Essays by Pakistanis

Anonymous – Duke

My heart raced and my stomach clenched. I was approaching the Detroit-

Windsor Tunnel and on my way to the United States. I looked around, amazed by the
beauty of the vast Detroit River, when a six-foot-tall immigration officer frowned at me
and asked for my fingerprints. As an eleven-year-old, I felt small and insignificant.
Unfamiliar faces, accusing tones, and a culture I did not fully understand -- this was my
first impression of the United States. I had seen poverty, slums, and beggars before in
Pakistan, but the idea of moving to the US for the first time was enough to make my
knees go weak. I thought of the economic and cultural struggles I had experienced during
the past nine months in Canada and the struggles that lay ahead of us in the US. I
remembered the first eleven years of my life in Pakistan and yearned for my home.

During my first few months in Michigan, I longed for Karachi’s chaotic streets,
the enticing variety of street-food, and the friendly faces I knew. As a child, I took the
danger on streets for granted. I was surprised to know that in Michigan I could leave my
house by myself, without the imminent threat of being attacked. However, I was most
surprised to hear the fresh, crisp sound of water each time I turned on the faucet. In my
afternoons in Karachi, I had been used to storing water in large tubs, turning off the
faucets, and patiently waiting for water to return later in the evening. Therefore, I was
shocked to find the abundance of clean water in North America. Strangest of all, people
overlooked its value. They fostered a cavalier attitude toward the day-to-day convenience
of water.

While people in Michigan took water for granted, my relationship with water
conjured images ranging from optimism to death. Throughout my childhood in Karachi, I
would treasure the rare monsoons, the vibrant, pungent smell of flooded streets, and the
fun I would have frolicking with friends. I cherished the smell of clean water as it fell
from the skies and rejoiced in the hope the rains would bring with them. The rains
symbolized greener trees, a respite from heat, and pure joy. Yet, as the skies turned grey
and monsoons peaked, Karachi’s citizens ironically faced water and electric shortages.
Many citizens were left stranded and dealt with rampant disease. Pools of smelly,
stagnant water collected on the streets, spreading waterborne diseases. I often noticed the
filth that surfaced with the flooded rainwater overflowing into the waterways, and
wondered how much of that filth I drank in my water. I understood that my neighbor
contracted polio through drinking contaminated water. He was a young man -- tall and
proud, even in suffering -- yet pale with years of struggle against paralysis. Seeing him
crippled from a disease that was easily preventable made me realize the gaping flaws in
Pakistani healthcare.

My passion for improving global health was born from necessity and nurtured
through observing an effective healthcare system in the US. Understanding the issues
plaguing Pakistani healthcare and the disparities existing throughout the world inspired
me to explore potential solutions. However, in the increasingly globalized nature of our
society, I understood that the issues plaguing Pakistani healthcare were only a tiny aspect
of healthcare issues worldwide. I am no longer the timid eleven-year-old that felt
insignificant in front of the immigration officer, but rather a confident, aspiring
humanitarian. I want to build wells in areas that lack clean water. I want to educate
myself on issues pertinent to public health and address important needs. Most importantly,
I want to bridge the enormous gap that exists within healthcare systems worldwide.

Today, whenever I need the motivation for my passions to spur, I turn on the
faucet, listen to the crisp sound of water, and my ideas begin to flow freely.

Emmad Arif - Yale

Four years ago, when I realized I was fat, I decided to do the most obvious thing: I started
eating more chocolates! It wasn't a bout of madness or a phase of denial. I realized, I
simply needed an incentive to work out and improve my physique. For some, it is the
appealing prospect of raised eyebrows from the opposite sex. For me though, things were
rather simple. Working out, meant I could eat more chocolates, which meant I needed to
work out harder and thus the causality continues.

July 2013

Tragedy strikes. The woman in the white lab coat relayed the sad news to me. A new
challenge had emerged for me to combat: diabetes.

I love chocolates, always have and possibly, always will. For as long as I remember, I
have treasured the succulent feeling of a Mars bar melting over my tongue. These
delicious delights have shaped me into the person I am today, both literally and
metaphorically.

Or have they?

Either way, the sudden divorce of chocolate and myself devastated me. But soon the
lessons she had left behind settled in.

