I'm Marinating In Chaos
This might be my most unhinged post on here. It somehow became a post about me and 2024
the year had started started out strange. we had just returned from a wedding in karachi; it was unnerving to sit around casually, hearing conversations about the financial world and the world of fashion designers while the world was on fire; not just gaza but our own capital had displayed violence against baloch protestors. it felt strange yet i still allowed myself the escape; i don’t know how to feel about that. was the ability to be aware of the world really a gift if i did nothing with that awareness?
the year stretched on, and this year winter stretched on too. it was glorious! to see fog so late into winter, to have rains keep the summers away; it felt fun. but each time it rained out of season this year, my mother would relay the same anecdote about her father; how he would say that “even if it rained gold, the farmers would still weep for the unseasonal downpour”. that simple quote always takes the joy out of such rain, but she wasn’t wrong to say it- her family were all farmers and some still are; the only difference is that her family made some different decisions which led to us enjoying unseasonal rain, instead of mourning it.
ramzan and eid too were odd this year. i mean its odd every year off late; the severe juxtaposition of the inherent simplicity of that time of year versus the consumerism of the time with buffets, sales, and shopping. this year, this overt display of have and have-nots was also met with the suffering of the world, the suffering of gaza. each iftari, at home or at an invite, felt heavy. how do you justify your excess, actually the definition or even the realization of what excess was came into question. was that second dish for iftari an excess, or having the ability to meet friends after iftari an excess? as ramzan neared its end, my mind almost began rationalizing life after the holy month; having thoughts like ‘oh its almost over, we can celebrate eid since we deserve it and then things will go back to normal’, but my mind also threw onto itself the same question from earlier; what use is heightened awareness if you do nothing with it.
this was also the time when decisions for creatvie writing mfa-s were coming through. given that i’m writing this currently in lahore, i dont have to tell you that i didnt get in anywhere. this was also the time when the encampments on us campuses began; my mind rationalized that too; ‘well who would want to do to an oppressive campus anyway?’..um, arslan, sorry to break it to you, you wanted to go to those campuses! its funny how rejection makes you find all the reasons in the world to make the rejection sting less- i remember telling a friend in that time about how creative writing mfa-s create the same type of writers and that they’re just indoctrination etc etc- all while the fact remained that i applied to them, knowing all of that- all while i know so many beautifully talented writers who went there and wrote some amazing stuff there. rejection and my reaction to rejection were one of the key marvels of that period of time.
summer was interesting. i finally began to see some results of working out- it had been a year of going to the gym consistently. it felt strangely validating to see some inches drop- my body was changing and so was my body clock? i would wake up before my alarm for my morning workout- i started to not miss any workouts, going all five days whereas before i would miss at least one day a week because i would snooze my alarms and miss my workout window. it strangely felt really great.
at the same time, i was also teaching at my alma mater’s summer school for high school seniors- it was a course without any grading and grades, but the kids obviously had to show up. before teaching those classes i had read a random study about how gen-z was interestingly split; boys were more conservative and girls more liberal. let me tell you, i saw the split this summer. i saw it so overtly. now, i was teaching a critical reading and critical writing class but i used it to teach critical thinking more. the moment the divide became super obvious to me was when a girl discussed her research topic, how songs perpetuate misogyny (im over simplying), and after the class three boys came upto me and said, ‘sir, since when is this a radical feminism class?’. i laughed, more because i was shocked than anything else. taking it as a teaching moment, i changed the last few classes so that debate and engagement took precedent rather than individual projects. the second batch of kids i taught, however, would end leaving an interesting mark on me, for both good and bad reasons. the bad reasons being that they discovered my public instagram and they trolled it and then they trolled me on their own summer school wide unofficial whatsapp group. i sensed that this was happening but the whatsapp group (and the messages on it) really made my head spin. the good mark they left on me were in the form of the students who told me about the whatsapp group and the students who came upto me to apoligize for what was happening (they weren’t involved but they felt strongly against what was happening). a former-teacher friend of mine who i reached out to at this time said that those kids told me what was happening because i respected them and the class enough, and because i may have had some net-positive impact on their lives. that felt incredible to hear but the sting of the trolling still hurt. using the university admin, justice was served (wow, dramatic), and i continued to teach the kids who wanted to be in the class. i ended the summer school and chose to just go on with my life.
