أَعُوذُ بِاللّٰهِ مِنَ الشَّيْطَانِ الرَّجِيمِ

بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ

In the name of ALLAH, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

The Gateway Lounge: A Century of Transit

The overhead fan in the passport office did not move the air; it only rearranged the heat. Asif sat on a plastic chair that had long lost its color, clutching a green folder to his chest like a shield. Born in the hopeful dawn of the mid-1960s, he was now entering his sixties, his body anchoring a century of unfulfilled promises.

Inside that green folder were the fragile, yellowed fragments of a family’s geographic soul.

At the very bottom lay the land records from East Punjab, bearing his grandfather’s signature and thumbprint. Born in the early twentieth century, his grandfather, Ghulam Muhammad, was educated at a traditional *khanqah* seminary and could read the Quran and Urdu; yet, the British administration had classified him as illiterate. Asif knew his grandfather possessed a profound spiritual insight—nourished by the poetry of Baba Bulleh Shah and Allama Iqbal, verses he would often hum—but the bureaucracy of the British Raj, adhering to the standards of the modern world, had deemed him 'illiterate,' rejected him for government service, and effectively confined him to the life of a farmer.

However, the bureaucracy of the British Raj—driven by the demands of the modern world—had labeled them "illiterate" and rejected them for government service, effectively confining them to the role of farmers. They had heard Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s promise that an independent Islamic homeland—a cradle of justice and equity—would be established; it was for this cause that they had enthusiastically participated in the rallies and processions of the Muslim League.

Asif’s passion for politics was perhaps a legacy he inherited; he remembers his grandfather recounting how, in his youth, he had participated in the Khilafat Movement under the banner of Maulana Mohammad Ali and Shaukat Ali. His grandfather’s voice would brim with fervor whenever he spoke of the situation following the 1940 Lahore Resolution at Minto Park. He used to recount how he and hundreds of others—mostly young people—would march through the streets chanting slogans: "India will be divided, Pakistan will be created; what does Pakistan mean? *La ilaha illallah* (There is no god but Allah)." Then, tears would well up in his eyes as he spoke of how Pakistan was formed, India was partitioned, and our village remained on the Indian side. Hindus and Sikhs then committed terrible atrocities; Sikhs swarmed in, armed with swords and *kirpans*. Inevitably, we were forced to flee the village.

When Ghulam Muhammad set out from his village, he was accompanied by a large, thriving family: his parents, his paternal uncles' families, and his maternal relatives. Everyone was part of that caravan. But the bloodied partition line tore everything apart. By the time they crossed the border, only a handful of people remained alive. Everything had been plundered. They possessed nothing but the tattered clothes on their backs and those few documents proving Ghulam Muhammad's ancestral land rights, which he had saved at the risk of his own life. When they reached Pakistan after escaping the blood-drenched plains of Punjab, their hearts held onto the vibrant hope that they could build a righteous and peaceful future in a welfare Islamic state. Upon arriving in Pakistan, they faced an unending and ruthless struggle, where every new day was a fresh battle for survival for the destitute refugees; yet, they endured it all in the hope that this sacrifice would lay the foundation of a great nation; a dream that was given by great Quaid.

Layered directly above the grandfather's land records was a matriculation certificate belonging to Asif’s father, Muhammad Riaz. It had been obtained from a dusty school in a far-flung village, located miles away from their settlement. Ghulam Muhammad had been a visionary; he knew the few acres of land they received in the new country would not sustain the family for long. Survival in this new nation demanded education. Thus, he enrolled his son, Muhammad Riaz, in the region's only school, despite it being several miles away.

Asif clearly remembered his grandfather recalling those hardships, often saying in Punjabi:

"I secured an education for your father with immense difficulty. The school was so far away, and I broke my back just to ensure your father passed his matriculation. When your father took the board examination, he was the only one in the entire region to pass. And when your father finally got his job, I distributed sweets to the entire village."

Born just before the Partition of India, Muhammad Riaz used his relentless hard work and determination to escape the hardships of rural life, securing a modest job as a government clerk. His success was guided by his paternal uncle, Fakir Muhammad, who had found employment in a nearby city right after independence and whose children had studied in good urban schools to secure excellent jobs. Witnessing his brother's children prosper, Ghulam Muhammad placed a stone on his heart and advised Muhammad Riaz to settle in the city. Later, he moved in to live with him as well. Once, Banta Singh—a companion from Grandfather’s village near Ludhiana—came to visit, and through him, Grandfather learned about the situation back home. In the twilight of his life, the anguish of the Partition weighed heavily upon him; he seemed to embody the sentiment of the verse: "I would never have left my garden; I was deceived by the illusion of a beautiful spring."

