The Road to Paradise

Leaving behind my third world problems has been mildly challenging. In a country where there are no power failures, availability of safe public transport and where life is not threatened on regular intervals, you begin to lose the sense of familiar meaning in your every day existence. As my daily struggles of being a Pakistani woman have been replaced by the trials of being a new immigrant, I am having to step out of my comfort zone of strife, which can be a little disorienting at times.

In such a state of disarray, when I found out about a play in Toronto, the description of which began with the words 'A child suicide bomber in Pakistan...', I got intrigued; almost tempted to go back into my comfort zone where I dismayingly but avidly used to discuss bomb threats and daily deaths. And so, I willingly parted with $20 [or so] and my unemployment self-pity to watch 'The Road to Paradise'.

Reality is always more complex with many layers unseen and unheeded. Often that reality has to be simplified as fiction for the comprehension of the human kind who has the tendency to be one dimensional in processing feelings, especially when it comes to war and devastation. And so, this play endeavours to present a very complex reality into a simplified 2-hour performance with limited cast and crew. A child suicide bomber in Pakistan; a Canadian soldier in Kandahar; and an Afghan refugee in Toronto represent the three intertwined worlds depicted in this emotional saga. Three parallel worlds, fighting and suffering from one meaningless war.

The play kept me engaged for all of the two hours even if the storyline was not a revelation for me as a Pakistani. You see, there was a time when I would only read about terrorism acts and lament about the deaths of those unknown. I would sit amongst friends and the faraway war would feed our intellectual discussions on religion and politics. And then came a time when I narrowly escaped a bomb blast in Lahore. There came a time, when I received anonymous threats for my anti-religion blog. There came a time when my good friend's parents were brutally murdered because of their faith. There came a time when I almost lost my daughter because I was a woman not scrupulous enough for my religion. There came a time when the war became close and real. I have stood on the spot in Swat where the Taliban would hang or behead liberals for everyone to witness and have heard stories from the survivors. I have mourned the death of an amazing female activist who was senselessly murdered for being a forward thinker. I have feared sending my child to school in the aftermath of the Peshawar carnage.

So the war and its interconnected devastation depicted in this play was not a revelation for me. But it still made me cringe. It still made me weep. And it made me nostalgic of the tragedies that I have left behind, but my family and friends are still living.

With the narrative on refugees and war-on-terror  drastically altering in the wake of the tragedy in Paris, this play is a good reminder to the Western audience of the true cost of humanity on ALL sides of the war. It is an attempt to prevent the narrative from reverting to its one-dimensionality.

Christopher Morris and his team need to be commended for bringing together actors from Pakistan, Afghanistan and Canada to depict stories that are not only true but also well-researched. Years have been spent to explore those stories and bring the real characters on stage. The emotional investment of the team was evident. Art is a painful process; it takes so much from the artist, and the returns are rarely lucrative. And yet for the storyteller, all that matters is that the story is told and heard.

A Human Cargo Production, The Road to Paradise will be on stage at Buddies in Bad times theatre until November 28th, 2015. It should be a consideration for those whose minds are confined to and fed by traditional media. It is also for those who think Pakistan is in the middle east.

The Poppies We Breed

I was seeing red everywhere. Those lovely little red flowers being flaunted on so many lapels. And my ignorance led me to believe that it may be an innocent donation drive that has gained popularity. The Marketer in me thought, how clever is the charity that is giving people an opportunity to feel part of a larger movement by giving out these flowers. In the past couple of months, my rigorous (and desperate) job hunt in the not-for-profit sector has made me realise how many 3rd world causes Canada is trying to champion. The poppies, in my assumption, were probably a representation of another such cause emanating from a poor country like mine. I was inclined to donate and earn my red poppy in an attempt to feel more Canadian. But before committing, I needed to research the cause. That is when I discovered that the red poppy was a symbol for Remembrance Day, when the 'Common Wealth' commemorates the lives lost in wars of the worlds (a.k.a. World Wars). The donations collected against the poppies are in support of current and former military personnel. Lest we forget is the beautiful phrase of the campaign.

