The Story Of An Immigrant

At the age of 14, I was to travel to a whole different world. I was visiting Pakistan, a country which I knew little about. Although, my father would mention, the humid and dry climate in his hometown compared to back here in the states. Memories and snippets of my father’s late night storytelling to me and my siblings would come to mind. “Dad can you tell me a story?” I would plead.

“What kind of story?” he asked.

I sighed “About when you were younger.”

He replied, “Aamir life back home in Pakistan was very tough for me and my family. He continued “Me and my brothers barely had any food whenever we come home. We come walking back from school starving. When we were really young at your age we would cry. We would cry too, whenever we get

Yet I felt there was still something missing, I have never seen the country.

It was not till the day I left home in Horsham, did I begin to feel the sadness of departure. Needless to say I was a bundle of nerves. I remember watching my father and Uncle Khalid place me and my siblings’ suitcases in the trunk of the rental van. Thoughts about departure only made me acknowledge my sweaty palms, as I remember taking a quick glance at my house. I was now waiting patiently as we made our way to the JFK

This was the main way to travel, as store fronts were within walking distance. One place in particular, we visited was the district of Vassipura. Shopping for garments was the main reason to visit the district, as I would pass along dirt roads clustered by motorcycles rumbling in all directions to reach their destination. Often we would pass by many folks doing their daily activities to earn a living. Some would be working outside within the scorching sun, stitching suits with an old fashioned sewing machine. Farmers herded much livestock on the roads. Wagons were also gripped and pulled by middle aged