Mother Tongue

I have this immense physical reaction when it comes to speaking Urdu. I feel myself tripping over words before I even let a single one slip out. Language is an instrument of culture and I always felt I lacked it and thus, never felt Pakistani enough.

I am certain I did not always have this colossal anxiety when it came to speaking my first language. When I was younger, my Pakistani immigrant parents had a stronger grasp of Urdu and Punjabi than English, so much so that I was placed in the ESL program in kindergarten.  I was not there for very long, as my parents had a fair knowledge of the national tongue. Pakistan is the third largest English-speaking population in the world and besides, I had plenty of other family members who went to school in the US and I had grown up watching American television. When I was little, my parents would demand “ghar mein Urdu bolo” (speak Urdu at home), but spending most of my day in a US classroom and having two sisters to chatter with in English, made their demands futile. My parents did not want their kids to lose where they came from, even though all of them were born in the US. Nevertheless, my parents slowly bent their desires to our preference and began to talk to my brother and sisters in English.

The summer after third grade, my older sister and I spent our three summer months in Pakistan learning to read the Qur’an, meeting with our father’s family for the first time. His parents, my grandparents, would frequently visit us in the States for which we would reach back into our minds and dig out our repressed ancestral language. At the end of that summer, we came home having learned to read Arabic and speak Urdu but it made little difference. Overtime, my Urdu became broken again when I failed to regularly use the language. As my mother’s family is entirely in the US now, I had little use for Urdu. That is, save for visits to my grandmother’s (my mother’s mother who was in the US) or, on Eid phone calls to my dad’s family in Pakistan. When meeting with Pakistani relatives, I figured I should use the language in order to impress them, especially for the sake of my mother, but I would freeze. Eventually my grasp on Urdu weakened, which embarrassed me when I felt required to use it, to the point where the unease was so great, I felt in my muscles. I felt it most strongly when I went to Pakistan in 2008 and 2009.

At the end of this January, I went to Pakistan again and I feel like I am still processing this trip. It had been about five years since my last visit and in these past five years I feel like I have become a different person. I’m more independent and have a better understanding of who I am. I’m more knowledgeable of Pakistani current events and more proud of my desi-American heritage. What hadn’t changed was my fear of speaking Urdu. I had grown used to a language barrier in China, but I knew I would have to conquer my fear in Pakistan in order communicate with my family that has a varying degree of knowledge of English. My thoughts were hanging on this barrier on the flight over to Islamabad. I was quite worried about how my family would perceive me, particularly in how I allowed myself to lose my language, again.

I now realize that should have been the least of my concerns. There is more than just a language barrier between my family and me. Even I had to laugh at my own cluelessness sometimes. I had never seen some things before, especially some foods, and did not know what to call some things in Urdu or Punjabi. I tried to take in Pakistan the few days I was there, but I could not help feeling like un-foreign foreigner. On a walk around the busy markets of Rawalpindi, I inquisitively pointed to a building where a huge crowd had formed and could hear a young man reciting naats, which are Islamic poems that often celebrate the Prophet Muhammad. I asked my cousin what it was, since it looked like the crossroads between a storefront and a mosque, something I had never seen. My cousin proceeded to describe what the image hanging in front of building was, a picture of the Kaaba in Mecca. I was shocked that he thought I was so clueless I needed to learn what the holiest site in Islam was. It would be the equivalent of someone explaining to a Christian what the symbol of the crucifixion of Jesus on the cross was. I assertively told him I was raised Muslim too. In other instances, my family would tell me well-known facts about Pakistan. I feel like I noticed this in my last visit, but now come with more knowledge to see it clearly. My family in Pakistan has little understanding of the life I live in the US.

I don’t fault them for it. They have not had the chance to come to the US. What they know is from the stories we tell, the pictures we share of our foreign life, and the portrayal of the US in the media they have access to. Prior to my trip I had been reading my sister’s (stolen) copy of Vijay Prashad’s The Karma of Brown Folk. I definitely recommend the book for desi-Americans. It’s not an extensive history of desis in the American diaspora, but it gives insight into various movements and representations of desi-Americans throughout history, particularly Indian Americans. The representations are shaped by various politics, ideologies, and of course, the irrepressible power of the dollar. What resonated with me the most before I even put the book down, was how Prashad explains culture is not a fixed thing; it is constantly evolving and creates many branching which in turn, involve further. My cousins in Pakistan are a product of this multiplicity of culture as much as I am in the States. We met with different Pakistani families on my trip and all the families’ lifestyles were so different. I knew this because my father’s family differs greatly from my mothers but I don’t know why I still hold myself to a particular standard of what it means to Pakistani.

I would by lying if I said coming back from Pakistan I am now fearless when it comes to be speaking Urdu but I understand better now my embarrassment comes from a fear that I will not be perceived as Pakistani-enough. I want to work more on challenging this idea that I have that I do not fit the mold of what it means to be Pakistani. That does not mean I am letting myself off the hook. I want and need to learn Urdu, but I want to conquer my fear of judgment too. I hold myself to a standard that does not exist and so what if people think their brownness is truer than my own. I’m still Pakistani. I love my closest friends because they understand that I am a weird mashup of cultures that can only be a product of a place like Jersey City. Some days I want to listen to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and watch overdramatic and repetitive Pakistani dramas, and some days I want to bump to Kendrick Lamar and watch Into the Wild… again. They understand that I often question Islam, but still consider myself Muslim.

I should not be embarrassed in front of Pakistanis that I was born in a foreign country. In fact, I should be more embarrassed that this foreign country plays a large role in destabilizing and bombing people within my ancestral country, and I do little about it.

I miss Pakistan already. It was not a perfect trip. Time spent with family never is (especially with my crazy family) but I feel good looking back at it. I may even go back before I come home. 

Below are some pictures from my trip. I have more and will post those soon. XOXOX

Chairlift in Murree, where my dad was born.

First snow I saw this year and a snow ball fight I refused to engage in.

At the India-Pakistan Border in Lahore.    

These soldiers were super tall and no joke, scary.

The amazing, Lahore Fort. You could spend days exploring it.

Seriously, you could spend days. I just wish the old Mughal landmarks were better maintained.

Badshah Mosque from afar.

...And up close.

The call to prayer from this mosque was to my sister the most beautiful one she has ever heard. For hundreds of years, this mosque was the largest in the world. It doesn't hold the record anymore, but it is still an astonishing site in my mom's hometown.

My sister, taking her aim at some ruthless balloons.

brown chip flavors.

Me and my dad.