Every chocolate brand is unique. Always, the brand which satisfies the majority is the
one which is crowned the best. Thus, I learnt: success means making meaningful
contributions to peoples' lives and loving everyone regardless of objective factors,
exactly what chocolate does. Whether it is organizing Rubik's cubing camps or
distributing goods amongst the flood victims, the desire to make others happy drives me
ahead.

Twix in particular deeply influenced me, during our rather short marriage. The
persistence with which the caramel stuck to my teeth is what I tried to emulate in
everything I do. Futile efforts of my tongue to extract caramel from the pre-molar cavities
are synonymous to the difficulties I encountered in my everyday activities. Perseverance,
I found, is the key to contentment: that and not merely accepting diversity…
rather celebrating it.
Last year, the new kid in our class got a low SAT score. Dismissing him as dumb,
something most of my class-fellows did, would go against Twix's basic teachings. If
chocolate and a cookie bar live together in eternal harmony, so can people with
contrasting SAT scores. He, like every one of us, is unique in his own way (an amazing
athlete) and within uniqueness is my utopia. In the words of my former love, Kit Kat is
not better than Twix. It is different. The same principle applies to people.

Since I have not been raised to be judgmental of differences, I am unafraid of deviating

from the norm and expect others to do the same.

'You still teach juniors?' exclaimed a class-mate last month, 'honestly you're crazy; get a
life man! What do you want from them?'

I smiled and shrugged him off. Some people are too shallow to look beyond material
benefits. The personal satisfaction I get by helping others and making new friends is my
reward. Understandably, I do not achieve as much as the boy who sits alone and studies
all day, or does co-curricular activities only for fame or to impress others. But then again,
Twix wouldn't think too high of me that way, would it?

I recall grudgingly following Mom around a departmental store, eight years ago, finding
my golden ticket to Willy Wonka's factory: The Sweets' Corner. I devoured almost a
week's supply of chocolate that day, hidden behind a shelf, only to get caught by Mom.
The beating which ensued was embarrassing to say the least. I suspect the chocolate
remains on my lips gave me away. Anyways, it was a mustache that would've put Charlie
Chaplin to shame, hence, totally worth the thrashing.

I have come a long way since then. Chocolate no longer holds the reins to my life.

I do.
P.S. I have found a way to get enough of my beloved despite our separation: sugar-free
chocolate!

Moiz Imam Dev - MIT

For as long as I can remember once every month we visit our family farm, a beautiful
piece of land located on the outskirts of Sargodha. This very farm was in our family’s
possession for over a hundred years and to continue this tradition my father made it a
point to bring us here every month. Initially I used to dread these trips, four days away
from the internet seemed impossible for me. But as I grew older I truly understood the
importance of this place.

With the beginning of high school, my workload increased exponentially adding to my

busy extracurricular activities. After some time though this routine started becoming
repetitive and therefore the visits to the farm became a much-needed break. I realized that
while everything around me had changed, this farm had been with me since my
adolescence. Thus this place started to remind me of my past.

I visited my family farm just last week. As I got out of the car after the long journey, the
gentle wind caressed my face greeting me to my ancestral home. This was going to be a
wonderful day. I spent most of the afternoon greeting and catching up with my relatives
and neighbors. But as dusk approached I slipped out of the house, observing the village
life around me. As the sun faded away I could see a group of village children engaged in
an intense cricket match. Using a plank as a bat and a cotton yarn as a ball, they were
really enjoying themselves. However one child was sitting alone on the sideline.
Surprisingly looking at him reminded me of my own childhood. One reason why I used
to dread the farm trips was that I had a hard time gelling with the village children. Fitting
in had always been a problem for me; my lack of confidence had always kept me from
making any friends. After moving to a new city I barely knew anyone at my new school.
Sitting alone during recess, not playing sports and barely talking to anyone. I spent most
of my time at school, alone. However with the help of my eighth grade teacher I was able
to improve my social awkwardness. She suggested that I pursue filmmaking,
communicating with others through the silver screen. Although a little hesitant at first it
was not until a year later that I saw the benefits. Acting and narrating in short films and
documentaries had really given me a lot of confidence. Moreover film making had
become one of my favorite hobbies.