This new knowledge allayed my curiosity but it did nothing to make me less ignorant. Back home we celebrated some wars we thought we had won. We sang songs and held military parades. And then there is the war we were living; the war against and with terrorism. This war does not need to be comemorated as it is ever so much alive and an every day part of lives. This is the war that says to us 'lest you forget' with every new terrorist attack or military operation. The sides are blurred and the relentless damage is making dead soldiers out of innocent children. Fearful when alive, revered and glorified when dead. 

As I ramble about the two perspectives on war that I have encountered, I realise that there are at least 10 wars going on in the world today with more than 1000 battle related deaths in a year per war. If you account for the non-battle deaths, civilian attacks and other armed conflicts, the number goes significantly higher. According to a study (2014), out of the 162 countries of the world, only 11 are not involved, directly or indirectly, in an armed conflict.

The developed world comemorates a bygone war and continues to fund the current out-of-sight ones; the developing world is almost anesthetised with the ongoing wars; the under developed world is unaware of any state of being that is not war; and the recently shattered world is desperately trying to escape from the inexplicable war and drowning in the process. So many worlds, so many wars, so many perspectives. Red poppies or white or none, I remain confused. I remain ignorant.

In all this confusion, the fact remains that soldiers and civilians are still dying every day in real or converted battlefields, for causes unknown, contexts unsure. Lest we forget. 

Akimbo in Limbo : 2 months after immigration

The One-month milestone is bearable; almost gratifying. It reflects how much you have achieved within 30 days of landing in a foreign country with nothing but the clothes on your back and (and backpacks). You have an apartment on rent, you have learnt how to use the transport system in Toronto, can even decipher the cryptic transfer system, and have almost figured out East from West. Your child is going to school and you have almost all the documentation in place. You now own a dustbin and a mop, and other minor household items you used to take for granted before you left everything and switched countries. What makes these baby achievements a huge source of pride is that you still have some money left in the bank - the money that you brought with yourself after liquidating every small and large asset that you had. The one-month milestone is also the perfect excuse to justify your unemployment. 'It has only been a month since I've come here' is the thought that lets you sleep at night.

But beware, the 2-month landmark is not far away. It creeps in on you before you have had time to blink. Once 2 months have passed, you still have that apartment and you still have the superpower to commute. But you are also 'still' gloriously unemployed and your bank account has fast depleted. There is nothing to guard you from the friendly Canadians who find pleasure in instilling the fear of the impending winters. This is the period of misery before the misery; the storm before the real storm. The fear of losing everything and having nothing. 

Why are employers not lined up to welcome someone as smart as me? Where did all the money go when I have only bought the bare necessities [a turntable is an absolute necessity]? How will I survive far beneath sub zero temperatures without a $800 down parka and a heated car? Where do I go from here? These are just some random questions that start living in your exhausted mind almost permanently. 

I came here for a better life. I came here so that no-one would stare at my boobs if I walked down the street without a dupatta. I came here to be safe from terrorists. Now if I have to stay here and survive, I need to keep myself safe from myself. Hopelessness comes and goes, as does hope. And then I tell myself, it's only been two months. It's only been two months. It's only been two months. 

Reality Cheques

Imagine starting a new life after 36 years of being alive with nothing but your insufficient clothes.

I romanticised about it many times over the years. Whenever things got rough, my happy place was to visualise myself in a new country, with a new identity. I would always be by myself in those fantasies- no responsibilities, no expectations. It was always sunny. I was always happy and beautiful.

I partially achieved that dream by immigrating to Canada. A new place where no one knew me and I didn't know anyone. The only difference was, this was reality. I came here with all my responsibilities, lot of baggage (emotional) and twisted associations with stereotypes of success. In my dream, I never imagined that I would freak out that one slice of bad quality cheap pizza would cost me as much as a wholesome meal at a decent restaurant in Pakistan. My fantasy was never polluted by the thought of money or the lack of it. A newspaper says Toronto is one of the most expensive cities in the world. Why expenses never feature in dreams and always show up in the nightmares of reality is something that I could never fathom. So yes, in short I got a reality check.

