My childhood echoes with the sounds of glass bangles dancing against each other as crowds gathered for endless cultural events. The smells of potato samosas and jalebis, a traditional South Asian delicacy, wafted through the air as families and friends celebrated outdoors. Ramadan, Eid, Basant, Festivals; there were so many nights like these ones, where culture and history were celebrated by all generations. Twinkling lights would hug on to the trees surrounding the canal, and the city streets would be filled with the colors of decorations, and the sequenced chiffon outfits of beautiful women. This is the Pakistan that I remember. This was my home.

It is strange to discuss this portion of my life with people, who often ask what it was like to grow up in Pakistan as an American citizen. Growing up in Pakistan was not an experience, but rather, a fact that has come to represent who I am, as well as whom I aspire to be. I was born, and spent the first 16 years of my life absorbed in a culture that I am proud to claim as my own. Despite the color of my skin, and my partial Irish decent, I truly believe that I belong to the colorful world of South Asia, just as much as any one else may claim it as their own culture. However, it was a long process for me to truly understand my heritage and culture, as well as to be proud of it.

Unfortunately, the Pakistani culture is often clouded over with a ‘white is right’ ideology, the culture of the Western world appearing as something ‘cooler’ or more interesting than the rich culture of the subcontinent, as old as the land itself. This is a recent development for the newer generations growing up in Pakistan, who yearn to be disassociated with the negative light that has begun to shroud over a culture that is beautiful and unique in its very existence. Growing up, I had always felt like an outsider looking in on society. The color of my skin separated me from a culture that I believed to be my own, and thus, I always felt a little misplaced in the country that I wanted so badly to wholeheartedly claim as my own.

My father is American, and thus, I held onto the shreds of the American culture that came to me through the occasional visits to the States, as well as a keen study of television and culture that was considered to be ‘Western. I remember sitting in the car once with my mother and stepfather listening to the beautiful sounds of A. R. Rahman, and begging my parents to change the station to something more ‘current’ or ‘cool’. I turned my back on a beautiful culture that preached the sufi ideals of love and peace, and instead, drowned out these sounds with the pop songs of Lady Gaga and Akon. When other friends would see me, I would test out these white culture tricks that I had learnt through the osmosis of others. They thought I was cool for being "western and hip." In reality, all I wanted was to feel accepted as a part of them. I knew that this was never going to happen, so instead, I claimed homage in a country that I had technically never lived in up until that point. I was so embarrassed to claim the culture of Pakistan, because I wasn’t sure if it was ready to claim me; with my blonde hair and pearly white skin. I tried my best to look and act as white as possible, because I felt that it was here that I actually belonged, and thus, I gave up on a culture that I would soon learn was the most important thing to me.

As human beings, we are made up of our experiences. It wasn’t until I moved to the United States when I was 17 years old, that I realized I had spent my entire life yearning for a culture that was never going to be a part of me. I hadn’t grown up with Disney channel and Nickelodeon the way that other American children had. They didn't understand the values that I had grown up with, and they didn't understand the importance of these values in developing an identity for yourself. Whilst some children had grown up listening to MTV, I had been lulled by the sound of the Azaan, or call to prayer, every evening. It could never be understood how riding a camel by the beach in Karachi was an otherwise normal thing to do, or how donkey carts and rickshaws were as normal a mode of transportation as a car. My American peers would never be able to understand what it meant to be Pakistani, and how having this identity meant that you would always have a family, no matter where you may be. As hard as I would try and fit in to the American culture that I had always wanted to be a part of, my life would always be loyal to the world that I had grown up in. Ironically, I was far too "brown" to be induced into the American culture, and I was too "white" to call claim to the Pakistani culture. I struggled with my identity for most of my life. However, it is only until recently that I discovered that identity is beyond color, and one develops them based upon the adventures that make them who they are.

Now falling into the second decade of my life, I have begun to yearn for a rebirth into the culture that raised me, a culture that would have accepted me, had I learnt to accept myself as a part of it. Unfortunately, we cannot choose where we come from, or how we are brought into this World. I belong to a rich ethnicity that has ethnic values as old as the society itself. Despite recent tainting on Pakistan, I have learnt to take pride in a country that needs patriotism now more than ever. We can, however, decide where to go from then onwards. Despite my white skin, red hair and my Irish last name, I am proud to call myself a Pakistani.

Ye hai hamara Pakistan.