Just last year my friends and I came to my farm to film a documentary. We roamed many
adjacent villages and farms, interviewing locals and filming the beauty of this place. It
was a really memorable experience, but what I really cherish from this experience was
that not only did we manage to win that competition, I was also able to showcase the
elegance of my village to the world. It was truly a delightful sight for me, when
thousands of eyes appeared astonished by the beauty and magnificence of this place.

Roaming in my village I lose all track of time, what seems like minutes are actually
hours. A personal reflection of thought and character flushes out all my worries and
problems, greatly uplifting me. I have so many memories associated with this place that I
feel like I travel back in time. In such a peaceful setting I realize the true value of
isolation and thoughtful contemplation. To most a farm appears to be a bland and boring
place but every visit leaves me exhilarated and rejuvenated.

Adil Ahsan - Dartmouth

I walk up to the porch and take a deep breath, knowing full well that I’m about to begin
the most difficult part of my day. I slowly grasp the doorknob, taking as much time as I
can before entering, before facing her. As I open the door, my heart begins to race – I’m
nervous, again. Yet upon walking in, I’m surprised. The woman I see is crying
sorrowfully – a vision of calm mournfulness different to the wails and screams I’d
become used to. Clearly, something was up. I sit next to her, closer than I’ve been in
months, and ask what’s wrong. She tells me how I should have more, how I deserve
more, how my father and I shouldn’t have to deal with her problem. She then tells me
how lonely she is: how her mother hasn’t called in weeks, how papa hasn’t slept in the
same bed with her in days and how I have shut her off completely. But in the end, in
between sobs on my shoulder as I hug her trying to get her to return to her senses, not that
she ever can, she whispers two simple words that I had never expected to hear from her:
“I understand.”

I hate her because of her Schizophrenia. I know rationally that she was one of the
unfortunate few who didn’t win the cosmic jackpot of health. I know rationally that she
doesn’t deserve this and can’t be blamed for her predicament. Yet, I still hate her. I hate
her for everything that she has put us through, and for every moment that I’ve had to look
longingly at the picturesque families of friends. I hate her for every time I’ve had to
"woo" papa with smiles and kisses as a young child, and with grades and courtesy as a
young adult, so that he would fall in love with me again. I hate her because I do this for
her – because I don’t want papa to leave her to a world indifferent to ‘crazy’ people.

I hate her because the two words she whispered then implied that she understood what I
was doing – as if my occasional apathy and frustration towards her was something to
understand, as if she was the merciful one and I in need of forgiveness. I hate her because
she felt that it was somehow magnanimity on her part that she bore with me, rather than
the other way around.

But, for the very same words, I also love her. I love her because I realize that she has
been magnanimous and that it’s not the other way around. I love her because I’m aware
that I have isolated her to this abyss where she’s little more than a person lost in her own
delusions and defined by her disorder. I love her because I know that the only person
who had truly been affected was my mother, and I had been too ensnared in my own
misgivings to see that, looking at her illness only in terms of how it had affected me and
not how it had affected her. I love her because she knows these things, and yet, she still
understands.
I hug her, I let her cry. Minutes pass before she stops and looks at me and when she does,
I see something which I had never seen before. I see the pain and torment that had
become her. And as I see this, I know that I love her – unconditionally, and in that
moment, she knows this too. She holds my hand, and asks me to stay. A smile creeps
across her face as I tell her, “I will. I’ll stay and do more. I promise”. We hug again, but
this time, there are no tears. This time, there is only love. This time, there is just us.

Just two people... mother, and son.

Anonymous - Harvard

'Iss sei duur raho! Yei firangi hai! (Stay away from him! He's a bloody foreigner)', my
cousin shouted, dragging his younger brother away from the room we were playing FIFA
in. The words stung but it was the blatant disgust in his voice that truly hurt. It wasn't the
first time I had been ostracized and it wouldn't be the last. Over the next year, I'd endure
countless insults, and suffer numerous vitriolic remarks. My crime? Befriending a couple
of teenagers.

