canada when I wasn’t sure if I’d graduate high school, when just getting to university—any university—was my biggest goal in life. Formal post-secondary education was not guaranteed; it was not a given. At fifteen, I had written ‘university’ on an index card and pinned it to a wall in the room I shared with my grandmother and my sister. I emphasise low-income here because there is something so different about being an immigrant with plenty of wealth and one with little. It was my class status that made things seem less possible than my ethnic background. Of course, they’re connected, but wealthier South Asians somehow could dream with more ease, more entitlement. To be brown without money is so different from being brown with money; don’t let anyone tell you or pretend otherwise. But somehow it’s easier to talk about being brown & Muslim than being brown & Muslim & not having money. So that’s why I’m mentioning this here. Working-class diaspora kids, I see you. I see how it cuts.

My education is a result of scholarships, grants, student loans, community, family, and so many duas. It was never a given. So, this is why I’m here, sharing this publicly, in this roundabout, rambling ‘acknowledgements essay’. I just received my second master’s degree from Oxford, with Distinction, having completed my studies as a Rhodes Scholar this year. These are words that my younger self could have never imagined. To many of the Oxford grads me around me, they may not seem like a big deal. Many of you know how mediocre it is, the learning and the education within these colonial institutions we’ve been conditioned to aspire to. There is so much more that our ancestors, our grandparents, my parents have accomplished than this piece of paper. We know how to celebrate graduations—but how about surviving wars, the partitioning of your country, the loss of your children, giving birth, years of humiliating night shifts, the loss of your language?

And yet, even then, all this was never a given. I am holding my younger self closer today. It was not easy. It was not planned. It was so unlikely. It is also not a success story, a magic wand, because it isn’t some neat sort of ending. You return home to what has always been home, with a piece of paper that you hope will make things easier, doors-you’re-not-sure-you-want-to-enter crack open a little wider. But I am so grateful, and I am writing and sharing this to express my gratitude. 

To my mentors at UBC—you prevented me from falling through the cracks, you kept catching me, encouraging me, pushing me to aspire for more when I actually believed my horizons were much smaller, showing me how, making the institution a little softer, kinder, more possible. Extending your words in letters and statements for my sake. Especially Deborah Campell, Laura Moss, Sheryda Warrener, Amber Dawn, Maureen Medved, Leslie Arnovick and Glenn Deer. I want to confirm that giving students those extensions on their assignments, letting them sit in your office to have a cry, writing them a reference letter can change the direction of their lives. Many of us don’t know how it’s done or can be done. Thank you for your tenderness, your kindness, your faith, your words. 

My parents, Ammi, Baba, who dared to raise me in an unconventional way, impatient and critical with the way things are. My parents worked and work hard—moving between countries, wanting a meaningful life for their kids but also a meaningful life for themselves. They wanted their own lives, their work, to mean something beyond the promise of the suburban dream. I respect them so much for not dreaming it because it taught me that to ‘want more’ is to want more than capitalism, a wanting that isn’t about collecting wealth, to want more of your life to belong to you. Log kya kahenge was not something my parents said to their children, and that allowed to us live lives freer than many of our peers.

My friends, my siblings, my cousins, my community, my beloveds. You know who you are. From Coast Salish lands to Karachi to Oxford, thank you. My women friends, my sisters. You rescue me regularly, sustain me, give me language, and I will never take it for granted. I give myself to you. Amna. Sarah A. Sarah M. Sepideh, Chiyi & Aliya. Sana, Zunaira, Batool, Afrin & Katongo. Apiya, Sooma. & so many more of you. Sana, for never failing to understand even when language fails me. Zunaira, for showing me how friends can become home for one another. 

And, of course, Zikri—for being by my side there through each sentence, comma, full stop, question mark and line break these past years.

