Accusations against Pakistani-ness

I was recently accused of being “confused” and “disturbed” about my “Pakistani identity.”

Quite a harsh accusation, I must say, and from virtually a complete stranger at that. It left me rather speechless, and I failed to think of a fitting comeback at the spur of the moment(other than an incredulous, yet ineffective, “What?!?”). And all as a result of an innocent conversation about what it was like to be a Pakistani living abroad.

Let me explain the situation. I was at one of those interminably boring, but socially obligatory, “functions” that make up Pakistani weddings. I was feeling rather out of place since I didn’t know anyone among the guests, apart from a friend of mine, who had disappeared off somewhere and left me to brave the smiling stares of unknown Aunties by myself.

Everyone seemed to know me, which is what happens when you’re the only person at the shadi who’s not a member of the huge, sprawling khandaan. You get pointed out in whispers as the “doolhan ki dost who’s come from American to attend the shadi” by every “fake-ly” smiling Auntie to her even more “fake-ly” smiling companion, as they both speculate whether or not you are still single, and if so, why, and would you would be a good match for So-and-So’s 28-year old, “America-returned” nephew.

I had been roaming about kind of aimlessly, having left the table where I was sitting to get something to drink and some momentary escape, hoping I’d run into someone to talk to. I spotted a potential rescuer in the form of Saima, a girl I had met a few days earlier at the mehndi.

“Hi! Kaisee ho?” She greeted me with such enthusiasm, that I suspected either she must be feeling as out of place as I was or she was sincerely really happy to see me.

“Teehk hoon Saima, how’re you doing?” I responded with equal enthusiasm. She was my only hope for getting through the rest of the evening.

“How’s your application coming?” I added, hoping it would win me an invitation to hang out with her. She had told me at the mehndi that she was finishing up the last of her college applications these days, and we had talked a little bit about college life in the States, which is where she wanted to go to study.

“It’s going alright,” Saima replied, pleased that I’d remembered. “Hey, where’re you sitting? Why don’t you come sit with us?” she invited me.

Thank God! I thought to myself. “Over there,” I pointed at a table in the corner. “I just got up to get something to drink. Where are you sitting?”

She pointed out a table where a girl and two guys, were talking and eating.

“Sounds good, let me get something, and I’ll join you, acha?”

“Acha, teehk hai,” Saima responded.

I duly got myself a bottle of Coke and made my way over to the table Sara had pointed out. She made the introductions. The girl, in a bright blue and gold embroidered shalwar kameez, was her sister, Nadia. The guy across from Nadia, wearing a formal dark gray suit with a deep maroon tie, was Zeeshan, their cousin. Next to Zeeshan was his friend, Adnan, also dressed in a suit, but a more casual brown one, with a black turtleneck instead of a shirt and tie. They all smiled and mumbled their hi’s, hello’s and ‘salamalaikum’s at me, as I sat down in the empty chair that Saima had pulled up next to her.

It turned out that Zeeshan had just returned from the U.S. a few months ago, after doing his undergrad from Boston University, and was currently working in his father’s textile business. So we talked a little bit about Boston, since I had lived there briefly after I graduated from college. Nadia and Saima added their comments and questions from time to time, as the discussion moved to other topics related to differences between living in America and the living in Pakistan.

Adnan didn’t say much, concentrating mostly on finishing his dinner, though he appeared to be listening to the conversation. For some reason, I got the impression he didn’t like me much, or maybe it was the subject I was talking about. In any case, I was definitely picking up some “negative vibes” from him. Being a polite guest, however, I thought it best to pretend I didn’t notice them and concentrated on talking with Saima, Nadia and Zeeshan, which I was having a wonderful time doing anyhow.

Now I must interrupt my narrative and make a brief confession here, which is that I am an incorrigible “researcher,” i.e. that I am endlessly asking questions and endlessly on a search for whatever answers I may or may not find to those questions. Call it an unfortunate consequence of being a “thinker,” but I simply cannot resist any opportunity to pose some of the questions that haunt my tortured mind, to others who appear to be “thinkers” as well. And when it is as intellectually abstract and variable a topic as “what does it mean “to be Pakistani” while living outside of Pakistan?” -- well then, that is simply asking for too much self-restraint on my part not to ask others their opinion on the matter. Hence the reason why I was enjoying a good discussion on the topic with my newfound friends that evening.

