المقال بالعربية أسفله

Part 2: First Stop: Islamabad

We shuffle through customs and get our bags rather quickly (when does that ever happen?) and find ourselves in the outdoor area of Islamabad International Airport. The cool dawn breeze begins to overtake the sticky heat in the atmosphere. I take my coat off, it seems I won’t be needing it here.

In an unfamiliar land, my eyes begin to scour the crowd for two very familiar faces. A few months prior, Osmaan’s cousin, Sunila, and her husband, Adeel, stayed with us in Chicago as they visited the US for the first time. Amidst amounting stares (albeit the friendly, curious kind) ranging from random passersby to several rounds of “Taxi? Taxi? Taxi?”, my eyes finally meet Sunila’s, and I feel a sudden wave of both comfort and excitement.

It’s almost 5am now, and once we finally finish playing Tetris with our suitcases, we set off for the streets of Islamabad. All the while I’m reminded of the route from Mohammed V Airport to my parents’ home in Casablanca.

The trip to my Aunt Yasmin’s home in nearby Rawalpindi was supposed to be an hour, although we make it in nearly half the time. Each time we approach a red light, I notice Adeel doesn’t slow down. When he notes my nervousness, he twists his wrist upward in the typical desi fashion (if you know, you know), and explains with a grin on his face: “Driving in Pakistan is very different from driving in America.” We all laugh.

Khala Yasmin (Sunila’s mother; Osmaan’s maternal aunt) waits for us outside the entrance of her home with a big smile on her face, the kind that gives warmth to the soul. She takes me in her arms and I instantly feel as though she’s my own blood, as if I’ve known her my whole life.

Her house reminds me of the homes in Boujad, a city in Morocco where we used to spend all of our childhood summers. It’s the type of home where you’d meet with all your cousins, aunts and uncles, where you all sleep in a line on in any available room, some on the floor while others on the ‘sdari’ (wall-lined Moroccan sofa).

It’s almost 6am; after hours and hours of nonstop travel, we fall into a deep sleep and wake a few hours later to the pleasant smell of fresh paratha (flaky flat bread, not unlike Moroccan msemmen), anday (fried eggs), and chai (tea). Ah, the chai! Fragrant black tea infused with milk and cardamom, a necessary staple in Pakistan, precisely the way mint tea is for us. Pakistanis will take every chance they can to make it: in the morning, before eating, after eating, when a guest arrives, to set the mood for evening gupshup (i.e., ‘Samar’ or late night talks). I’m admittedly not much a of a tea or coffee drinker, but I could never once turn down an offer for chai.

Sunila arrives for breakfast, as do other relatives that know we’re now in town. These homes essentially have revolving doors for friends and family; if you’re hungry and in the area, just pop in and you’ll be taken care of. Sunila is ready to take us on our tour of Islamabad.

Let me tell you something about my dear cousin-in-law, Sunila. I found her to be the epitome of a young married Pakistani woman, caught between the weight of traditions that society puts upon her, and her strong personality and distinctive presence. She is fierce; she loves bold colors, as evidenced by her lipsticks and bags, and accessories that adorn her long brown hair with blonde streaks. She worked hard for her MBA years ago, but like most women in her family, didn’t end up pursuing a career due to the mainstream Pakistani opinion towards women with jobs. A working woman could potentially imply that man—and his family—aren’t able to adequately provide for her.

We drive through the crowded streets of Islamabad, through alleyways and sharp turns, Sunila clearly not giving a second thought to the number of upset glances she gets when other drivers react to another woman behind the wheel. “Let them honk all they want!” she says. We reach the city’s open markets that instantly remind me of the souks of Casablanca. The hungama (ruckus) and ronak (liveliness) are all very familiar; while the smells, languages, fashion and trinkets were all different. No visit to Islamabad is complete without stopping by the stunning Faisal Mosque, a gift from King Faisal of Saudi Arabia that stands in Himalayan foothills and resembles a bedouin tent with soaring minarets. I was surprised to learn that this mosque was the largest in the world from 1986 to 1993, the same year the King Hassan Mosque in Casablanca was built (many say this was the one that surpassed the Faisal Mosque in size).

I don’t feel tired until we return to Khala Yasmin’s after a full day of shopping and sightseeing. After day one, I feel as though I can begin to paint my own picture of Pakistan, one very different from what I’d always heard or read about.

Our time in Pakistan coincides with the shadi (wedding) of my cousin-in-law, Kinza. Tomorrow, we get to join in the ongoing celebrations as wedding preparations are in full swing. I rest my head on my pillow, eager for the next day’s festivities. Ah, the magic and splendor of a Pakistani wedding! Certainly deserving of a post of its own…