One month rent of a tiny studio apartment is 3 times the rent of my luxurious 3 bedroom house in Islamabad. Reality.

It does not matter that you were a 'successful' professional in Pakistan just 2 months ago. It does not matter that you applied as a skilled person and got permission to immigrate on the basis of your profession. Once you arrive, you have lost your right to privilege. No one knows about the best university you attended, no one cares about your shining career. No one considers that you are older, wiser with years of experience. You just don't have the privilege of being somebody anymore, not until you earn it all over again. Reality.

The freedom that you had dreamed about when immigrating starts to lose its lustre when you don't have the money to pay for it. Reality.

The friends that were your family write to you when you are asleep and you respond to them as they snooze. The literal time difference of a few hours doubles into an eternity of delayed communication until they give up and move on or you do. Reality.

You start discovering new bad things about your partner. Is it because you are spending more time with each other being unemployed? It is unfortunate to think that you loved that person only because you were away from him/her for 8 hours everyday and now the sheer proximity and its extent is making you hate them. Reality.

You realise that your perception and projection of what you were was so much linked to what you did. What you gained was linked to what you owned. In this distorted realisation, you sometimes have this very short moment of clarity in which you feel utter freedom. Immigration gives you an opportunity to break away from all those associations and stereotypes. You are nobody and that's ok. No one will judge you because no one knows you. The only judgement you need to overcome is yours. 

As I sit here in my studio apartment's balcony writing this post, I can see a girl from her window constantly checking herself in the mirror, from every possible angle, butt naked. I see a young man fixing his hair every few minutes in another apartment. I have the view of a gym where people are working out with their eyes glued to the wall sized mirrors. Later I would go back in and see myself in my tiny bathroom mirror. I would notice the grey hair, the drooping skin, the lines around my eyes and my unfit waistline. In Pakistan, I worried about safety and abuse. Here I worry about money and my dying looks. That so far has been the gist of my leap from a third world country to a first one. Reality.

Time to snap out of this post partum depression. Tomorrow.

People

The first few weeks have been a blur; a state of disorientation where you stand somewhere between the real and surreal. The days seem to whizz right past you, but not through you. The long and lean legs of the runners, the beautifully tattooed arms, the couples kissing on the roadside-it all seems like you are in a Western film and are merely an 'extra' in this grand production. Sure I have seen all this and more when I travelled outside of Pakistan. It is not the novelty that shocks me. It is the conflict of the realisation that this is home. The feeling is not of awe but of discomfort. It is ironic because my biggest issue in Pakistan was that I was different and not accepted by family and sundry. And here I stand on a busy walkway surrounded by strangers, yet again feeling out of place. Human mind is a mystery, at least my own is.

I still have to remind myself that the people here are just that; people. There would be good ones and great ones; bad ones and horrible ones. There would be compassionate people and bigots who stereotype and reject. Their skin or hair color, or any other peculiarity does not make them any more of a human than I am. This thought makes me feel like myself again and helps me foresee that I too can belong here. 

I have seen a teller at a large store make fun of a woman who couldn't figure out how to work the automatic door. But I have also seen streetcar drivers making the effort to explain the whole transport system to a visibly new immigrant. I have experienced other moms in school trying to avoid a conversation with me, but I have also met mothers who wish to invite us over and help us make new friends. 

Eastern or Western; brown, yellow or white; at the beginning and end of it all, we are all human beings with different life experiences. With this thought, I hope it will begin to feel like home soon. 

The Days of Disorientation

Deciding to leave your country, your home and your people is a leap of faith. It is an act, the outcome of which cannot be proved ahead of time. No matter what you tell others or yourself, you do not decide to leave for a more prosperous life, but you choose to depart from the undesired and undesirable circumstances. It is an escape, not a vacation. And in most cases, it is a choice you make.

As with most choices, you may encounter doubts about your decision to migrate. There are stories of people barely surviving, there are anecdotes about families returning after having failed and then there is information about those who have done well and are thriving. The grass does not really seem greener on the other side; it practically looks psychedelic with all the colors, even the ones you deplore.