I suppose all this isn’t really about the completion of a degree. When I trace how I arrived at the bottom of this piece, to the end of this year, each little shift, little opening, the possibility of a new turn, is marked by a person who has kindly ushered me through, lifted an obstacle, or held my hand. Even if I hadn’t graduated this year, hadn’t been able to complete my degree, which could have very likely happened, all this still holds. This is about marking a moment, a transition, about giving thanks to those who have been walking alongside me. Thank you. 

Zehra, outside of The Sheldonian Theatre, in her graduation robes, holding a bouquet of flowers, and smiling

November 2018, The Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford

karachi, Uncategorized, Writing

karachi, a postcard

this city is a palimpsest. all texture. peeling into self. layer upon layer upon layer. language and skin and dust and polythene waste and political graffiti, pan stains and rickshaw poetry, chai shops and cigarette butts, aunties in flip flops, families squeezed onto motorcycles, english in urdu and urdu in angrezi, traffic uncles maddeningly ushering sluggish traffic across, “these bloody motorcycle wallay!”, “baji dupatta samhalain!”, jasmine bracelets at traffic lights, khawaja sira clapping, a perfect pyramid of yellow mangoes, fruit sellers swatting flies, jamun and cheekoo and falsay and sugarcane juice, hot tandoori naan in foreign newspapers, a gutter overflowing, kites in the sky, tangle of cables swinging above, crows in the morning, painted walls and fading walls, dusty trees, sweat sun sea, noise evening breeze. this city, the sea breeze. this city, the sound.


karachi photo zehra

Uncategorized, Writing

Written from the edgelands of my gentrifying neighbourhood, Queensborough

Everyone knows – after a sentence or two of explanation – their local version of the territories defined by this word ‘edgelands’. But few people know them well, let alone appreciate them.

– Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts, Edgelands

[Spring 2016]

Queensborough—with its ditches, storage containers, outlet mall, not-quite suburban and not-quite industrial aura, ongoing construction, aging homes that aren’t old enough to be heritage or new enough to be modern, an unremarkable bridge for traffic passing through, its immigrant communities that don’t quite know each other, not quite a town and not quite a neighbourhood but perhaps something in between—is a place that has become quite comfortable in how peripheral it is. Wikipedia calls it a neighbourhood of New Westminster City, so lets go with the term “neighbourhood”. Being cut off from the city by the Fraser River and situated on the eastern tip of Lulu Island, Queensborough is closer to Richmond than it is to New Westminster. It lies on the fringes—distant enough from the city to distinctly refer to itself as Queensborough and not New Westminster. Its being part of New Westminster feels like an after thought, almost arbitrary.

It’s a transitioning place. Few people stay here for very long. There are the drivers daily crossing the Queensborough Connecter overpass via High 91, who may not even know that there’s a neighbourhood underneath with a community center, a fire hall, a pub, an elementary school, a middle school, a park, a church and a gurduwara. Oh and there’s the outlet mall and the casino on the other side of where the highways cuts though. But the visitors to the Starlight Casino or the Queenborough Landing Outlet Mall aren’t likely to know much about Queensborough and I don’t blame them. This isn’t really a place where people stay for very long.

Queensborough is a place of margins and sidelines—from its tepid ditches to its mostly working class and immigrant inhabitants. People who can’t quite afford the city move here. This is the kind of neighbourhood where a new immigrant family may buy their first home before they can afford a place in the city; or working class folks may rent and commute into the city for work until they can afford to leave Queensborough. Either people are visiting or passing through. I see new faces until I stop seeing them and I, too, am waiting for the day I can leave it behind, even if with a little sadness.

But it doesn’t appear it will stay like this. The developers and construction workers are the newest occupants of Queensborough, and its most distinguishing characteristic—its ditches—are disappearing. The edgelands of Queensborough are being smoothed over with cement. Sometimes I would spot ducklings swimming in the ditches and other times rats. The insects, the birds, the rodents and weeds of Queensborough congregated along the ditches that stretched along its streets. In the winter the ditches would freeze and in the spring become green, teeming with life. Children would lose their tennis balls and soccer balls in the ditches—and there would be the odd driver who (likely a visitor) would forget to avoid the ditch on either side when backing out of a driveway and get stuck, because ditches have a way of being overlooked. Queensborough has a way of being overlooked.