This was how Muhammad Riaz settled his family in Rawalpindi—a city defined by the rigid temperament of military parades and bureaucracy. He firmly believed that 'stability' was life's ultimate prize. He completed his service and retired with dignity. However, when his son Asif graduated with an engineering degree, Muhammad Riaz faced a fresh, bitter reality. He visited the doorstep of nearly every 'Saheb' and high official, pleading for Asif's employment, but he lacked the money to offer them bribes. It deeply pained Muhammad Riaz, who would often lament with regret that during his own youth, officials still carried a sense of shame in their eyes, and a poor man's grievance could be resolved through a simple recommendation (sifarish). But with the "blessings" of martial law, when the system finally entered the palace of democracy, a heavy bribe became a mandatory condition alongside a recommendation.

Then, another facet of Asif’s life came to light. He had passed his matriculation from a government school and, after completing his intermediate studies at the renowned Gordon College in Rawalpindi, secured admission to an engineering college. He obtained his engineering degree in the early 1990s—a qualification that, while impressive on paper, proved practically useless. Asif had spent his youth living through the suffocating era of martial law. When the Chief Martial Law Administrator’s (CMLA) plane crashed in 1988, Asif and his peers felt that the heavy veil had finally been lifted. He spent his final days at university celebrating the restoration of democracy, firmly convinced that a free Pakistan would need engineers to build its future.

In contrast, the nineties—a "lost decade"—were consumed by chaos. A strict freeze on government jobs paralyzed the public sector, and securing the few remaining vacancies required hefty bribes or influential political connections. Asif refused to bow to corruption and openly campaigned for democratic reforms. He paid a heavy price for this activism; he was blacklisted due to his political views, and no major company would hire him. He eked out a living through low-paying, menial contracting or supply jobs, yet—compelled by his very nature—he kept showing up at political rallies and processions. His grandfather had participated in the Pakistan Movement, and his father had raised slogans for Fatima Jinnah; he, too, endured baton charges in the struggle for Pakistan’s true independence. Politics—with empty pockets and an empty stomach—was perhaps his destiny.

Despite all this, as an engineer, Asif spent that decade looking toward the West with deep admiration. He was awestruck by American engineering prowess and believed wholeheartedly in the 'American Dream'—viewing it as a shining example of freedom, merit, and the rule of law. He had made several attempts to obtain an American visa.

Then came the martial law of 1999, and another ten years of life were instantly lost. When democracy finally returned after a long trail of public sacrifice, it brought no peace—only the destruction of the 'War on Terror' and an unending trail of tears for the common man. Bomb blasts and economic distress shattered Asif’s career, swallowed his savings, and stripped away the remaining flight of his youth.

Now, the heaviest weight in the folder belonged to the top page: the passport application of his 30-year-old son, Hamza.

Hamza was a Gen Z child of the digital age, who grew up watching his father’s exhausting struggles and the glaring contradictions of national politics. Inheriting his father's political consciousness, Hamza took to the streets of Rawalpindi to protest the very same system. He spent grueling, sleepless nights freelance-coding for Western time zones, but today, the internet was entirely cut off. In the name of state stability, Hamza's computer had been severed from the world, leaving him a financial and political prisoner in his own homeland.

Asif glanced across the street at the heavy steel gates of the foreign embassy. He now saw the United States as a luring desert—a shimmering mirage that talked loudly of freedom, rights, and democracy, yet actively supported the high-handedness and tyranny of the ruling elite that oppressed the local population. It was a mirage that lured desperate youth from the global south, only to demand the total fracture and erasure of their identity once they arrived.

A sudden shout from the street shattered his thoughts. A teargas canister popped near the Committee Chowk intersection, and the wind carried the sharp, burning scent through the open window. Asif looked down at the green folder in his hands, tracing a century of migrations stretching from a madrassa scholar grandfather to a digital ghost of a son.

The Absolute Truth settled over him with the weight of an iron curtain; For a century, his family had been living in a sort of 'transit lounge'—a place of temporary sojourn—waiting to become citizens of a country that never truly achieved a fully independent existence; meanwhile, far off, the allure of a desert landscape was visible, yet—like a mirage—it offered no real sustenance. That land had kept its doors firmly shut against free-thinking democrats like him, leaving him with no choice but to pursue the futile quest for an oasis within the desert of his own home.

This is not merely the story of a single family spanning a century; rather, it is perhaps a distillation of the tales of thousands. And perhaps Munir Niazi captured this very essence when he wrote: "The desert mirage held a strange allure for the eye; yet, the pearl I sought was not to be found in those waters."

The firewall hums its heavy line,

A digital wall against the mind.

While Washington speaks of freedom’s light,

The shadows grow across the night.

We sold the fields, the silver rings,

For paper dreams and phantom wings.

To walk the Dunki, wild and deep,

Where promises are cheap to keep.

The desert calls in codes and laws,

An indifferent beast with iron claws.

It loves the elite, it buys their peace,

While common blood demands release.

Now time stands still in this waiting space,

A shifting ghost with a hidden face.

The absolute truth is written in sand:

The water you seek is a foreign land.