At two years of age, I have very little recollection of my life. Yet, there are a few documented memories that I have courtesy of my mother. I was born around the time that camcorders were the latest trend, and my family managed to get their hands on one. Cassettes filled with videos of my siblings and I playing, dancing, making fools of ourselves. We were doing what kids do best. My favorite recording however is one that I have rewatched countless times throughout my life. It is a movie of my first trip to Pakistan. I was two years old, the youngest of three siblings, and we were going to celebrate my eldest cousin’s wedding. I was going to see my extended family for the very first time. At this point, three of my grandparents were deceased and only my paternal grandmother was alive. New life (me) was coming to visit, everybody was ecstatic. When you live on opposite ends of the globe, milestones, both happy and sad, are seldom celebrated together. This has remained true for the rest of my life.
I come from a lineage of farmers. After my grandfather’s passing however, my family moved away from the countryside to a nearby city. A few decades later my parents would leave this small city in search of a better life for both themselves and their future children. “There weren’t many jobs or opportunities available, I wanted my children to have options unlike myself” is something my father has always said. The city, Mian Channu, is small, intimate and very loud, yet the farmer spirit in my family never left. It is still very much alive. My uncles, one who looks like a carbon copy of my father and the other being a gentle giant, are always raising animals. It is because of them that my earliest memories are of being surrounded by sweet goats, cows, and buffaloes. The mornings I shared with my uncle, we would milk and shower the buffaloes and goats together in the small alley in front of our house. The calls of vendors trying their best to make ends meet would start as early as six a.m., selling everything from fresh produce, balloons, and my favorite– shaved ice. The aroma of food would be coming from every house and every corner. You could try to fall back asleep, but the sounds of traffic and people passing by would rarely allow you to, and I was ready to start my day and greet our animals as soon as my eyes opened. I was curious, excited, and enamored. The animals brought me so much joy and happiness and my family made me feel so loved by teaching me how to properly bathe and milk them. In the video, I was almost never on the ground, I was always being carried in somebody’s arms and being showered with affection. I was a baby who knew nothing of her surroundings. My world at this time was so small and I knew so little, all that mattered was having fun. It was my first time meeting my family, and my mom tells me how I didn’t want to leave when the time came. My family didn’t want me to either. The goodbyes have always been painful for everybody. With so much distance in between, you truly never know when the next reunion will be, but I suppose that is the price to be paid for a “better” life.
I returned to my home in Richmond, which is where my parents finally settled in 1992, and continued to get older. My love for the natural world has always been strong. I hated being indoors as a kid, I would almost always be outside digging up bugs or picking plants. I loved the sun and the sun loved me, and on the days I couldn’t be outside, the only channel I watched was Animal Planet. My desire to see the world started young. My imagination carried me through my childhood and allowed me to transform my concrete apartment complex into a jungle of endless possibilities. Little patches of grass, some scattered trees, and a flowing creek contrasting the concrete was enough for me, maybe because I had good company. A complex of fifty apartments, forty of which were filled with Punjabi families became the parents’ home away from home and for the children, it became the place they would grow up amongst their culture and people, and at times bigotry from our landlord. Evenings would be spent with children running all around, while mothers gossiped as they watched over us, and fathers, most of whom were cab drivers in the city, began returning from work. Everybody was friends with everybody, and we were always willing to lend one another a hand. Community was found in a place we didn't expect, yet just like all good things, this too eventually came to an end. Slowly and steadily, many of the families began to move away as they gained their footing in this country and were able to afford homes. My parents followed twenty-one years later.