There’s something about Queensborough that professes its unwantedness—or at least has in the recent past. Perhaps it’s the aging property, the narrow roads, the empty lots of weed and overgrown grass between houses, and the ditches. Since the ditches started disappearing and construction has crowded its streets and signs have sprung up declaring rezoning of areas, the property prices have risen. At the edge of Queensborough, along South Dyke Road, overlooking the water, are the new single-family homes. Unlike the older part of Queensborough where the houses are a motely crew of design, age, size and colour: the new houses all look the same, with the same patch of greenery in the front, the same white garage door: and yes, there’s even the white picket fencing. My eyes begin to gloss over the sameness and I try to spot the differences: a bike, the different models of cars in the driveways, a soccer ball in the grass—anything to betray difference. The edgeland is being taken out of its edges—it’s being welcomed to the centre—the assemblage is being smoothed over. This might have been an out-of-place place, but now, the property development seems to be giving another message: stay here a while.

Queensborough is one of those neighbourhoods that are old enough to be historically significant, but it didn’t manage to develop anything particularly important to be special in the imagination of Greater Vancouver. It is intimate with the concept of undesirability. It’s a neighbourhood of leftovers. Queensborough was originally supposed to be the name for the colonial capital of British Columbia, until Queen Victoria decided to go with New Westminster. The discarded name went to this tip of Lulu Island. New Westminster too lost the designation of colonial capital.

The neighbourhood has been home to working class immigrant communities for almost a century now. The colonizers first made it into a military reserve, and then the bridge to the city was created, connecting it to the New Westminster mainland. After the post office was made, the neigbourhood was “established”. The Italians had a significant presence here, but they too have mostly moved out and now South Asian, Middle Eastern and African families have made it their home, with the Punjabi Sikh community now having a significant presence here. At the community centre, the black and white heritage photographs of the neighbourhood are strangely unfamiliar. The neighbourhood doesn’t look like this anymore. There are few white families in Queensborough and they are mostly either single parents or working class. Most of them don’t have long ties to the place. You are not likely to find a wealthy white family in Queensborough, not yet. Queensborough falls under the territory of the Tsleil-Waututh nation, but that is a history pushed beyond the edges of the neighbourhood’s memory: the community centre makes no mention of the Tsleil-Waututh nation.

When my family moved here a decade ago, there was no Walmart. The Outlet Mall and the town homes were yet to be built. Even the Queensborough Connector overpass hadn’t been built. Drivers on the highway had to enter and cross through the neighbourhood to the other side. When Walmart came to the neighbourhood, the small grocery stores were forced to shut down. Opposite my house is the empty lot where the store Spagnols once stood. It is now being developed for condominiums.

One of the first people we befriended in the neighbourhood was a man a few blocks down from us who had built his house entirely by himself. It was a makeshift looking house—grey, small, slightly crooked, but seemingly functioning. There was a garden in the front yard where the man grew his vegetables and herbs. The city had come in for an inspection and weren’t able to find anything objectionable. This man liked to do things himself. He proudly told my father that he once butchered a goat in his backyard for meat and the RCMP dropped by announcing that it was a violation of the city bylaws. The man produced a map of Queensborough and pointed out that his street wasn’t on the map, or within the city’s limits. It was farm land. How could he be breaking city laws if he wasn’t even in the city? The police apparently let him go. His street is now on the map.

When we moved here, the one redeeming quality of the neighbourhood was its central location—in other words, how easy it was to leave it. It’s almost perfectly in the middle of Richmond, Delta, Surrey, New Westminster and Burnaby—an approximately 10-15 minute drive to either city. It’s an inbetween place. You’ll pass it when approaching the Queensborough Bridge from Highway 91.

