Gaining An Identity   Sanaa Bhatty     © Copyright 2002 by Sanaa Bhatty.

I grew up without sense of family. I mean, sure, I had immediate family, which consisted of my parents and younger brother, but I lacked any form of an extended family. I was not deprived, for I had numerous family friends who filled in the voids, but it just wasn't the same. I was jealous of those who always had generous aunts, who had mischievous cousins; I was jealous of those with families. I also lacked heritage; I never felt connected to my parents' mother country. The reason I grew up without family and heritage was because they both resided a 26-hour flight away, in Pakistan. I had been to Pakistan, a small country in South Asia alongside the Himalayan Mountains, when I was a toddler, but certainly had no recollection of it. All I knew of the foreign place was from what my grandparents (paternal) and grandmother (maternal) told me. I looked forward to their annual visits because of the fascinating stories they narrated of my unknown relatives and traditions. I could scarcely believe how different life was in Pakistan; it was difficult to comprehend. I couldn't believe my mom had four sisters, and my dad, three brothers, each with his own family. I would secretly pretend I knew them all, personifying each of my stuffed animals as one family member, and invited them to my tea parties. Sometimes, I wondered if my grandparents made up these tales of a tangible family; but deep down, I believed the stories were true.

 Thus, when my parents informed me that autumn night in 1990, of our upcoming trip to Pakistan, I could hardly sleep. I would now know if the tales of my unknown family were true. I packed my toys, eager to share them with my cousins, leaving behind only my stuffed animals. No longer did I need them as my pretend family. I was getting a real one.

 Looking back at the green and white plane after the almost never-ending journey, climbing down the rickety, steel steps, feeling the chills of the icy air-- are all things I remember vividly from the time I arrived in Pakistan. As I reached the bottom of the runway, the foreign land marveled me. Seeing the colorful, cultural clothing, hearing the unfamiliar languages, and having the similar complexioned people gazing toward me was all very strange, yet felt, oddly enough, comforting.

 After my grandfather greeted us at the V.I.P. lounge (he was a government official), the cars were loaded with our luggage and we departed for my grandfather's home. My paternal grandparents lived in Islamabad, the capital; whereas my widowed maternal grandmother lived in Lahore, one of the few urban cities. On the drive to his house, I was enchanted by the bustling sound of the streets: the bells of rusted bikes, the horns of the ornate cargo trucks, and the clatter of rickshaws. I questioned whether I was awake or dreaming of this peculiar place.

 Soon enough, we arrived at my grandfather's house in the prestigious F-7 district. I had never seen such a lavish home, with tended gardens, and immense size. It was eggshell white, consisting of two floors and eight bedrooms, and had huge, traditional pillars. I later learned there were many other areas of the house too, such as the prayer room, maids quarters, and an odd place called the "drawing room" where there was nothing to draw with. I thought this was a very backward country. I worried if the people were as queer.

 Once in the house, my family and I were led into the drawing room by the butler. I had never been pampered, so I found this to be very exciting. As we entered the room, we were in for a superb surprise; my maternal grandmother had traveled from Lahore to welcome us, and had brought along some of my cousins. My grandparents had also invited our family in the Islamabad area over that night, which included first cousins, second cousins, aunts, and uncles. Sitting down on the plush, maroon sofa, I realized I had fifteen sets of eyes examining me.

 This first meeting with family members felt thrilling, yet scary. However, being only five years old at the time, the excitement proved to overtake my anxieties, and only a few concerns remained: Will these newfound relatives like me? Will they want to play with me? And most important of them all, do they speak English?

 Luckily for me, they did indeed like me, and were keen on playing from the moment I arrived. My cousins showed me their toys that they had brought along (this is the international sign of friendship for five year olds), and I showed them mine in return. Elders asked me questions about myself--in perfect, although funny sounding English. What a relief! I had gained acceptance and my minor concerns soon vanished.

 Almost immediately, I distinguished who was who, even though I couldn't pronounce their names very well, and how we were related. It dawned upon me that these were the same people who sent birthday cards every year, and who rudely called monthly at midnight (because of the time difference).

 After my first hour in Pakistan, there had been much excitement for me. I finally had relatives to call family. The playful children liked me, and I became quite popular with them. The inquisitive adults sounded funny and listened attentively as I answered their questions. In all actuality, my relatives were strangers, yet their presence was familiar and fulfilling. Little by little, I began to grasp the idea of family. I also felt connected to their society, their heritage.

 After succumbing to weariness, I curled up on a soft Persian carpet in the center of the drawing room, and feel asleep, clutching onto the hand of one of my newfound relatives. After being thrust into a family and a new place, I had gained acceptance and prevailed. I now had a family and feeling of heritage of my own.

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