I have been fortunate enough to be born to two loving parents in a privileged household,
in the 'posh' part of Lahore. Brimming with security personnel and home to nationals
from faraway countries like Germany, Netherlands, Italy and France, DHA is probably
the most diverse neighborhood in all of Pakistan. Thus, I grew up with kids from all over
the world - Josh taught me how to drive, Mattia taught me how to draw using watercolors
and Liam, albeit unsuccessfully, tried to teach me French. I remember standing in front of
the mirror, confused. Why was I so dark when Josh from next door was so white? But I
quickly realized how meaningless such differences were and grew up overlooking them.
After all, we agreed that Charizard was the best Pokémon, that Nutella trumped apple
jam, and that The Who was the greatest band in the history of music. Our differences, in
comparison, seemed laughably trivial.
All of this contributed to the reason why the open dislike from my cousins always
shocked me. I lost count of the number of times I feigned sickness to avoid visiting them.
They refused to socialize with me insisting that, as a Muslim Pakistani, it was my duty to
cut off all ties with the crooked foreigners who had 'polluted my mind and heart with
their insidious liberalist agenda'. I was torn between my childhood friends and my fellow
countrymen. Despising the fact that I was being forced by societal prejudices to choose
between two parts of myself, I decided that I must have an option. I resolved to carve
myself a third path: to fight against the need to make the divisive choice, to make my
cousins see things from my perspective and see my 'alien foreigner' friends simply for
what they were - human. I started by inviting my cousins to my house, making sure my
friends were also present. The first 'party' I organized was a dismal failure; my cousins
simply refused to show up after hearing of the other guests. But I organized another and
another and persevered in my attempts to force interaction between them. I'd be lying if I
said I believed it easy to synthesize a middle ground from the conflicting ideologies of
my conservative Pakistani cousins and my liberal friends but success demands optimism.
I encouraged them to focus upon their commonalities like Christmas and Eid instead of
their differences. After all, ideas, even diametrically opposed ones, deserve to be
entertained and the shift in perspective makes all the difference.

Simultaneously navigating myriad cultures, while respecting their individual elements, is

a demanding task. The nuances necessary in dealing with each of my friends honed my
skills of diplomacy and tact, skills that have been invaluable to me. I even thank the
Pakistani cousins who initially shunned me, for teaching me that even the deepest of
biases can be overcome, if I simply persevere in the face of opposition - unwavering and
resolute. I realized that Asad teaming up with Liam in FIFA could one day be India
partnering with Pakistan in a mutually beneficial trade agreement. All that is needed then
is persistence and maybe one day, Pakistanis will be joyfully anticipating meeting their
brothers from the other side of the border.

Ali Shan Zartash - MIT

Clocks, dimensions, ice, and aliens.
Fish, logic, the night, and Marx.

The pieces simply didn't fit together: the jigsaw puzzle - I - was incomplete.

In the midnight silence, the ticking of the second hand resounded throughout the room,
throughout my skull. Insomnia had befallen me once again. The questions, the ideas, the
flaws just begged for my attention.

My life - a progression of chaos. The laughing boy who proudly displayed his Lego
creations and his yo-yo tricks had metamorphosed into a sleepless wonderer. Maybe the
world really was governed by Discordianism, everything going increasingly towards
disorder. The second law of thermodynamics did say so: entropy always tends to
increase. This was certainly true for my life, at least. Why had we waged war for 40
years (even if at a figurative lower temperature) over flawed ideologies of which neither
was perfect? The trillions of dollars spent on weaponry could much better have been
spent on science labs, discovering alien planets, maybe even extraterrestrial life. It
dazzled me that no perfect worldview existed – no perfect socioeconomic system yet
devised. My own views shifted capriciously from believing that some sort of socialism
carries a better solution to hunger than conventional charity, to respecting the practicality
of capitalism, wholly opposed to Marx. An intellectual nomad, I realized, I had become.
Why was perfection in an idea so subjective, so relative? Could Einstein's theory be so
much more than it seemed - applicable not only to spaceships and planets but to ideas and
worldviews?

