CARMEL STUDENT VISITS SUFFERING HOMELAND

Like many people, I am affected by my environment. I didn't realize how much until my family's latest trip to Pakistan in December.

Both of my parents are Pakistani, and I was born there. My family moved to the United States when I was 5. Growing up in Carmel has never been hard for me. Even though I am a Pakistani citizen, I have rarely felt out of place and was always proud to tell others that I spoke a different language. After all, the U.S. is the great melting pot, and there isn't a dominant culture that most Americans belong to. I don't stand out any more than anybody else.

Here in Carmel, I am laid-back, like many of my classmates. I live a pretty comfortable life and don't worry about much besides homework and tests. I tend to think of myself as an Indiana teenager, not a Pakistani girl.

But when I visit Pakistan with my family every 18 months, I change. I become more street-smart and cautious about my surroundings. I take note of the people around me and especially how they speak to me. I even become more formal in the way I talk to my elders.

Although Pakistan is very different from America, it isn't as corrupt and chaotic as the media sometimes portrays it. Yes, there are some regions like that, but it isn't commonplace. And while most men and women dress in traditional clothes, only a small minority of the population belongs to fundamentalist factions.

The Pakistan that I visit is the middle- and upper-class neighborhoods of Islamabad. Most houses there are made of expensive stone and are constructed with high ceilings to relieve the heat. For the most part, the residents of these houses are just as educated as we are, sometimes even more.

My cousins are more privileged than the average Pakistani child, and all of my immediate family have had full educations. They live a much more pampered life in Pakistan than I do here. Their houses are as big as ours, and some are bigger. All of the boys dress in Western clothing, but women do not. Teenagers watch TV, buy pirated American movies and play video games, and when they go to school every morning, a driver takes them.

I know that not all of Pakistan is like the Pakistan I know. Many, many people are severely impoverished, but not like the poor in the United States. In Pakistan, the beggars live in mud huts in the slums of the city or on the outskirts of town. Small children usually have swollen stomachs from tapeworm, and older children hardly ever go to school unless teachers volunteer to create one. Most of them end up begging in the streets.

Different worlds

It is the combination of these two sides of Pakistani society that transforms me into a different person. On one hand, there are the very rich, who are oftentimes more pampered than rich Americans, with their drivers, cooks and housemaids. On the flipside, there are the destitute poor, who sometimes wander from place to place living in tents.

This stark difference unnerves me. I become more self-conscious and attentive to myself and my family. I try to ignore the beggars. I also find that I cherish the things that I have in the United States, like a warm bed, and other things that I usually don't even notice, like basketball hoops.

Our latest trip was in December, and I expected it to be different. On Oct. 8, a massive earthquake measuring 7.9 on the Richter scale hit the northern mountains of Pakistan and some of India as well. While the local media reported on the quake and the devastation it caused, I found many of my peers and neighbors in Carmel uninformed. When I tried to collect clothing items to help the quake victims, many people didn't really know what I was talking about.

However, Pakistanis living in the United States were well-informed and very anxious and worried about their relatives back home. The Pakistani news stations, which are available on satellite TV, displayed horrific images from the quake region.

The quake struck in the Himalayan Mountains, in an area largely inaccessible to outsiders. Most of the natives are fairly poor but sustain themselves as farmers or by catering to backpacking tourists. When the earthquake hit, the mountainside was shattered. Landslides and broken bridges and roads affected every village. One city, Mussafrabad, was literally torn in half. Nearly 100,000 died and many are still dying as a result of the earthquake.

Initially, most of the deaths and injuries involved buildings falling on people. But now, people are freezing to death. Basically everyone in the quake region lost their homes, which are crucial in the mountains in winter. A tin roof makes the difference between being chilly and getting frostbite.

When we visited during the winter holidays, I prepared myself to see extreme destruction since Islamabad -- the city I spent most of my time in -- is at the foot of the mountains. Just like other visits, I could feel myself growing apprehensive and timid, and I suspected I would probably try to ignore the destruction, as I have tried to ignore the beggars in the past.

But when we reached Islamabad that evening, to my surprise not much had changed. The streetlights still glowed and all of the homes were intact. The only visible destruction I could see was one newly built apartment building, which was demolished through the middle. The apartments next to it were undamaged.

My grandfather was in the hospital during our visit. One day on our way up to his ward, my mother and I stopped by at the earthquake patients' ward to visit a young girl named Sidra Fareed, whom my grandfather had met. There were several wards for quake victims on three floors, and most of them were being run by doctors who volunteered to help.

Stepping into the small ward, I met the shock that I had prepared for. This specific ward was for paralyzed female patients. Most of the girls were close to my age, from 8 to 23, and many had bandages tied around their injuries. Each had a cot and a sheet to herself, but that was about the extent of it. Many of the girls were up and talking, obviously bored from staying in a bed for so long. Their relatives sat by them, keeping them company.

Sidra also was paralyzed but had some feeling in her legs, which sometimes caused her great pain. She was about 12 years old and very shy, but she could remember where she was when the quake struck.

Buried under rubble

She said her village had never dealt with a large earthquake before. She was at school when the earth started to rumble, and her teacher told the class to stay at their desks. The school collapsed on them. Sidra was found and placed on a cot in front of her ruined house, where her family waited with her for four days until medical help arrived. She received no painkillers during that time.

Sidra's aunt told us that most of her classmates had died that day, but the family didn't want Sidra to know that just yet.

Seeing these girls made me feel so lucky for where I am. Had I been born to one of their families, I could be in their situation, with my home destroyed and my body paralyzed.

I also fully realized the plight of my homeland. It was almost four months after the earthquake and still most of the affected people had no homes. The (earthquake) refugees in Islamabad were stationed in camps, cordoned off by high tarp walls. And they were the lucky ones.

For the first time, I didn't turn a blind eye to the poverty and deprivation in Islamabad. I didn't feel shy or scared -- I was shocked. My country needed help, and no one was coming to the call.

After that, I didn't ignore the beggars in the streets -- I gave them some bread. At the same time, I felt at ease in my grandparents' home, just as I do in my family's home in Carmel.

When I returned to the United States, I felt a change in myself. I was still the same worry-free Carmel girl, but with a new appreciation for my life here. I cherish my family and friends and our full refrigerator and two fully functioning cars. I speak and act like an American teenager.

But I also feel a stronger tie to Pakistan. I feel a bond with its people, and I like being one of many who share the same language and customs. I enjoy wearing the shalvar kameez, the traditional Pakistani dress consisting of a loose, long shirt and poofy pants. When you need a new one, you go to a tailor and pick out the fabric and ribbons you want. It's not something you buy off the rack.

I now know what it means to be a Pakistani-American. For the first time in my life, I feel at home in both places.

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