Behind me is a window to the world. Rather, to a 700 year old portion of Lahore's old city. Lower-middle class Pakistani's live here, doing lower-middle class Pakistani things. I watch the rooftops sometimes, when there isn't much to do at work. Rooftops of different heights, different shapes, widths, colours and even some with tiles. Roofs with water tanks, with stairs and chicken coops. Rooftops with charpai (the traditional Pakistani bed/cot) or acting as cricket courts and as kite-flying platforms. Although I can only see the tops and the outsides of these homes, I feel that I still get a somewhat secret glance into this world.
During Lahore's normally dusty winter days, I can only see a few, those closest, and the community mosque. But on days like today, I can see far, to the horizon, where this neighborhood blends with the next and the next, all Pakistan, all Lahore. A new neighborhood begins with each Mosque Minaret, the inhabitants of which probably know each other in passing or even quite well, as the families who live in these homes, have often lived there, generation to generation, for hundreds of years. This area houses some of the City's 9 million inhabitants, that is, those who are lucky enough to have a roof overhead.
These people do not have the servants, A/Cs and the multiple cars that the upper classes have, but they do have enough food on their tables, enough money to send their children to school and small businesses to sustain themselves. They respect their homes, and keep them clean to the best of their abilities. The homes are usually lived in by extended family units, creating an atmosphere of dependence, comfort and often joy, as children's voices ring out in courtyards or on these very rooftops. Already I see children flying small plastic kites, although the kite flying festival, or Basant, doesn't officially begin until March. The wind is starting to pick up, and these kids want practice before the big event.
The children who live in these homes often have dreams about becoming doctors or engineers. Their dreams are often squashed when they grow old enough to understand Pakistan's rigid socio-economic structure, which most often binds people to the rung into which they were born, limiting upwards social mobility, limiting the dreams of studying medicine or engineering due to the cost and the time involved. The schools they go to are not those that feed into the best universities or even give them the scholarships they would need to go abroad, rendering them largely uncompetitive even if they do pursue these dreams.
The older generations living in these homes, especially the women, may be illiterate, while the younger are learning basic English in schools, and can write both Urdu Script, and Roman English. The schools these youngsters go to still face a lack of trained teachers, up-to-date or quality materials, and will not provide students with comfort in the 8 Degree Celcius winters or the +50 Degree summers.
Children in these communities are are raised to respect and fear the wrath of Allah and to live by strict Islamic principles. A mixture of fundamentalism from older generations and the media's portrayal of a more lax western youth create an interesting paradoxical influence in the lives of these children. Most of the boys grow up to own both shalwar kameez and jeans, worn side by side on alternative days, the girls however, as they portray the family's honour and face life-long humiliation if not properly married off, remain in their traditional dress, often choosing to use a hijab, chador or full covering in later years.
The people living in these homes often exhibit an awkward combination of religious zeal and western cravings, as I assume is the case in most cities braced on the brink of modernity.
