My friend Kairn Klieman talks about her response to the question about home:
Home is feeling relaxed and free and at ease–hidden from all of life’s demands. It feels cuddly. Home is not my childhood home. There was tension there. It was not cuddly, not easy. My home is what I created here; what I made for myself.
The space for “home” is moveable, and it depends on the situation. The only thing about my childhood home [in California] that feels cuddly is nature, the forest and the beaches. I miss that because we don’t have that here [in Houston]. The shift happened when I was young and I came back from Africa and didn’t fit anymore. And I’ve moved a lot—and I can create home for myself. I can set up home in a hotel.
In Houston, my home is my kid, my husband, my PJs, my cats and my own cooking – when I’m peaceful. Cooking is only peaceful about one third of the time, otherwise it’s hard!
This conversation is part of my What Is Home? project.
Over a snack-lunch of papri-chat, bhel-puri and Bombay roll at Sri Pavan Bhavan on Houston’s Hillcroft Avenue, Zeba Shah – after being away from Houston for several years during which time she floated between Madrid, Los Angeles and Islamabad – talks about what “home” means to her:
“Home” is a place where I feel secure, centered and loved. It’s where you’ve been happiest – that is home. It’s a place where you belong.
I’ve lived all over – my father was in the army – I’ve lived in different places with my parents. Houston is where I’ve been the longest, but for me, Quetta brings back memories of sunshine, snow and a glorious childhood- life in Quetta was always perfect. My parents were there.
Houston is where our daughters were born, and as long as they kept coming back, it was home. We felt bonded. And now I’m back in Houston after being away for four years, and it doesn’t feel the same. I feel like I could move anywhere. There was a time when I felt I was an integral part of Houston, and I don’t feel like that any more. It takes time to reconnect. So much has changed since I left.
These questions make me think about how one doesn’t always have a choice. We go where my husband’s job takes us, and I make that home. And when he retires, we’ll have to think about where we’ll be happiest.
Some of the things that I’d like to do now that I’m back in Houston are: going to school and taking Spanish classes, starting painting again, being more entrenched in whatever life has to offer. I can’t spend the next four or five years feeling in-between. I have to make the effort to make Houston home again.
Of course, I could easily live in Islamabad and Lahore – there’s so much one can contribute there, so much work to be done. Because of Development in Literacy, I’ve travelled all over Pakistan and been part of the real Pakistan. But living there is not an option because my whole family is here in the US; so is my husband’s family. My children belong here and could never live in Pakistan. So one’s heart has to choose between the different places that tug at it. I do see many retired Pakistanis moving back and forth and spending equal time here and in Pakistan. Perhaps that’s the best solution if one can manage it. My generation in the US will always have a sentimental affinity to their country of origin. That’s something you can’t change. – Zeba Shah
This conversation is part of my What Is Home? project.
Shirin Herman, who works with Houston Independent Services’ Refugee Program, talks about her personal journey:
At this point in my life, Houston is home; being with my husband at home is home.
I’m from Kenya and Tanzania where there was perpetual strife. And then political strife followed me to Bangladesh in 1969. And then, after coming to the US, meeting my husband, marrying him at age 19. I assimilated in the US quickly. I changed my accent, adapted to the food, clothing. It took me a lot longer to get back to my own culture and roots.
I’m not from here. And I was being asked constantly: Where are you from?
And my answer: Indian born in Africa with a detour in Bangladesh and Italy.
That’s why I wanted my daughter to be born in the US, so she could have just one home. That’s the one factor that brought the point of “home” in my face – this is home, but I’m not from here. And I’m okay with that.
Now I’m in my sixties and have worked with Houston’s immigrant communities for more than ten years. They are refugees, and that could have been my story except my parents were well-to-do and believed in education.
For refugees, the transition is almost insurmountable. I’ve been to their funerals, taken them to hospitals and to schools. Working my field gives me an appreciation of how different my experience was because I came to the US as a student.
Today my daughter is family. My brother and sister live 90 miles away. We visit regularly and that does it for me.
I still yearn to look at my old school in Dar-es-Salaam in Tanzania – I left at age 16 without saying goodbye. The closest I can go to a place that I lived in the past is Detroit. When my husband and I visit there, we drive back down the street to our old house. I can’t go back any further than that. I can’t go to Dhaka. Too expensive, and it would be silly to go back for that reason. And there’s no one there. I guess I could go to Dar-es-Salaam, but I don’t know if the buildings exist. And again, no one is there.
It’s taken time for me to be okay, and to be comfortable with being in-between – I’m in between cultures, religion, languages. But I connect with people from all over the globe, and at the same time I have no problems connecting with mainstream Americans because my husband is from Ohio – and Catholic to boot!