it was during this time that we lost someone very close to us. we knew it was going to happen, she had been sick for some time and all indications pointed in this direction but seeing the family whatsapp group with over 30 messages as i stepped out one of the last summer school classes (stepping out and running so that i could go back to my actual job). before i opened the chat, i just knew. through the tears that collected in my eyes, i learned of her death. we were close, but it was strange to say that too because we hadn’t met in so long; she was in canada. we knew her before she married into our family, we knew her family so well, strangely we didn’t know her kids that well, but we knew her. she was part of a significant part of our lives, and we were part of a significant part of hers. just because those eras of our lives had passed and evolved into other eras, it didn’t mean that we didn’t care as much for each other; the pain of her death made that evident. our last messages exchanged on whatsapp where those of deep love and of prayer. i keep going back to our chat, i keep going back to her instagram page - the digital world keeps you alive for much longer. with memories of our past, and messages on whatsapp between us, i mourn you, and i continue to love you!
it was this year too that we saw the release of barzakh on youtube. all it took for years of effort, production, editing, writing and acting, to become irrelevant was two seconds, and a close up shot of two men inches away from each other. im not disputing the subtext of that scene at all, but it was crazy to live in that moment where something so small was extrapolated to an existential threat, where something so small was made to appear larger than it was. the show was turned instantly into a bogeyman; it was made out to be a tool in the great leftist machinery of the world, whose sole mission was to make pakistan go hippe dippe. as someone who wants to create, wants to write, wants to produce; it was scary. it was a look into what a future could look like. it seemed as though the tolerance for creativity and creative expression was falling; the line of tolerance was falling back. one show, one book, one movie; it seemed like it would amount to no change. conversely, with each instagram story maria b posted on the topic, i felt the fire under me get stronger; who gives anybody the right to be the “safeguard” of morality or culture or national conscience? my creating, change would continue to grow. 2024, and barzakh therefore stand out to me as the year i chose to stop hiding behind pseudonyms for what i create, it is the year i chose to live outside of fear, to create openly!
summer finally began to break away. my work called all of us to karachi for a few days, oh you know- get everyone together and bond and whatnot. i knew that my performance had dipped, i knew the reasons too and the thing about me is that im upfront about it. my very first boss actually unknowingly instilled this in me- he would just look at me and say ‘stop the bullshit and just tell me’, and i would just tell him. anyways, poor performance and acknowledgement of that was something my immediate boss and i talked openly about and maybe she’s being too nice about it idk, but we figured out a way forward- i honestly dont know if shit has been better on my end quite as yet, but i do feel better. anyways, someone else senior in the company talked to me too and he said something about me not having drive anymore- in the moment i was disappointed that i didnt stand up for myself more- he only saw a certain part of my life, he only say a certain part of my supposed lack of drive and motivation. on the flight back to lahore, i kept replaying that conversation, i kept wondering if he were right while also building on the list of why he was so obviously wrong too. telling friends of this interaction invited biased responses, their well-intentioned statements of my hard work and dedication for my own creativity and my own projects. i would believe them in that moment but then try to brush their sentiments off later on when i would be on my own. this feeling, and these thoughts remain unresolved in my brain.
