'Karachi is burning, darlings.' Powder puff and then a dab of lipstick. Fiery red dress and I smile at the irony. Karachi burnt for a while before you noticed. You were shocked out of your bed at one am just a few days ago. Early.

Unreal City. Funny how much Karachi reminds me of Eliot. Maybe because bits and pieces are literally a wasteland. Desert. Who goes there?

 'You're here because of dengue, she can't go out like that, I never know where he is. Never. What is going on?' My mother is worried. My mother never worries. It just doesn't happen. But now she says a prayer every morning before she drops my sister off to school. She says a prayer knowing what is meant to happen will happen. She sends another kid, perpetually rebelling, to school not knowing if he even goes to school half the time, not knowing where he'll end up.

They tell us, apparently, there are mosquitoes mentioned in the Book. I don't know what that means. Is the end near? Should I have capitalized that 'e'? Is this how we're meant to go? How undramatic.

Eleven houses destroyed and I knew one of them well. Twice a week a woman taught us Hamlet soullessly. And she would tell us, rich kids with foreign passports, to get out while we could. Now now now. And then her house exploded and I wonder whether she'll leave.

And somewhere there are floods. I'm not sure where. Were they mentioned too? Should we check?

Should we leave? Karachi is burning, darlings. My parents are getting old. But where would we go? Back there? It's too cold there. Too different. Karachi is burning but at least we'll stay and try to salvage the pieces we loved the most. And maybe soon, sooner than soon, we can try again.

And so here I am.

It's funny being here. Maybe because I was so convinced that this is not where I'd end up or maybe because there's no time to adjust really, honestly it happens all by itself and bam suddenly it's like you've been doing it all your life which is sortofexhilaratingsortofdepressing in a way I can't place.

I'm excited about it though, don't get me wrong. Pretty campus, good people. And I realize of course that typical situations are everywhere and it's what you make of them that proves whether or not you are typical.

LUMS is such a mix of things, of people. Girls that stumble over three syllable English words and chatter away in Punjabi rooming with Karachi 'elite' girls in jeans and tank tops. It takes all kinds. I like the variety. I have yet to form a solid opinion about anything except maybe the womens gym which sucks. But hey, give it time.

I'm a brilliant packer but I'm forgetting things today. Shoes? Headphones? Where the fuck is everything?

I wonder if Lahore has a cure for my writer's block. Let's see.

It's all such an act and I've mentioned this before of course but it continues to haunt me, continues to surprise me.  Ten days to a fortnight after I realize where I'm going comes the actual breakdown. The actual realization and regret. Before it was all scripted, the disappointment, the tears and resignation. And now, when there are guests downstairs and actual work to be done I am incapable of lifting a finger.

I'm alright, I'm alright, I'm alright. It's for the best, four years will go by just like that, I can study what I please, it's another city, a competitive university, people have done worse, the parents are happy. Of course I'm alright.

And they're so happy that I listened and wasn't stubborn and didn't pull them further and further apart, didnt pick at the remains of what is left of a relationship. I'm getting lots of presents. So happy.

And all the congratulations and forced smiles and buying suitcases and straighteners have kept me so occupied. All of a sudden the phone rings again and I cannot, just cannot tell yet another person that I am excited.

All I can do is reassure myself that I did the right thing for me. In the long run this guarantees my freedom. And in that selfishness, I delight.

I'm alright, I'm alright, I'm alright, Except for now I'm not.

The Women

Women in Saudi Arabia do not occupy public space. This realization came to me when I was sitting (yet again) inside a mosque being pushed around by a million women who all of a sudden seemed to just not be there any more.

What does occupying public space even mean? It must be clarified that these women are physically present. I mean you see them everywhere. But not in every sense of the phrase 'occupying public space.' I've mentioned before that Saudi women cannot show clothes, hair and skin. I can see a forgettable part of their faces. I cannot tell how much they weigh, see breasts or legs or arms or birthmarks. Is that even enough to remember a person by? It certainly makes them far more difficult to remember. Mission accomplished Saudi government?

Women in Saudi Arabia are not allowed to have a sense of style because they must all look more or less the same, they cannot drive, cannot smoke, walk with their eyes lowered, they do not walk alone and must act a certain way. They glide in and out of their houses, clothed mostly in black, saying little to strangers and leaving little impact. They are not allowed to leave an impact.

Women in Saudi Arabia do not occupy public space and as I watch these hordes of chattering women surrounding me I wonder if they even know it.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 4

Past Fajr and I had been good for exactly a day and a night now. It was time to get out. Shrugging on an abaya, hastily pinning on a scarf and exactly half a minute later out of my hotel and onto the streets of Madinah. The sun had risen by now and the thousand stalls were laid out.

Women do not walk alone in Saudi and I wound my way through the streets hoping that I wouldn't attract any attention. Never look an Arab man in the eye. Even if he's really good looking. Also never look a policeman in the eye.

A boy in shorts grinned and waved at me as I walked by. He called out 'I've seen you before.' and I turned around to frown at him. 'Yes.' He said, smiling because now he had my attention. 'In the mosque. Your scarf was falling down.' But of course.

He asked if I smoked and I took a cigarette. 'When you are with me it's fine, you can smoke. They'll think we're married.' He said nonchalantly (I almost choked) 'When you are alone you must hide the cigarette under your scarf.' I nodded, pretending to speak little English. 'You haven't asked me my name but I will tell you Muneer Isaac. From Palestine. Are we friends now?' A laugh escaped me. He smiled, encouraged, and I realized he had no idea exactly how beautiful he was.

We sat there, on a random street in a side of the city that was almost empty of tourists and talked. He was studying to be an engineer and had moved here three years ago. He asked about my life and gradually I opened up. Sentences turned into stories as I told him about Karachi and how I may be in London next year. He was the first person to ask me whether I was scared to go.

Hours later, I got back to the hotel. This city too, despite it's effort to dismiss them, had it's secrets.

And so I'd made a friend.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 3

And there is confusion more than anything, chaos more than everything. A thousand languages uttering the same thing again and again and again. So many people, so many places. And all for what? To be part of something bigger than themselves. And even though I disagree with this entire affair on so many levels, there is one tiny part of me that understands it. The need to be this way. Why we cling to what is familiar, what is ritualistic and safe.

It's strange really how it repels and attracts me at the same time. I wonder how everyone else feels right now.