Going Back to My Past

Karachi, Pakistan can be summed up in two words: insufferable heat. The faint, bitter smell of sweat lingers in the atmosphere; the stifling heat is almost tangible. Clothes cling obstinately to bodies and the feeling of being perpetually filthy prevails, no matter the number of cold showers one takes.

Karachi is also extremely polluted. An “urban nightmare,” as it were. The palpable brown air is heavy with fumes of smoke and dust. Families, deprived of a decent garbage disposal system, resort to throwing trash over the walls — heaps of uncollected garbage lie rotting in street corners, attracting swarms of flies and mosquitoes. Fading paint and cracked plaster deface buildings that already look quite dilapitated; even the most prosperous of neighborhoods contain a devastating number of repugnant apartments and houses. Broken roads and pot-holes stunt traffic to a crawl; car honks and obscenities spewed from frustrated drivers resonate through the streets.

And everywhere, there is sense of despondency and decay.

That’s not what sticks out whenever Pakistan comes to mind, however. Regardless of however many times I visit Karachi, I doubt that I will ever grow accustomed to the desperate poor that plague the streets. The roads are swarmed with vagrant beggars, old and young, the disabled and impaired, imploring for assistance. They all have the same weathered, beaten expressions – even the younger ones, whose smiles do not reach their beseeching eyes. There are emaciated five year old orphans. With countable ribs and caved in, hollow, bellybuttons on display. I marvel at my relatives who can dismiss them so effortlessly with a wave of their hand, even snap at them, frustrated, if one happens to be persistent. “It is no use. This is how it has always been,” they say resignedly, “and so it will always be.” Laughing at my naïveté, the dejected expression on my face, “What? Haven’t you ever seen poor people before?”

Yet what fascinates me the most about my homeland – perhaps the only characteristic I find admirable – is the sense of humility and thankfulness that prevails somewhat in most Pakistani families. Living in such squalor and seeing such devastation and poverty all around, is what makes them so, I suppose. They truly know the value of food, for example; they know never to waste. It is not in their nature to squander money on meaningless things. (Perhaps this is what their thrifty nature can be attributed to?) They are also always patiently blissful despite whatever catastrophe befalls them.

It is a wonder that chronic depression is not as widespread there as it is in other, more prosperous countries. I suppose that is because for most Pakistanis, personal troubles are never big enough or nearly as important enough to really bear any weight in the grander scheme of things. For Pakistanis, individual melancholy seems to recede into the background because living in a country mired in poverty – where the government regards its people with an unflinching apathy; where justice is scarce and everyone feels slighted – one is confronted constantly with reasons to be thankful. . . despite everything.

And, like in the time of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him), during the nascent stages of Islam, it is the poorest communities of Pakistan who are, by far, the most spiritual. They live completely for the sake of the after life and it is they who truly understand the futility of placing great emphasis on material wealth.

Orange County, where I live now, is a place so disparate from what I have just described, that it seems to be situated in a wholly different world. It is one of the more affluent regions of California. Here, from cozy apartment complexes to sprawling mansions, there is always a sense of prosperity, of self-sufficiency. Shopping malls are elaborately constructed, air conditioned, glistening, marbled palaces. Supermarkets are a frenzy of production – so many things to choose from! There are twenty types of fruit, for example, ten brands of cake flour, thirty-five kinds of cereal, all priced with meticulous precision by employees who wish us a nice day as we approach the checkout counter. Shopping here is a pleasant change from stumbling and tripping over pot-holes and strewn scraps of garbage in the crowded, foul-smelling bazaars of Karachi. One runs into the occasional homeless person here, but these are not nearly as destitute. There are many social welfare programs and shelters to care for them as well as more well-meaning individuals who grow uncomfortable at the sight of them, unaccustomed as they are to beholding poverty.

It is difficult here to detach oneself from one’s own troubles and reflect upon the sufferings of others. It is almost impossible to imagine ourselves living in the same world as the people who live and toil everyday in the slums of Karachi.

However, in spite of the opulence that surrounds us — or perhaps because of it — I cannot say that American society as a whole is wholly content. It seems that there are always other, better things to yearn for, and since these things are seldom gained, happiness is elusive. Here, we lack perspective; we are almost never thankful for what we have already been granted. We always want more. In the land of the “free,” it seems, we’ve become slaves to our desires.

Chronic depression is prevalent in this country because people seem to put themselves way before others. Little, trivial things make them upset, turn them suicidal. They live in a bubble, a box which they can paint any color they like, and they are ignorant of matters, events, which do not concern them directly.

We are left grappling with this hopeless emptiness — a gaping, rapidly expanding, void in our souls. And though it is our material nature, our perpetual thirst for more, that created this inky black barrenness within ourselves in the first place, we seek to find contentment by engaging in an even greater frenzy of production. Our reasoning is such that we feel as if by acquiring more and more material wealth, we will somehow finally be satisfied. All of this is to no avail, however, and we find ourselves sinking deeper and deeper into a pervasive meaninglessness.

It seems to me that we have forgotten how it feels to truly be thankful – to be able to go through even the most trying of times with a resounding “Alhamdulilah!” constantly on our tongues. Instead of reminding ourselves of the things that Allah azzawajal has blessed us with, we are constantly begrudging the fact that we don’t have certain things we want but don’t really need.

The Prophet (PBUH) once famously said, “Contentment is a treasure never exhausted.” Equipped with this definition of wealth, I ask, who is truly richer? The children of the slums in Karachi, whom I’ve often seen running around in helpless, raucous childish glee, contented with the broken hand-me-down toys (if any) they have been given to play with? or the child in the industrialized First World, begging his exasperated parents for the newest version of the XBOX, an endless stream of crocodile tears coursing down his face?