The bridge isn’t remarkable like some of the other bridges of the Lower Mainland: Port Man, Lions Gate, Patullo or Alex Fraser Bridge—but it is perhaps the most well-known aspect of Queensborough and it, too, is on the periphery of the neighbourhood—either leaving or arriving. If you’re on the bridge, you’re likely going elsewhere. But if you pause a moment to look you might notice and admire it. It isn’t picturesque—or sublime or beautiful. The Fraser River meekly runs beneath. If you’re approaching New Westminster, to the left of the view will be the roofs of the outlet mall, and a massive parking lot full of badly damaged cars and minivans. This is the ICBC damaged vehicle lot. This is where cars come when there is no place else left for them to go—to this particular edge of the industrial Fraser River. You never really realize it’s a part of Queensborough until you spot it from the bridge.

To the right of the view is the shoreline between the Fraser River and New Westminster city. You will spot several red and blue cranes docked along the shore, warehouses just on the edge of the land, and large collections of logs floating down the river. The logs—emblematic of the Fraser River—are always there, travelling, but never really leaving. I’ve stopped noticing them—they’ve becoming natural to this rather unseemly, industrialized side of the river. I realize they are useful, but there is something aesthetically unpleasing about them. I wonder if the cranes and the logs were to disappear, would the river suddenly emerge from the edges, become more conventionally remarkable—picturesque—if people would start jogging along this edge of the shoreline, walk their dogs, and bike? I never see any people along this side of the river—just logs and freighters floating by—and the people in their vehicles passing by on top.

What exactly about the bridge makes it so easy to miss—fleeting—makes my eyes want to look forward and not down at the view? Perhaps it’s the clutter of industry. I recognize within myself a certain desire for neatness, an impulse for clear, clean curvature and softly bending lines. Why not the cranes, the warehouses, the beaten-up vehicles, the factory smoke from Annacis Island, and the long stretches of drifting logs? My eyes are pulled to the high-rise buildings of Burnaby or the reflections of the sun sparkling in the water, or the trees of Poplar Island—a small tree-filled mass of land in the middle of the channel—but they overlook, gloss over the cranes and the industrial detritus—the stuff that happens in the process of converting towering trees into high rise apartment buildings. The stuff I’ve trained myself to disregard. The stuff Wordsworth overlooked in his sonnet “Composed Upon Westminster Bridge”.

His eyes too must have glossed over the grime, the grunge, the debris, the leftovers, the castaways, the crusts and unromantic edges of the city—the stuff I notice by accident or when I command myself to notice but never quite instinctively—everything that is not splendour, majestic or beautiful—the smoke, the grit, the pollution, the excess of development, the dirt, the messiness, the stuff that doesn’t come forward to the eye right away. There is something obvious about writing a poem about “ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples”—but what about the edges in-between the city? The stuff that tends to go by unnoticed—the stuff that at first glance that isn’t entirely an object in my eye. It is the blur, the unfocussed bit, and the non-object as my eyes focus in based on the ingrained conventional relationship I have with objects. I readily offer my eyes to the island of trees, the river, the tall buildings—but must pause, focus, home in on the blur, objectify and personify the once-missed, let it emerge, come into in an existence of its own. It is then that I can appreciate it.

I will not be in Queensborough for very long. It is the place at the end and beginning of my bus rides into the city. Despite living here for almost a decade, I have always been leaving it, overlooking it, casting my vision across the bridge. I both know and don’t know it intimately. There are edges, crooks, and bends of Queensborough that will probably go on unremarked, or disappear as the neighbourhood is gentrified, but it might be worthwhile to seek them out. But they don’t really need to be sought out. They’re always there—I just have to home in and notice them.

karachi, Uncategorized, Writing

Karachi in September

Written in late September, 2017. Muharram. 

