The resilience of living in Karachi

As I was driving to the framer’s on these post-rain pothole-ridden streets of Clifton, Karachi, I suddenly realized what a daily act of resilience it is to live as a woman in this city. I would say country given the larger cultural context, but I say city because Karachi is where I have lived and it is so specifically unique in all its Karachi-ness.

I don’t get the romanticizing, nope. People live away from here and come back with all this nostalgia for the homeland and I think that because I haven’t had that for a long enough period of time, all I can see is this city for what it is. A big fat misogynistic metropolitan mess.

I understand the nostalgia too; I feel a sense of home any time I come back from a trip, even if it’s within Pakistan. It is a place of family and familiarity. I know what routes to take to get somewhere, I know what the parking situation is like on a commercial street, I know where I will probably get fresh mushrooms and curly kale on my healthier days of the year, I know that when my friends return I will have their company for a short but sweet period of time. But that doesn’t make this an easy place to live.

Just the fact that I am always conscious of my womanhood every time I step out of the house. I have never not been conscious of this fact, ever since I was old enough to have a backside I needed to strategically cover. My chokidars are men, the loiterers in the colony next door are men, the policemen making their early morning rounds for chai when I decide to go cycling are, naturally, men; the men on bikes that gawk disdainfully in my direction as I drive past from whom I consciously avert my gaze but then check in my rearview mirror if they’re still looking - they usually are. The drivers in my lane that expect me to change lanes to the keechar-y side of the road and if I make a face they will hate all women drivers forever. The men who direct the front of their palm at me when they break a signal.

And let’s not forget the shitty roads. I love the rain, I love the monsoon. I can’t leave the house when it rains for prolonged periods though, because the streets are a mess. No one does anything about it, chugging along and going the wrong way adapting to the new normal without batting an eye. I wonder if the situation persists, would people protest? Or would they continue to complain to each other on their private Facebook groups?

I’m not starting any protests, so who am I to talk really. I’m one of them.

And it is making me grumpy to say the least. I have my grounding practices, I’m a grateful girl, I have my parents and my cats and independence around this unfriendly city that very few get to enjoy. But I’m not free. I can tell myself I am, I can be thankful for the blessings, but when I step out on these streets, and this is a metaphor because being on foot is yet another luxury I am not easily afforded, I know I am not free.

If I leave, will I be free? If I adopt the most fuck it attitude in existence, will I then be free? If I become like the women who have had to swallow their pride too many times to the point that they have walls up around them no matter who they interact with, will I then be free?

I don’t want to sound like a victim - I have privilege. But this city makes people hard. And I want to stay soft. I want to be kind to the guards and to the men that take the car out for me. I want to smile at strangers, men or women. I don’t want to fear that they will stalk me online as a result. It’s hard to stay soft. Will being somewhere else, a place that allows for softness, make space for that? Or is it being in a hard place and recognizing it for all its hardness that will lead me back there anyway?

I really don’t know sometimes. It’s shitty, so why does staying feel like comfort? But as with most feelings, this is just another one to sit with. There is frustration, yes, but there is also joy to be experienced no matter where you are. That’s as hopeful a conclusion I can muster today.