After 75 Years
The decades since independence from colonial rule have seen Pakistanis settle in the UK and build communities that are now entering the fifth generation. As we celebrate 75 years since the creation of Pakistan, we ask people of Pakistani origin what this heritage means to them, and how they connect with their Pakistani roots.
Nehal Aamir
As a 24-year-old ceramic artist based in Manchester, Nehal Aamir has always had an affinity with sculpture, passed down through her maternal lineage.
Born in Gujranwala, Pakistan, Aamir moved to Manchester aged nine and as she straddled the chasm that opened up in her sense of identity, she turned to clay to express her Pakistani heritage.
‘We moved to Manchester for a better education and lifestyle and to ultimately have a better future. Moving here was a big decision because no one in our family had done that before and it was a struggle. There was a different culture, language, new friends and new housing.
In our home growing up we had art pieces around the house that were made by family members, or my mother. So I started to explore my creativity through clay.’
Aamir eventually left Manchester and moved to London to study Ceramic Design at Central Saint Martins. It was here that she truly reconciled her two identities and embraced what it meant to be a British Pakistani Muslim.
‘During that time, I felt like I was becoming my own person and at the end of the course I wanted the pieces to reflect my personal journey. People were curious about my past and connected with my work because they are about my identity as a Pakistani Muslim living in Britain. It is great to see South Asians can relate to my narratives - but also other immigrants from different cultures. It was such a positive way to speak about stereotypes and how Pakistani Muslim women are seen but celebrate us at the same time. During those conversations I figured myself out and discussed things I had never thought about before around my identity.’
Aamir regularly returns to Pakistan to visit her family and reflected on how her relationship with her motherland has developed over the years.
‘My memories of Pakistan are fond because I was a child. My family is still in Pakistan and when I connect with my aunties, uncles and cousins my past comes alive and I feel like I am that Nehal again and it is so refreshing to return to the UK reminded of who you are and where your roots are. It was a journey settling in here trying to figure out where I was and where I belonged. Nine-year-old Nehal would be so proud to see how far I have come. I don’t know if I could ever return to Pakistan permanently because of the opportunities I have been provided in the UK.’
When thinking about Pakistan, Aamir grasps onto certain moments and feelings which together shape her experience of the country.
‘Pakistan is the feeling of home and knowing I can be there and have people who love me and understand my experiences. Having a midnight walk, going to the market, going out with cousins to get street food.’
However, similar to many Pakistanis living in diaspora communities, ultimately, her true connection is through her extended family.
‘If I had my family here, would I feel the same way about Pakistan? No, I only go back because of them. Beyond them there is no reason for me to go back. It’s not the food or any other aspect, you can get the same on Wilmslow Road. In Manchester, when it is Eid, you see a glimpse of Pakistan, you don’t feel like you are still in the UK. The people, the smells, the dress, it genuinely transports you.’
Looking to the future, Aamir urgently believes that language is what will tether Pakistani diaspora to their motherland.
‘When Pakistanis live and are brought up here the first thing they lose is their language. Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, whatever your language, it becomes so difficult to speak it. Through language comes culture. For example, in Urdu you have a different language speaking to your elders and those younger to you. If British Pakistanis feel disconnected from their heritage then they should interact with the language, watch TV, films, and speak with their parents.’
Kamran Khan
Kamran Khan reflects on his disconnection from conventional notions of a Pakistani diaspora
‘I was never really immersed in my Pakistani identity during childhood. My dad didn’t teach me Urdu or Pashto or spoke to me much about family. We never went to Pakistan and I still haven’t been. I can’t really define what it means to me to be Pakistani, but then again I don’t have that feeling with any of my identities.
If anyone asks me about my background, I will tell them I am half-Pakistani and half Chinese-Malaysian without hesitation, but I don’t meet the expectations they may have of all that entails, so I’ve always felt quite removed from the shared experience of my Pakistani friends. Pakistani cultural and social references were absent in my upbringing but my dad loved to cook Pakistani dishes so my connection was through food.
This all meant my Pakistani identity was not conventional and has been a journey of discovery, more so since my dad passed away. He was my only link to my Pakistani identity. Now he’s gone, I’m facing up to the fact that it is now up to me to explore that side of me.