The second hand kept on ticking - how could the tiny quartz crystal at the core of the
clock be so sure of itself? It dictated the progression of the entire universe - I could feel
the fourth dimension, the time-axis slipping beneath my feet - and me: running to keep up
with the oscillating crystal. Maybe I could learn something from its confidence. Maybe I
already had.
Speaking of a fourth dimension, did I really know how baseless all my logic was? As I
weighed up Marx against Nietzsche, did I even consider the basic framework of the
thinking that I built upon? Logic is purely contextual. I laugh at the fish inside my
parents' aquarium as it happily concludes that light travels in a straight line, oblivious to
the fact that the rays had just refracted as they slipped through the glass. Couldn't
someone be laughing at me too? The logic - the only weapon I had against my confusion
- was as blunt as a spoon. How was I supposed to win?

Or did I even need to?

The idea of changing sides implanted itself in my mind - inception. I embraced my

confusion with open arms. The questions, unanswered (to say the least) became my
obsession. The sleepless nights much more peaceful yet still invariably perplexing - but
welcome nonetheless. Answers may be important but the questions were my eternal love,
the search a thrilling adventure. The 18th century may be long gone, but I experienced
my own kind of enlightenment. The illumination shed light on more pieces of the puzzle -
of me - pieces I never knew existed, questions I had never thought of.

But how did all the questions, the pieces of the puzzle fit together? How did they
combine to create the picture? This was a question in itself.

Once again, I get excited. Once again the webpages scroll, the pages turn. Once again,
the search begins.

A thought occurs to me: what if the puzzle isn't meant to be completed? What if there is
no ultimate solution? Doesn't every thought of mine, every question stand on its own?
The reality, I contemplated, could be somewhat like quantum physics: electrons - waves
or particles? Both or neither? Each idea separate, yet intertwined together. Was a
solution even possible?
As I began to obsess over the answer, I realized I had broken my one rule. And I began
obsessing over the question instead - embracing the mystery.

Anonymous – UPenn

“...for we shall assume the responsibilities of running this country in the future. Any
questions?”

I am answered with 19 pairs of wide, cookie-monster eyes staring back at me. My lecture
has run long, and the otherwise ebullient freshmen in my counseling group are
unnaturally silent and somewhat disdainful. Fadil raises his hand. “Where are you getting
this from?”

I spend a long time after class brooding, and am surprised the question has affected me so
much. I consider myself a pretty confident person. Neither counseling these freshmen in
leadership ethics, nor multivariable calculus, nor the Republic of Fiji’s complex stance on
Nuclear Globalism has ever caught me off guard. And from that question, I get started on
another one: “How am I here?”

When the bell rings at the end of the day, I see classmates’ drivers carrying their school
bags to their cars. A few friends call to me; they’re making a plan to go out to see a
movie and are wondering if I can join for once. I wave back, “Sorry I’m late for work!”
Work is my father’s shop about 14 miles away, where I help out every day after school.
As I make my way to the end of the street, the question still gnaws at me but I put it away
for now; I won’t be catching a rickshaw with my arms glued to my side. After a lot of
haggling, one of the rickshaw drivers agrees to take me for 300 rupees, the price of a
McDonald’s meal, and I consider this a solid win.

I slide into the rickshaw. We start to move, and I feel a jolt courtesy of the potholes that
pockmark the streets. I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself, so the jolt serves as a good
metaphor for the disappointment I felt earlier in the week when I was told I could not
pursue swimming anymore because it was too expensive. There is another jolt, and the
rickshaw driver swears at an errant driver. I see a classmate’s car pass by. So Hamza
bought the new Civic, I muse.

10 miles. We drive past Divisional Public School and I’m reminded of the overcrowded
classrooms at the public schools I had attended till grade 9. The broken desks and tattered
carpets are etched in my memory. I recall the happiest day of my life when I snagged a
competitive full scholarship at SICAS, a leading private school in Lahore, and the tears of
joy in my mother’s eyes when she heard the news.

6 miles. I get a call from one of our clients, and a colorful string of swear words is spat at
me in Punjabi. I forgot to send him the other set of scratch cards in the package he
requested. Oops. I imagined the front page article of the school paper featuring the
council head fetching cups of tea for his father’s clients and messing up a simple order. I
laugh. I don’t mind being treated like just another kid, despite the differences in our
education, at my father’s shop. However, I wouldn’t in my wildest fancies expect a single
soul from my class to comprehend why I don’t mind this.

