final draft paper

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.