Karachi is a gift for writers. This city is brimming with detail and eccentricity. There is so much texture, so much for curious eyes to take apart. It is grimy, dirty, gritty, and resilient. It’s loud and obnoxious. It’s obnoxiousness is also perhaps the cause of its resilience.


It is morning and we are on our way to a majlis in Soldier Bazaar. The school traffic blocks the roads. Children in neatly pressed uniforms making their way to school by the busloads – in school vans, chauffeured cars, rickshaws, siblings crammed on a single motorcycle with a sleepy father at the front, school boys on motorcycles driving themselves to school.

There is a lack of traffic lights and many of the streets are narrow (further narrowed by the piles of trash on the roadsides threatening to take over the city). Vans, buses, cars, rickshaws and trucks become stuck at intersections. An uncle from the nearby chai shop walks over and begins guiding the traffic at the intersection we’re stuck at. This is always a pleasant surprise. Karachi can be violent and dangerous, but you’re always being watched and observed by passersby. People don’t mind their own business, which can be very frustrating, but there are times this comes in handy. If you’re struggling to manoeuvre your car, someone will notice and they’ll begin signalling and guiding you with hand motions and bangs on your car.

Every morning at the intersection near my house there will be a massive traffic jam, seemingly incapable of being resolved because of the numerous directions in which the endless streams of vehicles are coming and going. And every morning the traffic jam will be resolved somehow, unofficially, by a different person, jumping out of their car or popping out of their shop to direct the traffic.

In Sadar – downtown – I come a cross a traffic officer shouting directions through a loud speaker. Dressed in a clean white uniform and a black bullet-proof vest, he’s an aging pot-bellied uncle, clearly frustrated by his impossible job of controlling Downtown Karachi’s traffic. He takes turn wiping sweat off his brows, waving his arms around, and barking into the loudspeaker. One driver ignores his directions and takes a turn where he isn’t supposed to. The traffic officer swears at him on the loud speaker, clearly heard across the busy intersection: “Kumbakhat! [Imbecile!] Everyday you turn here, and everyday I yell at you not to turn here!”

We come across a school. A guard with a pistol in his hand stands outside the door of the school as children stream in. Inside, another guard with a kalashnikov slung across his chest, ushers the school children through.


At the mall there is heavy security. You must walk through a metal detecter. Your bags are checked. Everyone is checked. It’s a busy mall. The atmosphere is relaxed. But for me, metal detectors remind me of airports, of Brown and Muslim anxiety, of racial profiling, so I tense up, ready to reveal my innocence should the detector go off. But everyone looks like me and everyone is relaxed and it goes off for everyone and everyone’s bags are checked.


At the hospital, I am visiting my cousin. The entrance has a metal detector, a cheap plastic looking thing that is clearly not working. A guard with an AK-47 half-heartedly looks on for signs of danger and full-heartedly leers at women.

In the evening, on the streets of Ancholi, there are police trucks and rangers set up. Roads are blocked off, so we part our walk through the narrow streets for the evening majalises. Rangers and guards loiter around the streets, with kalashnikovs and pistols. Some in dark-blue police uniforms, others in camouflage army gear. One of the young male rangers learns toward a stall, checks out some noha CDs as his gun slings forward, hanging from his shoulder. Another sits on the back of an open truck, his legs stretched out before him, his fingers holding on to the trigger.

How the streets of my childhood memories have come militarized. A truck full of mental detectors passes by. Across the metal detectors is written DONATED BY EDHI CENTRE. And that’s when it really hits me fully: we are in the midst of a war. A decades long war. This war has been going on for so long that the militarization has become shockingly normalized. The Edhi Centre, normally known for its orphanages, shelters, and ambulance service, in an attempt prevent the loss of lives, is donating metal detectors. Guns and metal detectors are a constant reminder of danger.

