It was with much relief that
I landed in Islamabad International after spending
a difficult three years in Birmingham. The time I spent
in England was not difficult because of the BSc (Hons) I
had brought back with me; on the contrary, it was because
of the bachelors in aristocracy that had accompanied me
there.
Living in a family full of high ranking senior government
officers, not to mention a famous literary heritage (I will
decline to boast further), had provided me with enough dependability
on servants, drivers and launderers, to last me a lifetime.
Hence when I was faced, in my hostel accommodation, with
a large number of dirty clothes and dishes, I was in very
much of a fix. Not only had I to wash my own, I was also
part of a whole community of washers who took turns washing
everyone’s dishes.
Needless to say, I was faced with a dilemma unlike any I
had faced before. I do, however, have a habit, which in
this case was a lifesaver. I feel no hesitation in becoming
social with cross-cultural people. With a little forwardness,
and a lot of luck, I was pretty much the only international
student in my block who knew everyone else, irrespective
of nationality.
Other Pakistani students, for some reason or the other
decided to maintain their exclusive circle, of which I,
thank God, was gratefully left out. Maybe it was because
I was sort of an outsider, speaking to whites and blacks
and Orientals, whereas maybe for some reason I shouldn’t
have been. Anyway, coming back to the point, I made friends
with a few locals, and a few foreigners who taught me how
to work my own life without the company of paid staff. I
could see, even though they did their best to politely hide
it, that they saw me not as a fellow student, but as a spoilt
rich kid from a 3rd world country who was used to having
slaves do his dirty work for him. They were right in a way,
in fact, come to think of it, they were right in every way.
However, I was not alone. My friend and neighbour, Olga
Marinova Filipova, Bulgarian, also an international student
like myself, faced the same problems. She also came from
a well off family, maybe a little better off than my own
(her dad owned hotels all across Scandinavian countries).
In the end, it was just her and me, sitting in her room,
moping on about how difficult life was for these British,
and how they had never seen much in life. Of course, Matt
would always understand. Matt Philips, a student of Graphic
Design and Animation at my Unit was our hostel block caretaker.
He was a nice guy, very good looking, hailing from Derbyshire.
A village lad, who was none-the-less taken to evils of the
city, if you know what I mean (smirks).
During my stay in Birmingham, these two people were the
ones I came closest to. Needless to say, I lost these friends
as soon as I came within company of Pakistanis.
That’s not to say that the international Pakistani
students were lacking in someway in personality. No one
could throw an insult at each other better than these guys,
I can vouch for that. Seriously, though, these Paki friends
of mine were very loyal. Most of them are still in the UK,
although spread out across the country. I miss them sometimes,
I miss our gatherings. Some of the holiest creatures in
Pakistan took to drink like there was no tomorrow. It was
interesting to see them, every Friday afternoon going religiously
to the mosque for Jumah prayers, and then feasting Saturday
night away in a popular nightclub downtown. It’s a
personal issue, that’s what I’ve learnt.
I’ve also learnt about some of the dangers and hazards
of speaking about religion to someone who has a full glass
of Vodka in front of him. The results are often disastrous,
and it’s my sincere advice to avoid such practice
entirely. Avoid the speaking . . . not the drinking, of
course.
Come to think of it, I really don’t know what I’ve
gained during my years abroad. True, when I came back, my
mother, in all her earnest, asked me what I had learnt during
my stay in Birmingham. My reply was a list of culinary delights
I had picked up while cooking for myself as a hostel student.
Fortunately for my family, I haven’t lost touch with
the kitchen, and still do surprise my mother with an occasional
delicacy of the west. I guess that’s the most important
part of the learning experience.
Reading between the lines of what I’ve just written,
I see what I’ve actually gained, after spending more
money on studies than my parents would like to count. It’s
the experience of a different life, a view from a different
window. The sky is the same, but it seems bluer there. The
grass is just as green, yet so much softer to walk on. The
people are bleached, yet the intricacies, politics and emotions
ring through just as they do in Pakistanis. Perhaps that’s
why I enjoyed England so much, because I didn’t take
it as a different place, for me, it was a part of this earth,
just a little higher. It was filled with humans, just a
tad fairer.
Before I went, for me the youth of England were spoilt,
overfed, and arrogant and obsessed with themselves. When
I returned, I’m sure for them I was exactly the same.
