I had heard people talking about how they remembered exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard that President Kennedy had been shot. For people my age, around 8.45 am, September 11, 2001 was such a moment, one that will always remain etched in my memory.

I drove on to work where the television was on in the waiting room as always. We could all see the view from across the river with a plume of smoke rising from the towers. A short time later, the towers went down one by one. My first thoughts were for my younger brother, single and studying in San Francisco and my mother who had come to visit me in the US but had gone to Chicago for a few days to meet a friend. No one knew what was going on. News sites on the internet were jammed as everyone tried to find out what was happening.

Rumors started flying soon, though. Someone said there had been more attacks on oil refineries and nuclear installations. Someone else said gas was rising in price by the minute and would run out in hours. It was another two days before we got a hold of my brother and several more days after that my mother was able to get a flight home to me, shaken and tearful. My father asked me several years later what it was like. I told him it was the most horrific day of my life. Worst of all was the uncertainty, the not knowing what was going on and what was next. We were Americans, damn it, we were always in control. We knew how the world worked because we were the ones who made it work; On that day, for a while, we were not in control and it was a frightening feeling.

Soon after, the news came out that the attacks had been carried out by Muslim fundamentalists. American flags and wreaths made of stars and striped started appearing on doorways and in lawns. I resisted this for a while not because I agreed with the attacks or condoned them in any way but because I didn’t think that flag waving jingoism was the correct response. After a few days, though, when my house was the only one that did not have a wreath on the door or a flag in the yard, I felt uncomfortably isolated.

I had also been reading the reports of racist attacks on Arab/Muslim or even ‘Arab appearing’ men. One mob even killed a Sikh because they didn’t know any better. There were reports of arrests, detentions and interrogation. For the first, and last, time in my life, I felt afraid of being in America. I thought about my wife and infant son and what they would do if the FBI knocked on the door one night and took me away. One day, I decided I needed to take the bulls-eye off my front door and went to get a wreath.

I rationalized it to myself. I wasn’t agreeing with the bigots and racists attacking Muslims, Arabs and non-whites in big cities or supporting the war-mongers whipping up the nation into a frenzy of hostile patriotism. I was expressing my sorrow at the thousands of innocents who lost their lives on that Tuesday morning. I went to the local K-Mart expecting to walk in and pick up a wreath. No such luck, as every shelf was marked ‘sold out’. I made my way to the back and at the customer service center, someone agreed to make me one. As he worked, I could feel him eyeing me intently. Finally, he asked “Where are you from?” I stiffened perceptibly as I answered “Pakistan”. He smiled and told me his grandparents were from Lebanon. He then asked if my family was alright or if anyone had harassed us.

This scene was repeated numerous times in the subsequent weeks. Neither my wife nor I were ever subjected to any harassment yet were asked many times by American friends, co-workers and many times strangers in grocery stores, gas stations and book stores if we were OK. It was this feeling of being in a place which recognized us as different and respected us for it, where human rights were more than just platitudes mouthed by politicians that carried me through the ensuing months and years. The war in Afghanistan commenced soon after. “Guantanamo” became a house hold name along with “Patriot Act”, “Special Registration” and other choice procedures devised especially for us “aliens”. Being a rabid science-fiction fan, the irony was not lost on me.

My mother eventually went home to Pakistan swearing never to come back to America (although she eventually did). My brother went through an unpleasant episode where he was taken off a flight and questioned by the FBI because his name resembled someone they were looking for. He finished his education and also went home swearing never to return (and he hasn’t). I kept on taking my annual trips to Pakistan, patiently enduring the fingerprinting at airports, the picture taking, the questions, the trips to the local immigration office. To their credit, they were brusque but never rude.

Since that terrible September day, I have had passionate discussions about it, with friends and colleagues, family member and acquaintances, in person, in print and online. I have tried to walk the fine line between criticizing America for its ham-handed response to the specter of fundamentalism of any type and praising it for the healthy and open society that it still is.

At home, in Pakistan, where chauvinist nationalism, rabid anti-Semitism, anti-Americanism and fundamentalist Islam have melded together to create a particularly noxious stew, it is difficult to get people to engage in a constructive conversation about problems and solutions. In addition, by virtue of having lived in America for so long, I am now American, the term being used with humorous derision. My opinions are thus contaminated by my ‘American-ness”.

Here in the US, the news media have painted Pakistan and its surrounding areas as some sort of latter day Iwo Jima with people being killed on the street and bombs exploding all round. My trips to Pakistan usually elicit anxious queries from colleagues about whether I will be safe. While Pakistan has had its share of unrest, life goes on, people go to work, come home, visit their families and carry on with their lives.

It is actually much easier to criticize, analyze and discuss American policies here in the US than anywhere else. Abroad, the discussions quickly become tainted with laundry lists of America’s real or imagined crimes and misdemeanors.

My family, with my three American born children, is now inextricably linked to this great country, which welcomes outsiders, rewards hard work and encourages people to dream big dreams, this country where people may not understand your accent but will always respect your accomplishments, where they may not understand your religion but will defend your right to practice it as you see fit, this country that asks you to always have an opinion and to defend it without fear of reprisals or retribution.

Perhaps one day, my fellow citizens in Pakistan will be able to claim as much.

First published in the daily “Jonesboro Sun”, April 12,2008.