It was at this point, after the four of us had been talking for a considerable while, that Adnan decided to contribute to the conversation, and made the comment that I mentioned earlier, regarding my “confused” and “disturbed” state of “Pakistani-ness.”

Needless to say, it brought an abrupt and rather surprised halt to the conversation. Saima performed a swift and masterful cover-up, with an admonishing “Adnan! What are you saying?!”, a quick apologetic smile at me, a rebuking glance back at Adnan and then another look at her cousin Zeeshan, commanding him to make his friend behave in a more civil manner, after which she immediately changed the subject to the less volatile topic of the latest movies she had seen.

I suppose if I weren’t so well-ingrained with the notion that one must NOT “make a scene in public,” especially when one is a guest at a wedding where one barely knows anyone,(which is another way of saying I absolutely abhor public confrontations), I would have made a scathing remark to the inexplicably hostile Adnan, leaving him properly speechless, after which I blithely continued my conversation with Saima, Nadia and Zeeshan. Well, being the “well-ingrained” person that I am,(though some might call it cowardly), I let Sara change the topic and blithely continue a different, less controversial, conversation.

However, I’ve been thinking about this accusation for a while now (I did say I was a “thinker”) and a rebuttal I must make, even if it is considerably after the fact and one that I doubt Mr. Adnan will read. Nevertheless, here it is.

If “confused” and “disturbed” is what it means to think about and question one’s role and place in the world, well, then, by all means, I am rightly “confused” and “disturbed.” Though I would probably call it part and parcel of being a “thinker” and a “researcher.” I am no more and no less “confused” about what it means to “be Pakistani,” than I am about what it means “to be” anything else in my life.

I simply question. I think. I look for answers that satisfy me, my mind and the person that I am. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t. In any case, I refuse to accept concrete, black-and-white, pre-ordained answers that tell me who or what I “should” be.

I tend to favor the gray areas of thought and feeling that often define our “real” selves. The gray areas which, in my case, I push and probe, intellectually and emotionally, from time to time, and out of which I create my own experience as a human being, a friend, a woman, a teacher, a writer, a daughter, a student, and a Pakistani, among other sundry things.

However, since the accusation against me implies that I don’t know what my “Pakistani identity” is, I feel compelled to give Mr. Adnan at least some measure of the “solid” and “unconfused” nature of my “Pakistani-ness.” Technically speaking, I am Pakistani, by origin. However, I’ve lived my entire life in countries other than Pakistan, and continue to be an itinerant wanderer even today. So I am more “cosmopolitan” or “multinational” than anything else, I suppose, though I do still call myself “Pakistani”(since the accident of birth in a Pakistani family seems to have settled the matter for me, on one level at least.) At the very least, I fully and wholeheartedly embrace the “trappings” of “Pakistani-ness,” i.e. I speak Urdu, I wear shalwar kameez, I eat Pakistani food, I like to watch Pakistani TV drama serials, I listen to Pakistani music, and I enjoy Urdu shairi.

This is by no means a complete answer, and I doubt it will be a satisfactory response to Mr. Adnan. Nevertheless I stand by it, while pointing out that it is merely a framework within which the rest of what I call my "Pakistani self" lives and breathes, thinks and questions(and occasionally feels driven to write articles such as this).

What does it mean to live abroad as “a Pakistani”? What does it mean to “be Pakistani” at all, wherever one lives? I live my own answer, as I’m sure Mr. Adnan lives his. And I will leave it at that.

I may very well be “confused” and “disturbed,” according to the observations of my accuser. I plead guilty to the charge. But I am also a “thinker” and a “researcher.” And that is something I am certainly not “confused” or “disturbed” about.

(Note: The names of all individuals in this article have been changed in order to protect their privacy)