بغاوت / Resistance
The land we walk on,
the ocean we brag about,
the Karachi that never sleeps,
the city that keeps stretching its boundaries, opening its arms, and adapting its ways for us,
for you, for me, and the millions of migrants seeking solace in the light of their dreams in the nooks and crannies of its dark alleys.
But as the land under our feet erodes,
as the ocean before our eyes turns murkier with each passing day,
as the city falls asleep with each dying person —a shot to the head or a strangled breath in the dark.
Ultimately, my city, my land, and my home ceased to expand for me and those who look like me.
The streets became foreign with each passing year,
city of eyes, they say, for my beloved Karachi,
city of the male gaze, I say, for the land that, some days, I struggle to call my own.
My land —it reeks.
It reeks of power, of patriarchy, of pleas for justice.
Worst of all, it reeks of complicity.
I would ask myself, should I just let it go? Should I run away? Should I, like so many others, be suffocated by my complacency?
A voice, though, always echoed through the walls that I had built between me and my beloved.
There are other 'P's too, it said, ones that keep us going.
With persistence,
with passion,
with purpose,
we took to the streets again,
we marched, we danced, we sang, we protested to reclaim what was rightfully ours.
We plastered ‘patriarchy’ on a coffin and carried it on our shoulders to its burial.
With each passing year, we march a little further, we chant a little louder, and we drown our complacency.
My land and I, however, continue our complicated relationship.
We struggle to own each other when we are together, but nothing else feels like home when we are apart.
Perhaps one day, when my land is not as encroached by patriarchy, I will claim it as mine.
Until then, with persistence, passion, and purpose, I will continue to reconfigure it,
for me, my sister, my female friends, and everyone who craves
to call this land home.