sometime this year my father talked to me about leaving, either for masters or for a job. he told me to keep trying but to start building a plan. how could i not tell him about my complicated feelings about leaving? he so easily said not to let my parents be the reason to stay- but i cannot discount them in that decision. how do i tell him that my relationship with the world is frayed this year after what all happened and continues to happen in gaza? i know his response would be to live through those realities and not live for an idealized version of the world; but i cannot do that. sometimes i feel stupid for holding certain values as important or for holding the world accountable for its general disregard for bodies that aren’t white, sometimes i feel like im holding myself back by wondering what life would look like for myself in the west and if that ‘dream’ of a life in the west would even manifest for a person like me? all of these thoughts are contradicted by life in pakistan; my privilege here protects me from a lot, yet still life is hard for people across multiple stratums (is that the word?), life is not easy here by any measure. am i just too scared to make that leap to go outside? am i too comfortable here? do i live in hopes for an equal world, hopes that are just that, hopes, hopes that can never be reality? where will i have to sacrifice these hopes and when and how will i know to sacrifice them?
i did, however, finally decide to maybe apply for a few programs in the us and europe, not mfa-s but design programs- programs more related to my work. during the process of putting together the reasons why the programs should let me in and let me study there, the us elected trump - it feels dumb to apply now. i’d apply, lets say i dont get funding so what, i take a student loan, but without a job that pays at par to the student loan on my head, what would i do? without any breathing space on a student visa, where will i go? will i just have to come back? in thinking this way, am i just dissing the option of coming back, is that really my thought in this moment? there are so many who come back, either by force of their program or by force because of their visa status- they do come back and their degrees *do* help them..so should i just go? or at least apply? maybe, i should. then of course comes the question of my fabulous gpa (ps: it isn’t fabulous). one of my universities i am thinking of applying to has an enrollement ‘coach’, in email exchanges with her i asked her about the strict gpa requirement, one which i dont meet. she seemed reluctant to advise me to apply saying that the university admits low gpa idiots in special cases (paraphrased, duh), but since seeing my work and my application, the ‘coach’s’ tone has changed- she’s supportive and keeps emailing to check when i’m applying- i try not to get my hopes up. better to be realistic.
this year, at the start i finished an edit of my novel and then didn’t touch the novel till october. i engaged an editing team to work with me, give me notes and give me guidance. with them, in october, i went under yet another edit but the most ambitious edit yet. with each work i rewrote i couldn’t believe that i sent out the earlier draft of the novel to agents, i couldn’t believe that i spent all that time reaching out to agents with a sub-par manuscript. as i neared the end of my edits, i wondered how i would go out into the publishing world with this new-ish manuscript. i had spent more time with it, i loved it more. but also the publishing world had shown its flaws in this time too- gaza had taught us so much about the world around us, publishing wasn’t safe from that either; who would i go to, who would i want taking on my manuscript, and how would our personal politics play into this? at the same time, even though i love my manuscript, my impatience with it was also rising. i needed it to be completed, and in my mind completion meant publishing- what if i just published it on my own, got it out into the world so that i could clear my mind of it? am i making this kind of call out of rationality or emotionality? this too is an unresolved question in my mind.
the past 2ish months have been highlighted by smog in lahore. yes, i have a heightened awareness about smog, but i also have a heightened awareness about the inaction around smog, which only made me feel helpless. i watched myself and my friends choke under the smog, yet we also chose to continue living our lives- what other choices did we have? a similar approach took us over as the country almost nose-dived into further chaos; in a work call we causally mentioned the violence in the capital, shifting timelines that would allow us to give the chaos to simmer down, putting a timeline for when our productivity would return to normal- almost robotically.
something a friend said as we walked around the lahore biennalle exhibits at lahore fort will always stick with me, “it feels like we’re in the hunger games. we’re in the capital enjoying art and culture, pretending that things are okay. a few steps away from us, the world burns”. i feel the same way about this ‘festive’ season; we’re deluding ourselves that normalcy has returned; the delusion isn’t evil, it is necessary, i just wish i knew it wasn’t a delusion *sigh*.
the only thing that remains, ever, is hope. we can hope it gets better.
sharing two substacks i really enjoyed recently.
Loved reading this, Arslan! ❤️ as I said in my podcast of a voice note, it was such well done review of the year — the personal, the political and the everything else. Beautiful writing as always, inspired me a lot :) Keep writing
Loved this! And I relate to so many things in your post. Also loved the surprise at the end 😱 so thank you for linking mine too 🫶🏻