2 miles. The Ravi Bridge is the last significant landmark I pass before reaching my
father’s shop on the outskirts of Lahore. In many ways, it’s something more than a bridge
between opposite banks. It’s the bridge between the two lives I lead, and the dichotomy
that exists between them. A familiar jolt breaks my reverie as the rickshaw screeches to a
halt in front of my father’s shop.

The 14 miles distance I cover every day to my dad’s shop seems miniscule as this daily
commute often takes me 18 years to traverse.

Sunia Bukhari - UPenn

I believe everybody has a defining moment in life, triggered by something seemingly

trivial and mundane, when suddenly after the measly span of a mere 90 seconds, the
world seems clearer, more focused, and an epiphany strikes; a realization that could
change your life. This is the story of my 90 seconds, the 90 seconds that changed my life.

My parents had always been very education orientated, all my educational triumphs were
not only acknowledged, but also flaunted throughout the family, and rewarded. The
message was very simple and clear; knowledge is the most important. I never realized a
countdown was in motion, a metaphysical hourglass turned over, and soon the last speck
of sand settled on the heap and that ideology hit its expiration date.

For when I hit puberty, I realized that society didn’t really give much preference to the
intelligent, they gave it to the beautiful, and their definition of beauty was slightly
different from mine. The prevalent definition of beauty circulating the Internet includes
the words, “An "ideal beauty" is an entity which is admired, or possesses features widely
attributed to beauty in a particular culture.”

The feature the standard definition refers to, in my society, is complexion.

You see, generally in my country, it isn’t a matter of personal preference, it’s a societal
flaw; females with lighter complexions are appreciated, considered to have a degree of
likeability and beauty devoid in ladies with darker pigments. This phenomenon was
introduced to me and general expectations were that it be integrated within every aspect
of my being. Either I would have to be content with widespread but silent disapproval of
my looks, or I would have to take control and adapt. Essentially, I was to be subjected to
all sorts of experiments; both reputed and rumored, to change my face color. And I was.

In fact, as ludicrous this concept may seem, and as much as I regret to admit it, I began to
believe it too. Over the course of these months, I began to develop a serious of insecurity.
Terms my male cousins used to annoy me seemed to hit harder now, nicknames like
Obama, I began to realize didn’t target my habit of leadership; it was essentially a stab at
my color. Like it was a bad thing, something hideous even. I began to take my aunts
advice seriously, I began all sorts of experiments, even searching online, my complexion
the equivalent of a disease for me, nagging at my subconscious, depleting my self-
esteem. I began to pay more attention to my attire, using it as a shield. Hoping it would
deflect attention from my face, make up for it even. But then one day, when the guys
were once again tormenting me, my cousin spoke from behind. And I had that moment,
that defining moment of my life, where suddenly all my aunts’ voices, the never-ending
strings of beauty cream names in my head, the nicknames that were haunting me, all
blurred, like I was underwater. It became muffled and unclear, and through that haze, my
cousins’ words broke through and all I heard was, “It doesn’t matter.” And she was right;
it didn’t.

I’ve changed by leaps and bounds now. My confidence, once shot to hell, has emerged
stronger than it was ever before. My sense of clothing acts no longer as my shield, but as
an accessory to my personality. I made a very strong decision that day, and today, not
only am I appreciated amongst my family for my intellect, but also for my nature, my
personality and ironically, my beauty. Because I realized that beauty is not the shade of
your skin, or the shape of your eyes, it’s the feeling of contention and satisfaction,
happiness even about the way you look. Beauty is not a pretty face; it goes much deeper
than that. Beauty is a state of mind.

Anonymous – Amherst

"Look around," my uncle seethed, pushing me toward a chair in my family museum.

"52 hockey colours, seven Pakistan blazers and three generations of excellence in a
sport. That is the legacy you destroy with your decision."

"If he wants to play squash, let him! He will go on to make a name for his family," my
father stormed back.

This was the third time such an exchange was occurring and I still couldn't
understand why I was receiving discouragement from my own uncle. All I knew was
that I wanted to quit hockey - a game practically embedded in my DNA - and play
squash.
I was glad that my father, who had initially been shocked at my dissension, was now
squarely on my side.

