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.