In 2012, my family had just purchased their first home after my father spent the past twenty-five years saving every penny. We were happy, excited, and grateful. Yet parts of me felt a deep sadness, we were once again leaving behind much more than just a physical space. Home has always been more than a physical space, but maybe at the time I was too young to realize. I’ve never really responded well to change, maybe because most of the change I’ve experienced has caused some degree of pain. My pockets of greenery were gone, I was farther away from my friends, and we moved closer to the Chevron Refinery, which has been the city’s largest employer and source of revenue since World War II. Between the years of 1989 and 1995, there were a total of three hundred and four accidents at the Chevron refinery including fires, spills, leaks, flaring and toxic gas releases, from which hundreds and hundreds of people have been sent to the hospital seeking medical attention. The monthly shelter in place drills that occurred on the first Wednesday of every month became louder. These drills were supposed to teach us to protect ourselves in case of gas leaks or other chemical releases. At least once a year the sirens would blare and the sky would fill with black clouds– another refinery flare up. Within a predominantly working class, Latinx, Black, and immigrant community, our health was not a priority in the slightest. We were closer to the water but it’s never been safe to swim in, at least in my lifetime. The water is toxic, and so is the air. The local hospital shut down while I was still fairly young, and the closest one became a thirty minute drive away. I was entering my teenage years and my family relationships continued to grow more strained. My mother wanted me to be one person, my father another, and all I wanted was to just be myself. At times, my parents and I would go weeks without speaking simply due to disagreements. Home no longer felt like home and I was on the search to figure out where I could find it. I often found myself along the edges of the Bay or somewhere up in the hills when things became too tense at home. Amongst all these strains on my emotional well being, my physical well being began to take a toll. At age thirteen, I developed an illness that my doctor was unable to properly diagnose. I suffered from respiratory issues for over five months. It had become difficult to breathe at times. I have no family history of asthma, yet my doctor prescribed me an inhaler. I wonder if it was due to the absence of trees.
At age seventeen, I got to visit my beloved Pakistan once again, but this time was different. My world was no longer as small, I understood my positionality in the world. I was a young woman who wasn’t Western enough to be viewed as fully American nor Pakistani enough to be viewed as fully Pakistani. I was grappling with the notions of home, family, and belonging. At a time where I had so many internal conflicts and unanswered questions, I was able to find answers within my roots. For me, this trip was life changing. It was the first time my immediate family got to go to Pakistan together since my parents immigrated to the U.S. in 1991. We never got a chance to go together before as somebody would always have to stay back and make income. This time however, it was different. My brother was getting married. The first grandkid on my father’s side and the eldest son? It was time to celebrate. There is no celebration without one’s loved ones though, and so we packed our bags to fly across the globe and celebrate with the people who love us unconditionally. I was so excited the entire flight there, I was going to see my family after twelve years. My joy and excitement almost made the 18 hour flight bearable.
We landed, left the airport and embarked on the four hour drive to our house. This was when I realized this was not the same Pakistan I knew as a kid. Smoggy gray skies, mounds of trash (mostly packaging and disposable plastics), and factories everywhere you go. The pollution did not used to be bad, it used to feel so much more alive. The first morning I woke up frightened thinking there was a fire. I sharply inhaled and was reminded of the wildfire season back in California. The air smelled strongly of smoke and it hurt to breathe. I stepped out of my grandmother’s bedroom to see a gray sky and was certain it was smoke. My cousins told me that this is how it is everyday. The Air Quality Index was in the 400s, where 300 is considered hazardous. The sky stays gray and the air remains smoky, and after a few mornings of painful first breaths, I grew accustomed to it. As for the water, nobody drinks from the tap out of fear of hepatitis or other water borne illnesses. My family boils all of their water or drinks from plastic bottles. It isn’t safe, everybody says. Punjab means the Land of Five Rivers, and when we went to go visit the rivers my parents played in growing up, they were brown and most of the fish were dead. Untreated industrial waste, poor sewerage system, agricultural run-off and unplanned urbanization are just a few areas to point fingers, but can we really blame folks who are just trying to survive to see another day? There were so few trees for shade and I wondered where my cousins would play.