When I first began training, I struggled badly with the basics. For one, I had little
control over my racket and the direction of my shots in court. Since I had grown up
playing hockey and watching my father coach national teams, I was much more
accustomed to a double-handed grip than a single-handed one. Noticing this,
coaches would often proclaim that I lacked the skill to become a top player.
Demoralized and disillusioned, I would contemplate giving up the sport. Yet, I knew
that if I quit, I would be proving my coaches right. I would be caving in to my uncle's
disparagement, and I didn't want that to happen.

What I lacked in skill, I tried to make up with my sheer will to succeed.

So I doubled down on my desire to learn. I spent hours every day before the sun
came up, practicing shots against the wall. I tried to understand why I was making
errors with my grip and how to overcome them. I would often make mistakes when
it came down to my squash movement and stepping. Yet, through hours of careful
study, I learnt how to correct my technique and made sure to avoid the same errors.
Though improvement was painfully slow, my efforts eventually bore fruit; after
months of consistent practice, I improved my game considerably, so much so that
the very coaches who had once criticized my skill now praised my dedication and
talent. Ultimately, they were the ones who chose me as Captain of the Aitchison
College Squash team.

The lessons learnt through squash have ingrained in me qualities that transcend
beyond the walls of the court. The discipline I have acquired helps me excel in the
classroom too, and my perseverance enables me to work hard and put up my best
performance on all scholastic challenges. My dedication to both, squash and
academics, has meant that I have found ways to take time out for both while
ensuring that neither passion suffers.
As a student and a sportsman, I understand the importance of education, and unlike
my elders, want to pursue both side by side. My academic interest lies in Biology,
specifically Immunology and Disease Research, and I was selected for the Pakistan
International Biology Olympiad training camp 2015. On the other hand, I have
already begun participating in international squash training camps and
tournaments.

Though initially the path was bitter and harsh, my squash struggles have shaped me
into the person I am today. Through squash, I have learnt the true worth of
dedication and hard work: whether it be waking up before school every day for the
daily morning jog to build my stamina, or training in the evening sessions to
reinforce my skills, I have learnt that the best weapon I have in my struggle is
commitment and discipline. Most importantly, I have learnt to persevere, to face
every challenge with grit and determination to succeed, to develop my mental
resilience and to never give in, no matter how unfavorable the circumstances.

Anonymous - Duke

The factory sits at the foot of a hill and its gothic exterior belies its vibrant interior. I
stroll inside.

A perpetual hum pervades the air, it is the sound of peaceful progress. I am surrounded
by endless stacks of yarn, each extending up to the ceiling; blinding colors, every hue and
shade you can possibly imagine. There are thousands of women, seated by their knitting
machines, scrupulously choosing their yarn, and laboring on the cloth. Some distance
away I spot a little boy, hidden behind stacks of crimson and blue. A woman marches
towards him, her vexed expression contrasts sharply with his look of wonder. She
reprimands him and sends him outside - "this is no place for a man!" she snaps.

As I ponder over the restrictive nature of gender roles, I recall a school I once
volunteered at, where these roles dictated the lives of the female students. Despite their
exposure to education, the mindset of the girls did not dare to deviate from that of their
parents' and communities'. I heard them talk about abandoning school as soon as the
opportunity of a job arose. I saw the neglected talent of those who had been trained to
perceive cooking and cleaning as their ultimate priority. I spoke to families who forced
their children into marriage solely for the sake of a generous dowry.

The famous Pakistani poet, Allama Iqbal, wrote, "The book cannot be your salvation, for,
you are only its reader, it has not been revealed upon you." These words now make sense;
the gap between simply learning and truly understanding is what engenders the demise of
the intellectual man, and with him, prosperous society. These girls were victims of a
system of education that instead of nurturing them into independent thinkers, merely
reiterated their place in society, and therein the extent of their duty.

It's not just women, but men too who are constantly expected to conform to arbitrary
norms and behave in ways that have been deemed acceptable. Men who show interest in
cooking or art are derided for being feminine. Those who earn less than their wives are
considered inferior and are belittled. Feminine and masculine are fixed spaces where any
deviation, and any shades of grey are rejected.