As a Shia in black during Muharram, walking the streets, I thought I would be more afraid. But here, on the streets of Ancholi, a Shia locality, I am reminded of the streets of modern day Karbala, Iraq. There are vendors selling Muharram related wares, talismans and alams, noha CDs. The imambarghas are built to look like the shrines of Imam Hussain or Hazrat Abbas. There are sabeels set up giving out sharbat and refreshing drinks. Multiple majalises going on at the same time can heard from the loudspeakers on the streets. People opening their windows and doors to listen. People sitting on their porch steps and balconies, head bowed, shoulders shaking, openly weeping when the tragedy of Hussain and his family in Karbala is being narrated. Men and women, children and seniors, sitting on the streets, in their shops, in the imambarghas, listening from parked cars, crying, loudly.

And yet there isn’t a sense of fear, or at least not to the extent that I expected. This is everyday. Life goes on. Maybe something will happen, but probably it won’t, and that’s what it’s like everyday, so why be afraid?

Karachi is booming to the point of bursting. It is open for business and unable to control its own greed and urges. If you see an opening in traffic, you rush in and speed through because you might miss your chance. There’s no “you first” on the roads here.

Karachi is aware of itself but helpless at controlling its exponential growth. Its arteries are clogging up. The trash piles on, the roads get narrower, the traffic increases but keeps pushing through even when it can’t, even when there isn’t enough space. People keep adding levels and floors to their homes without permits.  Somehow, and not always, the city adjusts. It just keeps going. But for how long?



karachi, Uncategorized

on those who return

dear children of diaspora, i am thinking of you these days

only you could appreciate how it feels to return to the motherland and find that it will indeed embrace you, take you back, feed you, befriend you, ease away the awkwardness that has crept onto your tongue. only you could understand what it means to be surrounded by brown skin, to have your name said by those who know how it’s meant to be said, who know its meaning. only you could know the the relief that comes with not having to think about race and identity politics

i haven’t felt ‘poc’ or ‘woc’ or ‘muslim’ in the past few months. mostly just me

so, this is what privilege feels like

dear children of diaspora who escaped, when we return home, with our western passports and our western degrees, it is not the same

the motherland has been conditioned to embrace that which is english, and white, and foreign and whatever is close to that, so the motherland will embrace you. it will embrace you like it couldn’t before

and you will embrace it back. the privilege of mobility will allow you to fall in love with the motherland because you can leave it when it becomes too much. you don’t have to suffocate here

it is all so complicated, and it has so much to do with privilege, but oh does it feel good to finally feel wanted, to feel this place has been shaped to fit you in


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karachi, Uncategorized

Dear Karachi: It’s me. I’m back.

Memory has a way of being deceptive. Each time I am back in Karachi, I find myself taken aback. Things are not how I expect them to be. Somehow in my memory, our home in Karachi is always a little bigger, our street a little wider. Maybe it’s because I was younger, smaller, and so the spaces seemed bigger. Or maybe things really are shrinking as this city grows and becomes more crowded.

It still hasn’t truly hit me that I’m back and I’m not sure how I feel about it. My surroundings are coming to me in bleary, hazy doses as I drift in and out of sleep. The weeks leading up to the move, and the journey here were exhausting. My body is still recovering and adjusting.


Karachi’s On the Map

One change that has altered Karachi-life is the introduction of Google Maps. My street did not used to have an “official” name. My honours thesis in university centred around this fact, on the lack of official names for streets and how people used landmarks and anecdotes to navigate the megacity and give directions. That has changed. There is a very large blue sign denoting the name of our street; i.e, the new official name. I think this probably has to do with Google Maps. The streets need to become navigable in a way that’s not just restricted to locals or dependant on local knowledge and directions. I can now look up directions on my phone to get to places in Karachi and this certainly makes the city less daunting and more accessible (although I’ve heard the traffic is atrocious). I wonder what we are losing though, with this introduction of Google Maps. An entire culture and way of navigating spaces has now changed.