Remember when you had read and re-read 'What to Expect when you are Expecting' and had listened to all the free advice from mothers and others? Remember how all that did nothing to prepare you for the baby that you brought home for the first time? Pregnancy, labour and giving birth is the perfect allegory for immigration to another country. In such confusing times, the only favour you can do to yourself is trust your instincts, have faith and relinquish the contagious paranoia.

The free advice and ample fears being excreted by people in your immediate surroundings should be be ignored in entirety. Those people have never migrated, so they cannot know, says simple logic. The others who are happy for you and keep promising you that it's going to be ok also don't really know, but they love you and wish well for you. It is good to believe in them but with the prologue that you will have to work very hard for it to be all right. Those who returned to their nests, abandoning the change, are the ones who were not armoured for rough times that always precede smooth sailing. As for those who have done too well too quickly, facebook can be deceiving and may offer a myopic view of the coveted prosperity.

Coming from someone who has migrated two weeks before, I wish to enumerate a few salient points:

• Take a direct flight and go for the cheaper option. A non-functional entertainment system and some stale food won't kill you. Be thankful that you are an immigrant flying respectably and not a refugee in a dingy dinghy. It is only 14 hours of your life that you can sleep through instead of running around transit points. It is not worth it, even for the 'paid for' airport hotel in Dubai. 
• The first couple of weeks are difficult, like extended pre/post menstrual syndrome. You are homeless, scared and confused. Even though you had researched for months on the Internet, the new unfamiliar environment makes you disoriented [trust me, it does]. The experienced immigrants (if you know any) trying to help you out are sincere but not always accurate. On the other hand, the literature authorities provide you at the airport upon arrival as they welcome you to Canada is NOT trash. It is comprehensive and offers step by step guidance to all the items on your to-do, should-do, and do-I-have-to-do lists. Read the literature and start making informed decisions. I have lost 2 weeks in my disorientation. Trust me.
• Do not look for apartments on craigslist. Just because you are not in Pakistan anymore doesn't mean you will not be scammed. In two weeks, we have experienced two failed deception attempts. Failed, because I have grown up in a rough neighbourhood in Karachi. I have been mugged at gunpoint, groped on buses and have witnessed some really twisted happenings around me. A yuppy con artist trying to take my money for stock images of beautiful apartments falls short of my crisis threshold. Just remember, Canadians are lovely people, but no country is perfect. Don't let down all your guards. Kijiji and padmapper are better sources of leads on house-hunting than craigslist.
• Finding a job is not a piece of cake, no matter how brilliant you are or how amazing your Resume' is. Don't lose hope and be motivated to shut the phone on every single person [family or friend] who starts enquiring about your job hunt and laments about your unemployment from the second you land here. It takes time and major adjustments of self-image. Once I figure it all out and find decent (or indecent) employment, I will be in a position to elaborate more aptly. 
• Stop converting the price of everything from Dollars to Rupees. If you don't, you will become suicidal very quickly. 

My dears, be prepared to change those poopy diapers, because it [immigration and/or motherhood] is everything but easy. More later.

The Orgasm of Departure

Open that door and look back for just a second. You can see the sounds, hear the sights, touch the fond memories and embrace the sour ones. For it is time to leave and leave behind.

It was the ominous and overbearing presence of religion as an entity, frequent terrorist attacks, intolerance bursting at the seams, incessant power cuts, and daily dose of harassment on the streets that motivated me to look for greener pastures. Such was the motivation that I was willing to end my recovering career, sell all that belonged, say goodbye to those I loved and fill forms in numbers that seemed unlimited.

Each day closer to my departure was building up my excitement. A new world awaited...where buying a beer off the shelf and wearing shorts on scorching days would not be something out of bounds. Where being a woman would not be my biggest disadvantage.

With no regrets on my decision, there was one moment...just that one moment in which I felt immense fear mixed with intense excitement that permeated every pore in my body. It was the moment when I closed the door to my home for the last time.

It was the fear of the unknown and the excitement of the same.

Here goes in that unknown, for better or for worse.