Morals to Explore
At the age of 14, I was to travel to
a whole different world. I was visiting Pakistan, a country which I knew little
about. Although, my father would mention, the humid and dry climate in his
hometown compared to back here in the states. Memories and snippets of my
father’s late night storytelling to me and my siblings would come to mind.
“Dad can you tell me a story?” I would plead.
“What kind of story?” he asked.
I sighed “About when you were
younger.”
He replied, “Aamir life back home in
Pakistan was very tough for me and my family. He continued “Me and my brothers barely had
any food whenever we come back home from school.
We would come back starving and be disappointed. When we
were really young, sometimes we cry because of the pain. We would cry too,
whenever we get fevers or malaria as proper medication was not available. It is
still like that today in some places. If I did not come here who would support
my family?” he remarked.
I could sense the firmness in his
speech as he would mention the correlation of hard work and impact. I always
admired my parents’ hard work; yet felt there was still something missing. I never
had seen Pakistan myself.
It was not till the day I left my
home in Horsham, did I begin to feel the pressure of traveling alone. Needless
to say I was a bundle of nerves. Thoughts about departure only made me
acknowledge my sweaty palms, as I remember taking a quick glance at my house. I
remember watching my father and Uncle Khalid load the rental van with suitcases.
Some were mine, my cousins and my siblings’ Amraan, Sabrina and Sameena. I was now
waiting patiently as we made our way to the JFK airport.
Moments before boarding, I sat in the
departure lounge, silent among my other siblings and cousins. I remember having
my head down, staring at my shoes. Was my nervousness to enter the jet bridge
or was it to leave to the unknown? Despite my thoughts, the main reason to
leave was to attend a wedding this summer.
Upon my arrival to the Allama Iqbal
Airport in Lahore, Pakistan I wandered my way out the airline plug door. I was
now a tourist, clueless on where to go as I kept dragging my suitcase to follow
my other siblings and cousins. It was till I heard the shout of my name from
the “strangers” did I walk over to shake hands. They were my other uncles and
their children as well, I did not recognize.
Hospitality was synonymous for
greeting my relatives as I would travel and visit each of their homes. Some of
my cousins’ homes in the villages were equipped with little electrical power and
had about three to four rooms. One room was designated for eating, about two bedrooms
and another for a living room area. We would sit on rugs in the living room
area and have large gatherings and feasts of Biryani, roti and lettuce. I met
cousins of varied ages in which we discussed about the lifestyle in Pakistan.
Besides the harsh conditions of weather I learned some would kids would not
have the opportunity to receive proper education instead would do labor work. Power
shortages were also frequent as fans would stop working during the day. My
other uncles and aunts living in rural conditions in the district of Vassipura were
power shortages were also common.
The area of Vassipura reminded me of
what I know of Brazil poor rural areas to look like: dwellings built from
concrete sheet or wood. There would be various narrow alleys where I would see
kids playing cricket. Large crowds would often huddle, as communities lived
near each other. Fresh food always cooked and displayed as I remember the sight
and smell of chicken tikka lined up in metal skewers, the sizzling of fried
samosa be cooked as local customers would wait for their order. Shop fronts were also common as I would pass by milk
shops, barber shops and minor marketplaces selling many household items.
On my visit, I even got to do
something that I never thought I would do, ride in the backseat of a motorcycle
for the first time. This was the main way to travel, as there were many storefronts
and market places. One place in particular, we visited was Anarkali an enormous
shopping center. Shopping for garments was the main reason to visit, as I would
pass along dirt roads clustered by motorcycles rumbling in all directions to
reach their destination. Often we would pass by many folks doing their daily
activities to earn a living. Some would
be working outside within the scorching sun, stitching suits with an old
fashioned sewing machine. Farmers herded much livestock on the roads. Wagons were also gripped and pulled by middle
aged men.
I could feel the wet sensation of
sweat soak my shirt, as if I was sprayed with a water gun. Sweat dripped down
my forehead and reached my neck. Yet that was nothing compared to what I later
witnessed. Kids watching the hustling and bustling of vehicles among the
streets as smog dispersed in the air. Large amounts of workers would be riding
their motorcycles to work. Some kids’ hands were cupped together, begging as
they roamed the streets, while others pretended as if they were eating. Few
would even have the courage to speak up and ask.
Nevertheless, I was beginning to
feel grateful for what I have. It truly was a blessing that I had the food to
eat and a place to stay from my aunts and uncles. I was finally beginning to
understand the hardworking mentality of my father. The value of gratitude and
aspiration of hard work for higher pursuits is what I learned that the
necessity to improve one’s circumstance. My willingness to work hard comes from
my father’s belief and cultural values held in his home country. A question I
often ask myself is how could I make a difference? Not just
on a community level, but perhaps on a higher scale in order to support
countries facing similar issues. Perhaps the common associated factor with such
a societal issue around the world is morality. Morality of individuals can
determine whom or what is from whom or what is not.
