"Where are you from?"
Forty-five years later—well almost—I am still asked this question. At first—and I am talking 1971—I would proudly proclaim: “Pakistan”.
“Where is that?”
I am insulted, and appalled at her ignorance.
Now of course, even the most least-informed, under-informed and misinformed has heard of Pakistan. Except that the look I get is one of sympathetic concern, as in ‘do you have family in that unsafe region?’ Except that when asked this question, I am offended. Why? Because I feel that my American-ism is being questioned. So I tease.
Lets start over:
“Where are you from?”
“Upper East Side,” I answer, knowing well this is not what she is asking.
“Before that?” maybe she thinks I didn’t get her point.
“Murray Hill?” I push back.
“And before that?” she persists.
“Staten Island,” I am dancing the act.
“I mean, originally.” She must think I don’t understand the subtle undertones of the English language.
I stop teasing and answer her question. By now, I can’t tell if is she is offended, or thinks I am a nincompoop as in ‘these Pakistanis can’t answer a simple question.’
Something changed in the last two months. I was at Chautauqua Institution in July. A woman across the table from me asked the same old question:
“Where are you from?”
For reasons that I cannot explain, I decided not to play the cat-and-mouse game.
“I was born and raised in Pakistan.”
“Where in Pakistan?”
What! I actually got an informed response.
“Rawalpindi.”
“Ah Rawalpindi! I worked there for many years in the sixties.”
“You did? Where?”
“At the Holy Family hospital. I met President Ayub in uniform. I had delivered his daughter’s baby.”
Next surprise.
“Aaap ka kya haal hai,” she spoke to me in Urdu.
I pulled my chair closer, leaned forward and peppered her with questions.
It gets better.
Another woman, who appeared to be in her seventies, turned towards me and started speaking to me in Punjabi. “Mennoo gulabi gulabi Punjabi aandee aye”.
I almost dropped off the chair.
It didn’t end there.
The next day, I was at the Open Mic, and a woman, she must be in her seventies also, asked me, “Where are you from?”
I gave her a straight answer. I had learned my lesson.
Listen to her response:
“Where in Pakistan?”
Another one.
I answered.
“I know Rawalpindi. I was there when I was with the Peace Corp in India, and I traveled all the way from Karachi to Khyber Pass into Afghanistan.”
It didn’t end there.
I came back to New York City, and now I am in a doctor’s office—a specialist—whom I am seeing for the first time. He walks in, introduces himself—he must be in his forties, dark hair, light skin. After taking care of his doctor business, he asks:
“Are you from Egypt?”
He must know the terrain to narrow me down to Northern Africa.
“From Pakistan.”
“Where in Pakistan?”
Did America do a 180 degrees in the last two months while I was taking a nap?
“Rawalpindi,” I answered.
“I haven’t been to Rawalpindi, but I was in Quetta?”
Now. Know that when tourists or academicians or diplomats or whoever visits Pakistan, they don't come back saying: “I was in Quetta”. It’s Islamabad, Karachi, Lahore, Rawalpindi—the metropolitan cities. Sometimes Peshawar.
“What were you doing in Quetta?”
“I had escaped.”
Picture this: I am sitting on an exam table in a doctor’s office, looking down at the doctor sitting by his computer.
“Where did you escape from?” My turn to ask questions.
Readers, if you know your geography, you will guess immediately. I should have guessed, silly me!
“Iran.”
Of course!
Did you just take another look at the map above.
“When was this? How old were you? How did you escape?”
It was the 1980s, the Iranian revolution had taken place, he was an Iranian Jew, and he and his brother and a whole group of Jewish families had been smuggled out of Iran into Quetta, Pakistan.
"What…how…where….when…then what….?” History-taking in the reverse.
“While staying in Quetta, we were instructed not to go out during the day, and if we were stopped by the police, we were to place a $5 bill in their hands, and I tell you, in the 1980s, that was a lot of money.”
“Why would you be questioned by the police?”
“Because we were two 9-year old brothers, who didn’t look Pakistani, and we were stopped.”
“Who brought you over and where did you stay?”
He told me about this organization—I can’t remember the name. Normally, I whip out my notebook and start taking notes, but remember, I was in a doctor’s examining room, perched on an exam table, with my pocketbook nestled on the chair in the corner. Anyhow, this was the organization that brought Jews out of Russia. They got them out of Iran, into Quetta, from there to Karachi, then to Austria, and after a couple of years, to the US.
“If we had chosen Israel, we would have gotten placed immediately. But US was another matter. We had to wait in Austria until we were processed.”
“Where did you live in Karachi?”
“There was this Pakistani woman who sponsored us and took care of us."
I ran a checklist through my mind, conjuring up the names of women philanthropists in Pakistan.
"A Jewish lady.” He must have read my mind.
“Jewish?”
“Yeah! Her family owned this carpet business. She gave us a place to live, and her house was open to us, we could come and go, and were made to feel very welcome.”
More questions. More answers. We continued to chat. I was aware that there were patients waiting for him, but this story was too good to let go off. The young boy eventually made his way to America and is now a doctor.
See where a question can lead you!
I have learned my lesson. Now when someone will ask me ‘where are you from?’ I will leap at saying ‘Pakistan’, and see where it takes me; which world it opens for me.
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