The reluctant immigrant

I find tranquillity in knowing that every morsel of my children’s achievement will be accredited to their native land.

When it comes to matters of loyalty, immigrants are as highly favoured as that unwanted brownish layer stubbornly floating in a hot cup of tea. It seems as if patriots, all over the world, have established a “face-twitching association” just to combat the sinister claws of immigrants. Rest assured, no in-depth research has gone into this statement. I say this mostly out of a huge sense of self-imposed guilt.

Living in America for a couple of years in the 1990s was a magical time. Disneyland, Hollywood, The Rockies, ice-cream sandwiches and free breakfast at school was absolutely blissful for a 10-year-old. Yet, when I returned to my home country, I never thought of moving back. Many years down the lane, my university commenced. But then my stressful years arrived.

I had turned 24 and talks of marriage were haunting me like a sociopath hunting down his next kill. The ‘in’ thing these days was to marry an expatriate with a steady career, a good English accent and limited family members. Thankfully, my parents and I unanimously agreed that moving away from family was too morose a thought. Hence, the proposals tilted towards Pakistani-settled families and I was rescued.

All the while, Pakistan was in dire straits. For instance, whenever there was electricity, we would rejoice in a manner that would shame a baboon. On the other side, absence of it for long stretches led to an endless fit of cursing and cribbing. Numerous other reasons ransacked our minds.

Around this time, Pakistanis had mastered the art of migrating. Everyone was busy making plans to immigrate. With reasons plenty, their loyalty was as porous as cheese. I was the first to laugh it all off, but not long after, I too succumbed to the pressure. My immigration papers had been filed.

Three years since, I sit comfortably in my new home, penning down thoughts of Pakistan; with a beautiful accompaniment of heavenly weather, peaceful surroundings and intoxicating freedom.

I feel grateful to be here in Canada, when I see the endless stretch of opportunities awaiting us. Back home, I hear unrelenting news of political and economic decadence and I shamefully seek refuge in knowing that my family will be safe from these apparent hardships. Yet, in a deep corner of my heart, guilt for abandoning my country still vexes me, like chafing from an ill-shaped shoe. I find wavering solace in knowing that I have a colossal task ahead of me: moulding the crucial relationship between my children and Pakistan — a country they were never given the chance to grow up in. Presumably, all the precious memories their parents and grandparents hold on to firmly, will be as difficult for them to comprehend as, perhaps, rap music to a Mozart enthusiast.

I should not expect the impossible from my children, yet, my heart will be glad if they grow up to selflessly love their country; if their eyes swell up with tears every time they see their country folk in distress; if they cling on to determination like a worker bee set on a mission; then perhaps, this layer of shame will begin to wither away.

I find tranquillity in knowing that every morsel of my children’s achievements will be accredited to their native land. This will be my way of giving back to a country that has given me so much more than I can ever repay.

In the meantime, I childishly hope to return to my land when I am old, to a time of carefree abandon, to a place that will, once again, embrace me with open arms.

Published in The Express Tribune, June 12^th, 2013.                                                                                        

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