As I sit in the factory watching the women work, I faintly remember something I once
read about knitting. It had previously been a predominantly male profession. Back in the
medieval ages when a man aimed to become a master knitter, he had to spend nine years
under training, and another three years travelling the world to learn about foreign patterns
and techniques. An activity within the course of its existence shifted from being
masculine to feminine, without any logical reason - and once defined such, could not
belong to both genders.

I've been raised in a household where my brothers and I are always considered to be on
equal footing. My parents have encouraged me to be independent and ambitious. They've
resolved to support all my aspirations. Yet I am not content. In a society where most
people are shackled by their own families, my freedom is meaningless and incomplete.

Across from me, the vacant knitting machine glistens; its body is stained with the sweat
and toil of the women who use it. Mechanizing man. Empowering women. Uplifting the
underprivileged. It boasts a myriad of accomplishments. Overshadowed by its might, I
seek refuge in the yarn around me; while pulling at the shades of blue I catch on to a
strand of purple. It shouts creativity and wisdom, independence and magic,
sophisticatedly intertwining spiritual and physical fulfillment. I cannot afford to sit idle. I
place the combs with the weights on the stitches, push the carriage across the needle bed,
and begin to knit.

Uzair Naveed – Stanford

"Latch the telescope before you lock the axis," I advise my brother as I had been advised
many times before. He nods in agreement, visibly excited.

"This, my son, is the real show," my grandfather would say as we lay on the roof, staring
out into the night-sky, the constellations telling tales of heroes and gods. "These are the
great storytellers."

I was only seven when my grandfather first spoke those words to me, and at the time, I
was more in awe of the aesthetic spectacle that I beheld than of any sense of grandeur a
priori. One question, though, lingered.

"But how can stars tell stories, Dada Abu?"

He smiled, saying everything and nothing with that simple gesture.

As time went on, my initially unsophisticated stargazing burgeoned into a hardened

passion for astronomy - library class was spent flipping through encyclopedias, while in
math I naïvely attempted to figure out how long it would take me to reach a star (too
long, I now know). At night, I would stand at the edge of the roof with my grandfather
and gaze into the horizon, marveling at the beauty of the North Star and challenging
myself to identify the constellations I had seen in encyclopedias.

Alas, even the brightest stars can flicker into oblivion: In 2010, my beloved grandfather
suffered a stroke and slipped into a comatose state. Seeing the seemingly evergreen
adventurer, who had first introduced me to stargazing, lying motionless in a hospital bed,
reminded me of something I had read long ago but fully comprehended only then: even
seemingly perfect stars can collapse into an infinitesimal point, leaving behind an
ironically obscure legacy of their former selves.

A few days after the incident, in an attempt to bridge the void, in a small way, I opened
Cosmos - an astronomy book - hoping that it could somehow bring me closer to my
grandfather. It was then that I realized another, less poignant aspect of collapsing stars:
the atoms that form us were all born in the cores of stars, and found their way across the
universe when the stars collapsed. The star's collapse then, is not its destruction, but its
rebirth, and we are its legacy, rising from its ashes.

This fact raises a niggling conundrum: are science and emotion truly mutually exclusive?
My motivation for deriving relationships between human life and the life-cycles of stars
was purely sentimental, even if the methods were scientific. Looking at the stars now, I
feel connected to every individual who has done the same before me, and perhaps more
than anyone else, to my grandfather. It is in this state that I feel perfectly content, because
the room for self-reflection offered by the intoxicating silence of the cosmos is reassuring
and humbling - a familiar source of solace in an otherwise fickle world.

"I think it's set!"

"Try pointing it at that red spot in the sky, and look," I tell my brother, smiling in my
heart.
He adjusts the viewfinder, and as I see his pupils dilate in awe, I think back to the day it
had all begun. Looking at stars as a child, I had wondered what made my grandfather
think of them as 'storytellers'. Today, I think I understand. Scattered across the night sky,
these lights tell the story of the universe, and of all of us. They tell tales of weary
travelers who found their way by the North Star, of civilizations that have come and
gone, and of heroes and gods who lent their names to the constellations.

And somewhere in their midst, they tell the story of a seven-year-old boy who lay on the
roof to look at the stars, not knowing that although they'd eventually come to mean so
much more to him, they would still be his way to connect to his grandfather.