I’ve decided to start documenting my life here in America. I’m not sure if anyone is actually interested, but what the heck—I’m going to start writing down the things I remember before I can’t remember them anymore. Turning 45 made me realize just how fast life is passing. With my father passing away, I see my own time coming now too; maybe soon, maybe later, but it’s inevitable. I’m not sure if my kids are as interested in my story as I was in my father’s, but I’ll write it anyway. If they ever want to know who I was, it’ll be here.
Coming to America was a dream of mine. In a way, I think I pushed everyone toward it. I basically forced my parents to come, even though it meant leaving me and my brother behind for a while. How life has figured itself out since then is up for interpretation. We live with the decisions we make; our future is just the sum of those choices over time. I live a happy life, I guess. The kids are grown, I’m in school, and time keeps moving on. I’ve always wanted to write about my likes, my dislikes, my favorites, and my rants. Even if nobody cares to know, I’m going to pen it down.
The First Return: 2002
The first time I went back to Pakistan after moving to the U.S. in ’98 was around 2002. Islamabad hadn’t changed much back then. I flew Emirates, and I remember having to save up every penny—the ticket cost me about $1,400. I took two weeks off and stopped in Dubai for a bit.
A friend of my father’s picked me up in Dubai to show me around. At that time, they were building their first major mall. I was blown away by the scale of it. Now, huge malls are the norm, but back then it felt surreal to see that many shops in one place. I’d seen malls in America and I’d lived in Bahrain before, so seeing the Gulf moving that fast felt different.
When I finally arrived in Islamabad, my parents and sister picked me up. On the drive home from the old airport, I instinctively reached for my seatbelt, and my parents started laughing. It wasn’t the norm there yet, but the U.S. had already made it a hard habit for me. That night, I got home after midnight, but by early morning, I was already out with the car to see friends. Life felt normal. I still had deep roots there; I knew people. I can’t say that’s the case anymore. Twenty-seven years later, the friends are gone. It’s just me and the family.
The City That Moved On: 2015
I visited again in 2003—a trip worth its own story—but after that, I didn’t go back for twelve years. When I finally returned in 2015 with my wife and kids, the Islamabad I encountered was a different city entirely. It wasn’t something I felt connected to.
Yes, the roads were there. The places were familiar. But the city itself had moved on without me. Maybe I deserved it for leaving, but I never felt “at home” after that. The city had expanded, grown massive. The only anchor I had left was my parents, and I fear the day that anchor is gone completely. With my father gone, I don’t know how much time I have left with the city I loved.
We used to call Islamabad the “city that goes to sleep early.” People from Karachi and Lahore always complained we were boring, but we liked it that way. By 2015, it was a sprawling metropolis. It used to be that if you ended up in I-10, you felt like you were in a strange, far-off land. Going to Pindi was a pain, and passing through Faizabad was a chore. Now, it’s all streamlined with motorways and major roads, but the beauty feels limited now.
Fading Footsteps
I remember being able to walk right in front of the Parliament House. My father worked at a bank branch right across from the Secretariat, but you can’t go there anymore—containers are always blocking the space. My old university in the Blue Area is gone; they moved. I used to walk through the Blue Area during the March 23rd parade practices, watching the full dress rehearsals and the planes flying overhead.
That city is gone. It’s more “organized” now, or maybe just more controlled. Every time I land there now, I feel out of place. I still consider myself an *Islamabadi*, but that identity might end with me. My kids have no real connection there. I wish they did, but to them, Pakistan is just a place for good food and clothes. There’s no identity in it for them.
It’s depressing to see everyone just looking to make a quick buck. I miss the days when I could walk from high school all the way to F-10 in the heat of summer, hitching lifts from passing cars. That time and the city just aren’t there anymore.
