I arrived in Karachi on February 12th. Today is March 6th. It has been a while since I’ve sat down to write, but in this city, time has a way of disappearing. Between the dramatic shift in weather and the sheer intensity of being back, I’ve been struggling to find my footing. It feels different this time.

The Slow Settle

The first ten days were a test of patience. We tried to get SIM cards for the four of us on day one, but thanks to a PTA (Pakistan Telecom Authority) registration glitch, my phone refused to activate. It took ten days of complaints and back-and-forth to finally get connected. In a world where we rely so much on our devices, being “digitally stranded” took a toll.
Yet, there were comforts. I picked up a joint on the third or fourth day—a reminder of a certain freedom I don’t find in China. Truth be told, that’s perhaps the only thing I miss from my life in Canada. Everything else here is a different world entirely.

The Magic of the Routine

We are sliding into the Ramadan schedule now. It’s always an adjustment, but there is something hauntingly beautiful about it this time. I am staying in the house I grew up in. Waking up at 4:30 AM for Suhoor, seeing my mom and dad in that familiar pre-dawn light—it’s magical. You don’t realize the weight of those moments while they are happening, but they ground you.
I’ve been thinking a lot about a “state of Nirvana.” Last year in London, I met a 7-day Adventist who told me the hardest thing to do is let go. We spend our lives accumulating, maintaining, and guarding things, only for someone else to throw them in a junkyard when we’re gone.
Being here has pushed me toward that “letting go” philosophy. Letting go of work, of the need to be “on top” of everything, of the rigid control I maintained in China. In China, life was efficient—good food, no distractions, perfect systems. Karachi is oily, fatty, and chaotic. There are no schedules. The kids are told not to walk out, and the “energy” outside can feel dampening or even scary. There is a staggering disparity between the classes here that hits you the moment you step outside.

Shadows Over the City

While my personal life has been about reconnecting with my parents—understanding our dynamic for the first time in years—the world outside has been trembling.
The news of the bombings in Iran and the subsequent retaliations felt far too close. I think of our friends in Dubai and hope they are safe; the proximity to the conflict makes everything feel fragile. But the most jarring moment happened right here.
On a Sunday, returning from the graveyard, I ran into a massive protest on Mai Kolachi Road near the American Embassy. Eight people were shot and killed. The reports are conflicting—some say they were outside, others say they breached the perimeter—but the core of it is devastating. To protest in your own country and be shot dead by a foreign embassy’s guards… it boggles the mind.
Who were these eight people? They had suhor on a Sunday and decided their voices needed to be heard, and then they never went home. If they were billionaires, their names would be across every global headline. Because they were protesters in Karachi, they are just a statistic. It makes me question how we value human life. What is the “end game” for a world that cares so little? In 150 years, no one will even know where our graves are.

Why I’m Here

Despite the chaos, the fear, and the systemic frustrations, this trip has clarified one thing for me: I want to move back.
I want to spend my time here with the people I’ve known my whole life. I want to be with my family. Even the weather, as intense as it is, is a huge component of my happiness. I am happy to be back in Karachi. I want to be a part of my society’s fabric again. I want to help and I am ready.