This conversation is part of my What Is Home? project.
I grip my the steering wheel and focus on the ramp that will spill us into the fast lane of Interstate-45.
Minal calls out from the back: Did you see that?
See what? I ask, still looking ahead.
There’s a shopping cart and a man was sitting there on a camping chair drinking coffee. And he had a clothesline all around him.
It’s been a while since Minal has offered me commentary about the homeless community scattered beneath the ramps.
I won’t be able to see him, I tell her. I have to keep my eyes on the road.
That’s how he made his home, she says.
I converse with my friend/social worker/fellow-mother Stephanie, as we wait for our children to wrap-up soccer practice.
I feel at “home” when I’m relaxed and comfortable, and able to be completely myself with people around me.
The space that feels most like home to me is Stettler, Alberta, Canada (pop. 1,000) – a rural farm with no one around for miles. The core of “home” is the farm on the bald prairie; that’s what created me.
In one way, Houston is “home” – with family and friends and I work here. It’s a big city and I’m anonymous. But because it’s not the home of my family of origin, I never think of Houston that way.
If you’re from the farm, something about growing your own food is important. The farm is your identifier. Anything away from that life is almost like against that nationhood.”—Stephanie
This conversation is part of my What Is Home? project.
Part of my What Is Home? project includes raising the same question (with a few more thrown in, thanks to my friends Jaspal and Yaksha) to family members, friends and others who cross my path.
For me, home means being around family wherever family is– and so my idea of home is open since I have family in many different locations. There is no single place where I feel completely at home. I never thought about what home was until I was 10 and we moved from Europe to Pakistan and I left the only home I knew. As I became older, I started to wonder, “What is home?” My grandparents’ house was in Lahore, but it no longer exists, and the same is true for my parents’ house in Islamabad. I was born in Vienna, Austria, which is also, as it happens, where my mother currently lives. I live with my family, Naeem and the boys, in Ithaca, NY, also my home.
Pakistan is my artistic home and source. All my writing derives from that space and my relationship to it. This home is my constant.
I lived in Pakistan from 1972-79 and I left for college until 1983. I returned, but left in 1984 for graduate school. After graduate school, I travelled once a year to Pakistan until our first child was born in 1992. Later, we spaced out our visits with the children to perhaps once every two years. I spent six months in Pakistan on a Fulbright researching my first novel in 1999, the same year my father died. Technically, however, I’ve been away from Pakistan since I left for college at age seventeen.
I no longer feel that not having a Home is problematic or that I’m missing something by not having one. My father used to tell us when we were growing up that we are lucky because we have many worlds (he was Pakistani, my mother is Dutch); I’ve now arrived at a complete understanding of this and he was, in fact, right. There was a time in my life when not having a Home was a source of sorrow, but now that space is my inspiration and my reason to write. My concept of home was fundamentally affected when my father died. We no longer had a family home and my mother left Pakistan, traumatic events that shifted everything and gave me new perspective.
My sense of loss has been filled with my writing and work. I write my home. Obviously, in a concrete sense, I have a home – a place I live with my husband and children, the family and home we have made. Yet, there’s no way to call my current city Home. It’s my home, but then it’s not. For me to call Ithaca “Home” all the parts of who I am would have to be here. My father would be alive, Islamabad and Lahore would be here, my grandparents, too …no factors can make that happen. Right now, my home is my where my husband and children are, but making Ithaca my home with a capital H is not going to happen. – Sorayya Khan
“When you ask the question ‘what is home?’ are you talking about a physical space or an emotional place?” asks my friend Yaksha. “Those are two different things.”
“This is not an easy question to answer,” comments my friend Jaspal with whom I’ve been discussing my project over the last year. This Sunday afternoon, we sit in Jaspal’s living room, brainstorming survey questions and social gatherings for my What Is Home? project. “The word ‘home’ can mean so many different things to people…”
Yaksha and I nod, sipping the masala tea that Jaspal prepared for us. Outside the windows, sun rays shift between patches of drizzle.
“Just drinking this tea and sitting with friends makes me feel as if I’m home,” says Yaksha. “And your question is so simple – home’s a subject we all reflect on – yet we don’t often converse with each other about this idea…”
As I work on my project, I find that even though so many anthologies and talks have been produced around the subject of home and belonging, yet the very word home generates conversation and reflection – and answers to what is home? are never monolithic.31 August 2014
In Ferguson, an invisible line separated white and black communities. In Jerusalem, a no-man’s land separated people, designated by barbed wire.
She concludes with:
Things will change again in Ferguson. Historic inequities in that community will be reexamined, no one will be able to pretend they don’t exist. But will we examine them in other communities too?
