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.

I arrived at Washington Dulles International Airport ready to start a new life, stepping off the plane in my Caterpillar boots and a leather jacket. I landed in America with a heart full of hope, wishing for something better, even if I wasn’t entirely sure what that future actually looked like. All I knew for certain, deep in the back of my mind, was that I had left Pakistan behind for good.

Looking back now, 27 years later, I sometimes wonder what it was all about. The “net result” of moving here has been a mix of good and bad. Naturally, I try to concentrate on the good, but the difficult parts I didn’t see coming have left their mark too.

I still remember that morning vividly. After clearing immigration and getting the Green Card papers sorted, I walked out into an empty airport. I had flown in on Saudi Arabian Airlines; we had stopped in New York for a bit before the final leg to D.C.

Walking through the parking lot, everything caught my eye. I remember seeing a Mitsubishi Eclipse and thinking, *“Wow, what a car.”* A friend of my father’s picked us up and took us to Bladensburg. I didn’t waste any time. Just two days later, I found a job in Washington D.C. working at a Subway sandwich shop on Benning Road. It didn’t take long to realize that Benning Road was notorious—a rough area that taught me some hard lessons quickly.

That was my “Welcome to America.”

22 years later since I moved to America as 19 years old, I look back and think what happened, did I miss the opportunities.

Not Sure, maybe I will never know.

remembering a lot of people today. a lot of places also. missing Islamabad also today. the Islamabad from the 90s. the time period is beyond me but it is hard to let go. maybe it is hard to let go of anything that was good.

Am I the only one who is stuck in this time loop in my head. I am not able to get out or leave it and move forward. it is anchoring me and stopping me from moving forward.

I miss the Jinnah Super of 90s, the hot spot, IMCB F-7/3, NCC and taking Van 120 to F-10. Walking sometimes from F-7/3 to F-10, I would pass by the Froebels school, Rana market, Fatima Jinnah Park, many times I covered this distance on foot. time didn’t matter, there was a whole life in front of me.

Now that is 20 years behind me and not much life in front of me. I had my chance, did I make a difference or just let life go. Maybe time will tell. those missed relations, those missed opportunities, those missed laughs, and friendships.

All have passed me. Maybe i passed myself through this time.

Decisions is what makes a Person, gives them a future full of hope or despair. I have for a long time avoided decisions on certain matters but it is soon going to be a time when I will have to decide and move on.

I hope I do take the right decisions and get better at it, I just Hope ……   

حسبي اللہ ونعم الوکيل

On an another note lets make the amish trim their beards, it makes them look like muslim terrorists and is hard to make a conversation with them.

These 2 articles provide the two sides.

In Defense of Veil

Anti Veil