Student Spectrums

Zaara Khan is a tenth grade student who likes to connect literature with real life experiences. She’s also a member of the Yearbook Club at Ilm Academy.

My parents came from Pakistan and came to the United States to enhance their education. My dad lived in Kansas and went to a Catholic high school. My mom has lived in Northern California since she was seven. Growing up as a Pakistani American, I saw myself as more American than Pakistani. At one point, I was afraid to call myself a Pakistani because I was so out of touch with that side of me. 

A couple of months ago, I read When the Emperor was Divine by Julie Otsuka, a story about a Japanese American family being sent to an internment camp during World War II. In the story, the mother and her two children are sent to an internment camp which forces them to be more “American” and less Japanese. Reflecting on this novel, I realized I have become more distant from my culture. 

I attended an American public school for four years before switching to an Islamic private school. During my public school era, I was exposed to different aspects of being American, such as patriotism and the love for football. Once I switched schools and made Pakistani friends, I realized how different I was. My American accent was stronger than others. My friends would fully converse in Urdu, Pakistan’s native language, but I could barely understand what they were saying, as my household language growing up was English. 

Pakistani traditions annoyed me as a child. I hated wearing shalwar kameez and complained when I had to wear it because it was itchy. When it was time for Eid, I would be upset because I did not want to wake up early on some random day and go to the Masjid, just to come back around midnight and go to school the next day. When it came to eating out, I suggested going to American places and proceeded to throw a fit when we went to a Pakistani restaurant instead. 

After reading When the Emperor Was Divine, I have realized how out of touch I am with my Pakistani culture. Although the mother and the daughter try their hardest to give up their Japanese side, the son still holds on. After returning home, when confronted by a man, the boy tells him he is Chinese, but once he is out of earshot, he says his true identity and walks back home. Even when the family lived in the Japanese Internment Camp, the boy would whisper the name of the emperor while passing the guard tower, showing signs of rebellion. The boy was unwilling to let go of his Japanese identity, even when his family members did. 

The little boy is walking home and a man asks if he is Japanese or Chinese. The boy says Japanese and once he is at the end of the block, he says he is Japanese and goes home. The boy inspired me to want to love my culture and want to change my perspective on being a Pakistani American. Being Pakistani and American is not something I should be afraid of, instead, I should embrace it and learn more about Pakistan’s deep history and fascinating culture.