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Writing about my trip to Pakistan — and the baggage that comes with it

January 10, 2013

This past October, I returned to Pakistan — after 22 years. I moved to the US when I was five, so my memories are limited and dull. That said, my mind was wheeling even before the plane took off. Just the anticipation of seeing relatives for the first time in over two decades, or visiting my homeland, was developing into a string of analysis of what it means to be an immigrant, and to have a ‘home’ and a ‘land’ to call one’s own. But it took weeks after I came back from the trip to put pen to paper. The task of writing about my trip was trying — oddly enough, it meant that my words were boxing in my experience and my schizophrenic feelings in a neat little package. So when people asked me how my trip was, I would answer in a chronological order of what I did, because it was the easiest way to explain what happened there.

After some months, I was feeling restless and agitated, realizing that I had to write down my thoughts for my sake, no matter that an essay would only grasp a fraction of my thoughts. I’m gracious to The Wheelhouse Review for giving my musings a home.

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