Khuda hafiz Pakistan
Pakistan’s love is also charmingly abusive, it takes everything out of you and still makes you beg for more.
The writer is the recipient of the James A Wechsler Award for International Reporting and a graduate of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism
Pakistan is the lover that your friends warn you about. That’s because you can only fall in love with Pakistan. You can never really fall out of love with Pakistan. So strong is her hold over you that she can continue to pull the strings of your heart even after you’ve physically separated. No matter how punishing a physical relationship with Pakistan actually is, you can only remember her fondly for all the good memories she left you with. It’s not rational to feel this way about Pakistan but then again, little is rational about your love for this country.
It’s been 10 days since I left Pakistan to begin an international assignment that could last up to two years. I literally packed my life in two suitcases and moved half way around the world for a new start in life. Unfortunately, the baggage of my relationship with Pakistan couldn’t be packed as neatly into a suitcase or two. As I waited to catch my flight at Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport, I was overwhelmed by a dangerous cocktail of emotions that will have to be unpacked in the years to come. Pakistan is every Pakistani’s first love — but why is it that we choose to abandon our homeland in search of a better life — even if it’s just a temporary move?
At first, you feel ungrateful and hypocritical to even let yourself feel this way after trying so hard to take a break from your taxing physical relationship with Pakistan. “This is exactly what you need in life right now,” argues the mind. “But why do I feel so overwhelmed with emotions,” the heart teases. “Shouldn’t the right decision also ‘feel’ right in the heart?” Herein lies the crux of every Pakistani’s dilemma. If truth is the first casualty of war, then ‘logic’ is the first casualty of love. We know that physically clinging to Pakistan isn’t right for us all the time but we want to do it anyway, especially when we’re separating.
All rational analysis of Pakistan’s future is unanimous: there is no future to look forward to. You don’t have to be a PhD in political science to come to that conclusion. Daily life in Pakistan has become physically painful: from the constant fear of being held up at gunpoint to disruptive electricity shortages and the violent spread of extremism. These anecdotal examples are only physical manifestations of a much deeper rot; the writing on the wall is clear for anyone who actually wants to read it. Incidentally, my last column, published two days before my departure, was titled “Pakistan’s obituary” and I took that opportunity to pronounce the country dead. “Pakistan, the enigmatic, brash, much misunderstood country with a heart of gold, lost its protracted battle with the cancerous spread of a particularly crippling strain of extremism at the fateful age of 66 yesterday,” was the opening line of that article. On my flight out of Pakistan though, I wanted to disown the article already. It was a classic case of conflict between the heart and the mind, with the heart overpowering the mind momentarily.
Pakistan’s love is arresting; it leaves you vulnerable, exposed and confused. It makes you feel physically weak in the knees — because it forces you to pick a side in a battle between the heart and the mind. It’s like being forced to pick a side in an argument between your parents; all your life, they’ve helped you make decisions and you feel visibly hapless while choosing between them. And to top it all off, Pakistan’s love is also charmingly abusive, it takes everything out of you and still makes you beg for more. It never actually lets you pick sides between the heart and the mind; instead, it simply lets you waver in the golden middle.
This isn’t the first time I’ve left Pakistan temporarily and nor will it be the last time that I’ll leave the country for good reason. In the final analysis, the mind always makes better decisions than the heart. But the fact that there’s someone in your life who can rip through your defences and make you feel completely helpless when it comes to your emotions is a good feeling. It reminds you that your heart has a place it can call home. And for better or for worse, I wouldn’t exchange my love affair with Pakistan for any other country in the world.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 21st, 2013.
It’s been 10 days since I left Pakistan to begin an international assignment that could last up to two years. I literally packed my life in two suitcases and moved half way around the world for a new start in life. Unfortunately, the baggage of my relationship with Pakistan couldn’t be packed as neatly into a suitcase or two. As I waited to catch my flight at Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport, I was overwhelmed by a dangerous cocktail of emotions that will have to be unpacked in the years to come. Pakistan is every Pakistani’s first love — but why is it that we choose to abandon our homeland in search of a better life — even if it’s just a temporary move?
At first, you feel ungrateful and hypocritical to even let yourself feel this way after trying so hard to take a break from your taxing physical relationship with Pakistan. “This is exactly what you need in life right now,” argues the mind. “But why do I feel so overwhelmed with emotions,” the heart teases. “Shouldn’t the right decision also ‘feel’ right in the heart?” Herein lies the crux of every Pakistani’s dilemma. If truth is the first casualty of war, then ‘logic’ is the first casualty of love. We know that physically clinging to Pakistan isn’t right for us all the time but we want to do it anyway, especially when we’re separating.
All rational analysis of Pakistan’s future is unanimous: there is no future to look forward to. You don’t have to be a PhD in political science to come to that conclusion. Daily life in Pakistan has become physically painful: from the constant fear of being held up at gunpoint to disruptive electricity shortages and the violent spread of extremism. These anecdotal examples are only physical manifestations of a much deeper rot; the writing on the wall is clear for anyone who actually wants to read it. Incidentally, my last column, published two days before my departure, was titled “Pakistan’s obituary” and I took that opportunity to pronounce the country dead. “Pakistan, the enigmatic, brash, much misunderstood country with a heart of gold, lost its protracted battle with the cancerous spread of a particularly crippling strain of extremism at the fateful age of 66 yesterday,” was the opening line of that article. On my flight out of Pakistan though, I wanted to disown the article already. It was a classic case of conflict between the heart and the mind, with the heart overpowering the mind momentarily.
Pakistan’s love is arresting; it leaves you vulnerable, exposed and confused. It makes you feel physically weak in the knees — because it forces you to pick a side in a battle between the heart and the mind. It’s like being forced to pick a side in an argument between your parents; all your life, they’ve helped you make decisions and you feel visibly hapless while choosing between them. And to top it all off, Pakistan’s love is also charmingly abusive, it takes everything out of you and still makes you beg for more. It never actually lets you pick sides between the heart and the mind; instead, it simply lets you waver in the golden middle.
This isn’t the first time I’ve left Pakistan temporarily and nor will it be the last time that I’ll leave the country for good reason. In the final analysis, the mind always makes better decisions than the heart. But the fact that there’s someone in your life who can rip through your defences and make you feel completely helpless when it comes to your emotions is a good feeling. It reminds you that your heart has a place it can call home. And for better or for worse, I wouldn’t exchange my love affair with Pakistan for any other country in the world.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 21st, 2013.