The introduction of Google Maps has also allowed different ride sharing apps to thrive here. Uber has arrived.  You can order a motorcycle and the driver will arrive with an extra helmet. There’s also an app called Careem app. It kind of works like Uber, except apparently it’s safer and the drivers are all directly trained and hired by the company. I’m excited to use it and review it. I’m also curious to observe the effects of such apps and technology on local businesses and every-day life. It has a way making you feel both safer and more exposed. Nonetheless, I think the Careem app may be a way for me to see the city independently.

Neighbourhood Wildlife

The most I’ve seen of Karachi so far is the route from the airport to the house at 4 in the morning, and what I’ve observed from the roof. I’ve been getting aquatinted with the neighbourhood bird life. The racket the birds make in the morning is astounding, as if there are hundreds of birds shouting at each other. There is a rooster in our neighbourhood that crows incessantly all day and has made my jet-lagged sleep very difficult. No shortage of crows here, either. They are loud, clever and obnoxious. They have a sharpness and alertness to them that catches me off guard.

The mosquitoes and flies too have advanced survival instincts. Despite wearing full length pants, covering myself with bed sheets, and having the fan on full speed when I sleep, I still wake up with mosquito bites all over my arms, legs, stomach, back, and neck. I really don’t know how they get there. I’m determined to figure out a way to outsmart these mosquitoes.

I am looking forward to recovering from my jet lag so I can get into a routine. I really do feel different here. I feel more creative, and I can feel myself wanting to write creatively again. I have different ideas of what I want to do during my time here, but I’m a little afraid of going out and about on my own because my foreignness really sticks out like a sore thumb. Or maybe it doesn’t. I’ve lived here before. I should give myself some credit. Although it doesn’t help that I’ve been mentally converting rupees to dollars to understand how much something is. I just need to get out there and adjust. But first, I must get over this jet lag.

Stay tuned, more to come.

…It’s 12:40 AM and that rooster is crowing.


a necessary trap?

when your writing becomes not about you but about addressing the gaze that others you. there is a loss there. but there is an immediacy to it – you feel compelled. no, you are compelled. it is demanded of you. i wouldn’t call it a phase (it will always be there). perhaps a passage. a necessary trap. it needs to be done, so that perhaps your writing can move on, and you can represent yourself without looking at yourself from the outside in, without always being angry and traumatized. and finally, find true liberation in your work. when i no longer always need to write about trauma, and can write about fuzzy caterpillars and dust bunnies and why i like my egg yolks runny.


“You can’t do that! Stories have to be about White people”

This. All of this.

Media Diversified

Young Writers of Colour

byDarren Chetty

I’ve spent almost two decades teaching in English primary schools, which serve multiracial, multicultural, multifaith communities. I want to explore two things I have noticed.

1)    Almost without exception, whenever children are asked to write a story in school, children of colour will write a story featuring white characters with ‘traditional’ English names who speak English as a first language.

2)    Teachers do not discuss this phenomenon.

Furthermore, simply pointing these two things out can lead to some angry responses in my experience.

Why are you making an issue of race when children are colourblind?”

is an example of the sort of question that sometimes gets asked.

Well let’s look at that. If children were writing stories where the race of characters was varied and random, there might be some merit in claiming that children are colourblind. However, even proponents of racial colourblindness…

View original post 1,245 more words


No Apology

Mehreen Kasana

On my way to class, I take the Q train to Manhattan and sit down next to an old white man who recoils a noticeable bit. I assume it’s because I smell odd to him, which doesn’t make sense because I took a shower in the morning. Maybe I’m sitting too liberally the way men do on public transit with their legs a mile apart, I think to myself. That also doesn’t apply since I have my legs crossed. After a few seconds of inspecting any potential offence caused, I realize that it has nothing to do with an imaginary odor or physical space but with the keffiyeh around my neck that my friend gifted me (the Palestinian scarf – an apparently controversial piece of cloth). It is an increasingly cold October in NYC. Sam Harris may not have told you but we Muslims need our homeostasis at a healthy…

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