Of course, the obvious fallacy of this approach is never questioned. What most of us long to return to is not the land of our birth, per se. It is instead, that mystical, magical place where our memories were formed, that time when we were blissfully unaware of things like crime, politics, religious guilt, responsibilities, parenthood or jobs. Examining my own memories, I would place it around the ages of 7-11 or 12, before the turmoil of teenage darkened the horizon considerably. Having spent some time in Lahore recently, I can safely say that this desire to return to “never-never land” is as futile as it is  foolish. To state the obvious, our homeland is no longer the land of 25 years ago. From my own perspective, Lahore has undergone a major transformation, from a sleepy town to a bustling metropolis. The days when there were no gates in front of houses, just hedges, more for privacy than security are long gone as are the days when children could roam freely in the neighborhood to explore, play and hide from adult eyes. Today, high walls and barbed wire fences with armed guards are the norm. Even children from neighboring houses rarely visit, if at all. There is no question of letting children roam around outside, even if the traffic were better. The days when people would drop in unannounced and be welcomed are past. Nowadays, it is essential to call ahead and plan ahead. There are still neighborhood  games of cricket but now they are fierce, ultra-competitive affairs where a casual player like myself would not be welcome. There are people everywhere, lots of them, thousands of them, everywhere you go, testifying to Lahore’s status as one of the most rapidly growing cities in the world. Even in public parks, one has to avoid (literally) running into people and popular marketplaces like Liberty Market are impossible to navigate with a car. The issue of jobs is another problem. With the growth of the economy, there are more jobs for sure but inflation has also increased exponentially bringing everyone back to square one. Most people seem to be working two or three jobs to make ends meet and the days of sitting in the verandah drinking tea with friends or relatives are long gone, everyone is too busy.

Nevertheless, there are things to be found which would be hard to come by in the West. It’s easy to be religiously observant when there are calls to prayers several times a day and there is nothing to be had to eat publicly in Ramzan. I was happy to have my oldest some start learning the Quran for the time we were there and it was truly a blessing for both my children to see their grandparents every day. It’s easy enough for us to think we would be happy in Lahore if only we had enough of a nest egg to make work voluntary but I wonder! Once we all realized that we had not returned to our idealized past, would we still be happy? And even though we may not have to worry about paying the bills, how would we fill the days? Would we miss the feeling of being needed and valued (and yes, paid handsomely) for our services and talents?

Yaad-maazee azaab hai yaaRab
Cheen lay mujh say hafiza mera

 

Recently I posted some comments on a discussion board about my thoughts on moving back. The already controversial issue was made more controversial by the fact that one of my friends who manages another discussion board (consisting both of expatriates and nationals) put my comments there. Some took an affront to my candidness. As usual the topic ended up with some getting personal in their remarks (as is usually the wont in most Desi discussions). 

And this brings us to the issue of being candid on this issue. What keeps the immigrants in the West are not only the its attraction but also the dread of going back. Everybody knows this little secret but few ever acknowledge it. While most of the immigrants here that I have met treat the subject of settling back with a lukewarm response, others play this game to perfection. This is not only true with  the newer immigrants who have not gone through all the phases of emotional change but also with the older, well settled people. I see people who hate the moral depravity of the West; writers with a yearning for their homeland and culture; professionals disenchanted by the mechanical lifestyle of the West; and visionaries whose values are diametrically opposite to their adopted lands not only living here but in fact being quite happy. When you talk with these people you get a feeling that they have set up an institution, a business or an undertaking back home that is just about to take off; have packed their bags and are about to leave anytime now. However, I have never seen those plans come to fruition – ever. Life goes on with all its drudgery. However, in a world where appearance is as good as reality this approach works quite well. Most importantly, it brings one to nearly the same moral level as their compatriots’ back home.

But are emigrants really “morally disadvantaged”? Are they actually the turncoats and hedonists they are made out to be? Do they have to play games to placate people back home? It depends on who you ask. Most of the natives will answer in the affirmative while most of the emigrants would beg to differ. In times of heated discussions on this topic it seems sometimes as if there is no middle ground between the two parties. I like to think of this problem in terms of an analogy, which I call “the analogy of the cave”. Imagine a group of people trapped in a cave. Everybody wants to get out. But to be able to do that you have to climb a huge wall. Those who are able to do that become free while those who are not remain trapped inside. Is it wrong to try to get out of the cave? Once you are out what are you supposed to do? My answer to the first question is a resounding no. However, the million-dollar issue is what to do after you are out? – And that seems to be a bigger moral dilemma to most of us.

Most of us would simply answer: help your people and your homeland. The devil lies in the details however, as they say. Moreover, in a post 9/11 world this goal has become somewhat more elusive for some. For many that were already having a hard time juggling different cultural values, luck seems to have thrown religion and nationality into the mix as well. Also, consider this: many (mostly natives) claim that the only way to serve one’s people is to eventually come back and face the music. I have seen a few trying out this approach. Needless to say that the failure rate of this venture is quite high – in fact close to a hundred percent in my experience.

Finally, there is the question of how to serve your people. On a collective level it can (and should) be done on a cultural level (like the Hispanics), with political activism (like the blacks), through lobbying efforts (like the Jews) and most importantly on an economic level to have any sort of viable community. The emigrants as a whole are doing a decent job on the economic front in the US. However, we lag far behind in politics and cultural activism. But one thing is for sure, in the present world representation in the West through our citizens is vital even if it is weak. It will be sometime before we can expect to see the activism and community development along the lines of other more developed minorities in the US. On an individual level it requires an honest review of one’s priorities. One’s lifestyle could be a good measure of that. However, in the end like most of the things in life, every man has to find his own answers.

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This article was also published at Chowk. You can access the article here.

Soach Staff