It’s been a while since I’ve written, but this trip through the UK stirred up thoughts that needed to be put down. We started in London, drove through the countryside, and ended up in places like Warwick, Stubbington, and Bradford—each town becoming part of a larger conversation we were having with ourselves and with history.

One of the most striking parts of the journey was our time in Bradford. The streets felt like a slice of Pakistan—chattering in Urdu, shop signs in two languages, the smell of samosas drifting through the air. It left me wondering: how did this come to be? Why Bradford? Why so many Pakistanis here?

The answer goes back to post-World War II Britain, when the country was rebuilding after massive destruction and needed labor to get its factories, transport systems, and hospitals running again. The 1948 British Nationality Act opened the door to citizens from former colonies—including Pakistan—to live and work in the UK as British subjects.

The Queen didn’t strike a dramatic deal with any Pakistani leader, but there was an unspoken agreement: Britain needed workers, and Pakistan had thousands of men eager to provide for their families. Especially in areas like Mirpur, where people were later displaced by the Mangla Dam project, economic hardship made migration seem like a golden opportunity—even if it meant working in cold factories and living in shared hostels. These men arrived alone at first, then brought over brothers, cousins, and eventually wives and children.

They were welcomed for their labor, but not always for their presence. Many endured poor housing, long hours, and overt racism. And yet, they endured. In time, entire neighborhoods were born—little worlds that straddled two identities, two homes, two histories.

It was surreal walking through those streets decades later, seeing the legacy of that migration. To think: these men helped build modern Britain, yet so many of their children and grandchildren still carry the weight of not fully belonging. Their taxes now pay for the upkeep of statues—like the one of Winston Churchill—honoring a man who considered them inferior. That’s a strange, painful irony.

We left Bradford and drove south, through peaceful places like Stubbington, where the girls reconnected with friends from our Mirleft hub. They played on the coast, collected shells, laughed under a wide blue sky. These moments—simple, quiet—are what worldschooling is all about.

Our journey eventually brought us to Warwick, where we Hamid. Our conversation with him took a different turn—one that stayed with me far longer than the drive itself.

Hamid re introduced me to a Quranic concept I’d heard of but never really explored: nafs-e-mutma’inna. It means “the soul at peace.” In Islam, the self (nafs) is seen as going through stages. The base self (nafs al-ammarah) is dominated by ego and desire. The nafs al-lawwama begins to self-correct and feel remorse. But nafs-e-mutma’inna—that’s the highest state. The soul that has found peace in God’s will. No anxiety. No restlessness. Just trust.

Hamid compared it to Nirvana in Buddhism—the release from suffering and desire. He said both paths, though different in practice, point to the same thing: the quieting of the storm within.

It made me think: how many of us ever even try to reach that place? We chase, we compare, we regret. But this state—the soul at peace—isn’t about winning or collecting or fixing. It’s about surrender. About alignment with something bigger than ourselves.

And then, in the backseat, my daughter Safia—thirteen years old—said something that cut through everything:
“Humans are the only species that kill without needing to survive.”

It was raw. True. Haunting.

We humans are capable of building cities, healing others, and writing poetry—but also of inflicting cruelty for reasons far beyond survival. Maybe the journey to nafs-e-mutma’inna isn’t just spiritual—it’s necessary. A protection from what we could become.

Earlier in the trip, I found myself reevaluating old beliefs. I had once dismissed T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) as just another imperial agent. But a conversation with Bruce, Yasmeen Apa’s husband, shifted that. He told me Lawrence was Welsh, and genuinely aligned with the Arab cause during the revolt against the Ottomans. But when the British government betrayed the Arabs through secret deals like Sykes-Picot, Lawrence was devastated. Some say he never recovered—that the betrayal broke him. That he ended his own life. Isn’t that something? A second perspective can undo decades of judgment.

This trip through the UK wasn’t just sightseeing. It was about listening—really listening. To the stories buried beneath the surface, to the people we met, and to the still voice inside. From migration and identity to soul states and war heroes, we were constantly learning, rethinking, and feeling.

In the end, travel teaches me that the world isn’t just wide—it’s deep. And the deeper you go, the more you discover that the real journey was never out there. It was always within.