Coming to the United States for studies had a certain charm for me, as it does for many others from my part of the world.
There’s a strong love-hate relationship. There’s admiration, yet there’s fear. There’s patriotism, yet there’s rebellion.
After making two Pakistani acquaintances, I now find myself in varied circles of American friends. The euphoric realization this has brought me to is that I am not inhibited by my identity as I once felt I was. My identity as a Pakistani is loud when I speak of my country. My identity as a Muslim is quiet when I say my prayers, as worship should be, I feel.
Despite my feel-good attitude about what I’m learning about myself and other people, I have seen the darker side of it. Probably not as severely as many others have because my skin is not as dark as it could be and I don’t speak with too much of an accent.
Three years ago, I arrived on campus a day before my suitcase was to arrive. When it was dropped off in the front lobby of my residence hall, it had my full name and my home address written on it. I was later told by people who were there that a guy read my last name and exclaimed that, because it was from Pakistan, it had to be a terrorist’s suitcase. He then tried prying open my suitcase. I was later called down to collect it, unaware of the former activities.
A year ago, my American boyfriend and I went to a birthday party at a bar, and I decided to show a lot of flesh that night. When I made friends with a girl at the bar and she found out I was Pakistani, she started gushing to her friends, saying “Can you believe she’s Pakistani? Would you ever imagine a Pakistani to be so beautiful?!” It took a lot of effort to not spit out my drink.
This year at the World Festival 2008 held at Hayden Lawn, I was passing out flyers on Pakistan and greeting everyone with a “Welcome to Pakistan!” A boy passing by who grabbed the flyer asked, “What’s this?” And a group of boys walking by behind him shouted, “A bomb!” and roared away with laughter. I should’ve acted mature, but I shouted back at them, calling them losers. Of course, they got a bigger laugh out of that.
And alas, my boyfriend’s mom fiercely believes I’m seducing him to get a green card because I’m from a third-world country.
What this draws my attention to is the way women in my society are perceived here: suppressed and living in a sexist society. Do I believe women in my country are oppressed and the power lies with the men? Yes, to a large extent. But, I say, countries and cultures should be respected. I believe that every culture evolves and changes at its own time, but a culture’s own people should bring the change.
The people I have chosen to surround myself with here are more understanding, though. For some, it’s very fascinating that I’m a Pakistani Muslim. For others, it doesn’t even matter. I’m just Sidra.
I feel I’m growing as a person. I’m witnessing first hand discrimination, the sentiments of which I could never have come to understand otherwise. It’s a beautiful experience.
