Montreal

It was June 2012 when I bought a one way ticket for a flight from Montreal to Karachi. I was moving back to Pakistan after nearly thirty years in Canada. My friends doubted my sanity, and my wife was convinced that I would not be able to settle down in Pakistan.

Street performers in Montreal

There was no logical reason for me to return. I was a well respected professional and had a good job with a top engineering company in Canada. I lived in one of the nicest parts of Montreal and my office was a ten minute walk from home. Both my children were born and educated in Montreal and the city was home to them. We had a good social life. I and my family were fond of movies, theatre, concerts — both Western and Eastern. We loved to eat out in restaurants that served food from the four corners of the world. Montreal, a truly cosmopolitan city, was the ideal place to enjoy these varied interests. We never had any issues of the “immoral west” influencing our children. We did not face any overt racism at work or outside.

Yet, for me, something was missing. There was a vague sense of alienation from everything around me. Maybe I was tired of the long and severe winters. Sometimes the thought of being buried in a grave in a faraway land was not pleasant. At other times I had nightmares that one day I will get a call from Pakistan that my octogenarian mother was critically ill or had passed away. It was actually in this context that I encountered a situation that became a factor in my decision to return: my mother who wanted to visit me was denied a visit visa twice. This clear discrimination because of my country of origin made me feel that I was a second class citizen and that made me both sad and angry.

My past attempts at returning to Pakistan had not worked out. Twice, I had packed up from Canada and moved back to Pakistan, only to return to my adopted country within two years. These moves had been disruptive and expensive. Given this history, my wife was justified in doubting my ability to stay in Pakistan permanently.

Our friends were reluctant to host farewell parties for us as since we had twice said our goodbyes only to return to say hello again. For them, Pakistan was a place that people left, and not a place people went to. Almost everyone we knew went to Pakistan for visits only: for them, from a home country, Pakistan had become a country home.

The most difficult aspect of living in Pakistan has been the work environment. I had (completely unrealistically) hoped that I would be able to live off my savings and would not need to work. With two children still at university abroad, I soon realized that I was not destined to live the life of the idle rich.

Idle poor better described my life style. Once again, I had to drag myself out of my cozy bed in the morning and join the ranks of the working class — albeit the white collar variety. I was quickly able to find a well paying job to manage a large project. I was full of enthusiasm and motivation, confident that  with the skills I had acquired in successful projects around the world, I could manage a project  in Pakistan within budget and on schedule. I carried on for one year, through dogged persistence and a near missionary zeal. During this time I had to be both manager and the mentor. In one year the project design was completed on the exact schedule.

The time came when large value construction contracts were to be let out as part of the project. The whole project team did a thorough job of evaluating the potential contractors and recommended a short list to the client. Imagine my surprise when the contract was awarded to a company that the team had disqualified! I could not hide my displeasure at this since it would have been a dis-service to the project to hire the wrong contractor. I do not know for sure why such a bad decision was taken by the client. My attitude did not go down well with my employer who terminated my services.

For the first time in a thirty-five year long career, in which I had successfully managed very large projects around the globe, I had been fired and that too in my own country. I felt very bitter and it took some time to reconcile to this.

I decided not to work for the profit sector and restrict myself to non-profit work even if it meant taking a large salary cut. It was a good decision and now I am happy with the work I do.

Apart from work it has not been bad. I have finally found time — thanks to our maid and driver — to do things that I had always wanted to do but never found the time for when I was living in Canada. I am finally writing regularly for a number of publications on issues that matter to me. My passion for photography is yielding good results and I hope to do a book on a beautiful but environmentally challenged part of Pakistan. I attend  classical music concerts and plays. I am working on a novel.

I have even found time to teach underprivileged children. I can say in all sincerity that my most rewarding moment in the past many years was when the four boys I had taught mathematics (a subject in which they were the weakest) at a free school, passed their matriculation examination with decent marks.

On a more personal level, it is wonderful to be among the family I left behind thirty years ago. I have been at my mother’s side through her sickness and good health. My children visit and enjoy being in their parent’s home in Pakistan and spending time with their grandmother.

Some of my best moments are when I go to different parts of the city, taking photographs and chatting with people. I can now count many shopkeepers, tea-sellers, beggars, addicts (some sane, some not so sane) among my friends. Almost everyone I have interacted with is friendly, kind and generous. Even the poorest offer me tea. I think this sense of familiarity and belonging is what I missed most when living abroad.

I have no illusions that I am living in a great country. Watching five minutes of news is enough to tell me that this killing field is very far from the place where I spent a happy childhood and a turbulent but secure youth. Yet, I think I am a happier person here than I was in Canada.

There are so many little things that bother me but I try to take them in stride. I have suffered from an extended bout of insomnia; my health has suffered due to stress and lack of opportunities for sports, I have been abused and almost beaten up for berating the driver of a car driving on the wrong side of the road in flagrant violation of the law. The persistent leak from the upper floor apartment has no solution as those who live upstairs are not willing to accept the disruption in their lives that repairing the plumbing in their apartment would cause – no matter that I am willing to pay for the repairs.

Then there is the blatant disregard for nature. Old trees along the apartment compound wall were chopped down because “the bird droppings caused the break of “wozoo” (ablution) of the “namazis” (the prayer goers) frequenting the nearby mosque. I get upset when I have to argue that it is pointless to install large ugly barriers on the entrance to protect the apartment dwellers from terrorists. Whenever I protest to the apartment management committee, I am met with a stony gaze and the statement, “This is Pakistan. You come from Canada. You don’t know what you are talking about!” So far, I have lost every single argument!

A good friend recently said to me, “I simply don’t understand why you came back. You are like a rat trying to climb back into a sinking ship!” I think he is right. But then, this country is the only ship I know.

Photos by the author