My heart ached for my family, for my people. These issues did not simply arise overnight. It is easy to find blame within the present, but there is a history behind this struggle that cannot be ignored: centuries of exploitation and extraction have contributed to the degradation of the Subcontinent. Pakistan, along with other South Asian countries are fairly young. The region was colonized by the British for over one hundred years, but has been exploited for far longer. These nations only gained independence within the past seventy years, and have since been struggling in many regards. The air has been choked and the water and soil have been poisoned, all to develop a small country floating in the Atlantic. I hope the British are happy.
At the same time I felt more love on this trip than I have ever felt in my whole life, and this time I could actually remember it all. For the first time in my life, I got to visit the village my parents grew up in. Clay houses surrounded by fields and fields of yellow mustard flowers and crops, noisy buffaloes and goats roaming freely, neighbors who treat one another like family, the freshest, best tasting food I’ve ever eaten. The most unforgettable however, was a cup of chai made of freshly squeezed buffalo milk that was so sweet we didn’t even need to add sugar. I got to visit the cemetery where my grandparents are resting, and for the first time since entering this world I was able to introduce myself to them. My mother and I sat and cried for a while as she hugged her mother’s grave. My family made me feel protected, taken care of, and above all, so so loved. My heart aches because I love this place and I don’t want my family to be poisoned simply for waking up every day and existing. I have family working in factories for goods they will never be able to enjoy. The well being of the people is not prioritized, it once again becomes a matter of extracting for profit and export over the livelihoods of civilians. Poor folk do not have the mobility to stand up and walk away from their homes. We are attached to our lands, and that is why protecting our homelands is so important to us.
The trip ended and another painful goodbye was exchanged. My bedridden grandmother cried and begged us not to leave. I embraced her for what became the last time. My aunties stood at the door choked up while my little cousins hugged my arms and legs. My uncles helped us pack up the car and kissed my head. “Come back soon” they all said. I have not been able to return since and so many elders I met on that trip have passed since. It is said that when an elder passes on, a library is lost. I never had access to those libraries. The grief of the past few years has had some silver lining, my family has begun to repair itself. It has not been an easy process by any means, but I can attribute some of this healing to a park that is only a fifteen minute walk over the freeway from our house. We discovered a gem. This park contains some of the hills that adorn the east bay landscape and trails that overlook the entirety of the bay. From the highest point, you can see the Richmond Bridge, Bay Bridge, and even the Golden Gate. From the lowest point a usually dry creek surrounded by walls of ivy runs through the parks. The scent of eucalyptus, especially on a rainy day, follows you all throughout. We never took advantage of the space because we never had the time as a family. Yet the pandemic changed that. My father retired and began hiking to take care of his health, and I would accompany him. We never spent quality time together growing up, and so these hikes meant a lot to me. In particular, there was a day where the creek running through this park was shallow. It had just rained, but only enough to fill the creek slightly. The water was low enough for us to hop along the rocks on the riverbed. We hopped the entirety of the creek, and when we arrived at the end there was a thin waterfall. My father turned to me and said “If I didn’t make the decision to bring us to the U.S. I would never have been able to show you places like this.” and my heart swelled and filled with gratitude.
While my two homes have undergone so much change, I recall the good, the feelings of joy, and love, and tender vulnerability. Richmond is being significantly impacted by the refinery, gentrification, as well as the greed of corporations. Pakistan has become one of the most polluted regions in the world, along with endless political turmoil. Yet these places have my heart. To be able to criticize the ways a place has changed, one must share a love for that place. It is easy to be critical from afar, but not until you fully experience a place, a place in its entirety– the good, the bad, the ugly, will you grieve what is being lost in the change. We grieve because we love, and what I grieve is a home that will not poison me. My two cherished homes are Punjab, Pakistan and Richmond, California. I have learned that home will exist wherever there is love and acceptance. It is okay to grieve the loss of a physical space as we are products of the land, and us and the land are so deeply intertwined, but our land deserves justice. We extract and consume but never think about nurturing what has given us so much. I will continue to grieve, I will continue to love, and I will continue to fight.