Will things change for Gaza? If they don’t, this nightmare of worst selves will keep happening and happening. Look, it already has. And what gets better? Will the United States ever speak out in solidarity with scores of exhausted people burying their dead, staring up with stunned eyes, mystified?
At the end of August 2014, six weeks since the new violence unfolded, more than 2,000 Palestinians have died. As reported in Al Arabiya news, most of the lives have been those of civilians, and more than 490 children have been killed.
In the meantime, outrage continues to be expressed around the globe, but there is little sign of violence ending. Nye’s essay is one more reminder of the urgency to address to deeper issues behind the conflict so there can be resolution.
I drive along Lawndale Street, but pull over to capture an image of the perigree moon hovering above oak trees, a perfect yellow circle emanating radiance. In appreciation of the natural light, I turn off my headlights, and for a few seconds, remember how the streets looked after Hurricane Ike when there was no electricity for 10 days and there were more moments like these when life slowed down and we stopped to appreciate natural light and air.
On our first Saturday afternoon in Houston after a month of roaming, Minal, René and I meander on our bikes along a new trail that’s being built along Brays Bayou as part of a new initiative, trails to connect the city for walkers and bicyclists. Some paths are utilized by more people and landscaped better than others. This one, a corner of the Brays Bayou. is only just beginning to be used for biking.
I know that I’ve landed in the US when I absorb mainstream news and find barely any mention of the 1,500 women, children and men killed in Gaza.
After visiting with Sharlene Bamboat at the South Asian Visual Arts Center (SAVAC), a 20-year-old arts organization, I wander down the streets of downtown Toronto with my friend Salma. Next to a street stall displaying batik skirts and jewelry, I stop to admire a tree sculpture.
A little further down, I capture an image of “borderline” on a store window, a very different interpretation of the word from one that we’re exploring for VBB’s Borderlines production series.
Minal and I press close to the airplane window as we watch the airplane drop closer toward Lake Ontario’s blue water. In the background is Toronto’s skyline.
At customs, after responding to questions such as why I’m visiting Toronto and where’s Minal’s father, we walk over to the conveyer belt to pick up our luggage. Once we have our baggage, we load the trolley and head toward an exit, but the only sign we see is one that leads to a ferry. With some assistance, we learn that Billy Bishop Airport is on an island, and to reach the shore, we have to wheel our baggage onto a ferry, which will drop us off into the passenger pickup area.
My sister, Beena Sarwar, has a spate of snack-recipes to share: baked beets, sauteed carrots and baked cauliflowers – to name just a few.
The pre-Eid shopping frenzy has already begun in Karachi, and shopping centers remain open after iftari. One night, my mother Zakia Sarwar and I wander over to the Forum, so I can purchase some books, and after entering the shopping center, we find ourselves walking past a window displaying lingerie. Further down is some music and drumming and we stumble onto a breakdancer holding audience beneath the escalators.
My friend Ilona Yusuf sneaks me into a café in Islamabad.
They may throw us out, she says. But let’s try anyway.
She shares the story of how she and her son tried to visit the café during the first few days of Ramzan earlier this month, but they weren’t allowed up the stairs where non-Pakistanis were being served beverages and food. I’ve been spending time with friends and family with little desire to dine anywhere but at residential homes, so the reminder of General Zia’s Ramzan Ordinance is jarring.
This morning, though, we are permitted inside, and we spend our morning imbibing coffee and catching up.
I take a drive up to the Wagah border to experience the raising of flags ceremony that has been documented many times over. The afternoon is humid and hot, and the soldiers dressed in black, are streaming strands of sweat even as they march across the steaming asphalt.
The ceremony is a performance that takes place every single day as both Indian and Pakistani soldiers march, kick up legs and raise and lower the flags, but with ramzaan underway, the Pakistani crowds are thin. On the Indian side, though, across the gates are compressed bodies packed on cement stairs, and men walk through the crowd, selling flags. After the ceremony ends, a couple of clowns on the Pakistan side pound on drums and wave flags.
As we walk away, I know that this act of daily patriotism is one that I can only bear to witness once.
I learn via email that I’ve been awarded an artist innovations grant through the Mid-America Arts Alliance for my What is Home? project, one that I started eighteen months ago during my residency with the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Center for the Arts.
Thanks to Salima Hashmi, I spend the evening iftar with a group of artists at Rohtas 2, a gallery on one side of Professor Hashmi’s house as we discuss Voices Breaking Boundaries’ Borderlines project.
Dubai airport continues to expand, getting increasingly glamorous with little credit given to men from different parts of Asia who provide hard labor yet live outside the city’s air-conditioned glass bubble.