My brother went by himself in 2008 and would show me pictures and I remember thinking I had no idea how beautiful Pakistan was. Seeing his photos of my family changed my perspective of them too.
In 2008 I was in my final year at university when a little later my mum and dad also went, so I didn’t accompany them. It was the first time my dad visited Pakistan, since he left in 1968. He fled to escape a forced marriage, to the anger and shame of his family. But this same family were so happy to meet my mum, so I decided I would like to go one day too, but I never acted upon it. I always felt that I couldn’t go by myself, I needed to go with my brother or my dad. When my dad travelled there, I thought that would start a cycle of him going back frequently and I thought I would go with him in the future, but when he returned he decided he would never go back again.
My dad’s relationship with Pakistan was tinged by his experience with his family and that was the lens through which I perceived Pakistan. His relationship with Pakistan became quite abstract, he would send money back, was a passionate observer of Pakistani politics, but in terms of language and culture and family, I learned nothing. My dad even hated cricket!
One memory that fills me with nostalgia because it was a rare glimpse of my dad celebrating his heritage, was when Channel 4 aired a series of Qawwali performances and I remember my dad video-taped them and loved watching them. To this day I am moved when I hear Qawwali singers such as Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan because that was the only aspect of Pakistani culture my dad exposed me to.
My mum, on the other hand, would take me to Malaysia almost every year and I was close to my Malaysian family, some of whom also lived in London, so in terms of cultural identity that part of me was given life, while the Pakistani side wasn’t at all. Yet I still consider myself half Pakistani and half Chinese-Malaysian, there is no question of that.
Unfortunately, my relationship with my dad’s family is a continuation of the financial dependency that he fostered during his lifetime as that became the way they related to each other. As much as I love them and I know they are a part of me, it is a mostly transactional relationship, probably reflecting my dad’s own complex reasons that speak to both his anger and his guilt at their estrangement. Since his death I just carried that on, although I’m trying now to gradually cease their financial dependence because I can see it has enabled a pattern that isn’t healthy or empowering at all.
I’m hoping in time, perhaps by meeting them, by going there, I can change the dynamics of how we relate to each other. But I’m also aware that this financial arrangement isn’t the link to my identity. I’m reading about where my dad comes from and appreciating it and that’s been a great joy for me.
I’m also looking through the lens of colonialism, learning about history, and hearing people’s stories about their lives there. But the reality is that I’m conflicted about my identity. I feel quite removed from the Pakistani diaspora, perhaps because of the other identities that exist within me - being queer, being half Chinese-Malysian and Bahai. But perhaps that’s my internal battle; internalised biases and prejudices in my head that make me assume I would automatically be excluded from these spaces, when perhaps in reality I wouldn’t.’
Tabassum Awan
Tabassum Awan is sitting in Pink Tea café in Mayfair. Her business which was once a dream is now a reality in the walls, seats, sofas and most importantly, chai.
The menu is home to baklava, artisan parathas, homemade cake and the signature drink, Pink Tea aka Kashmiri chai.
After spending 12 years in investment banking, a cup of chai changed Awan’s perspective and she decided she wanted somewhere people could go to buy authentic Kashmiri chai.
‘When I first discovered authentic Kashmiri chai I was madly in love. It was almost a feeling of escapism. I also really missed speaking with people in simple and sincere ways and I knew a cafe could do both.’
Awan reflected on how putting together the recipe connected her with her family and history in a way she never had before. Her discoveries taught her about British colonial history and its influence on the creation of chai, the planting of indigenous tea, the transportation of the leaves across the world and how it ties together an entire land.
‘There was so much research to put together this recipe. I spoke with people who make authentic pink tea, collecting recipes from family in Pakistan, looking into the history and source of the chai.
For the first two years of the business, I tried and tested so many different recipes trying to perfect the colouring and spices. I noticed the difference between how Pakistani and Indians make chai. For example, Indians tend to use ginger whereas we stick with cloves, cardamom and spices. In Kashmir they prefer to drink the chai as a salty drink whereas in Pakistan we prefer everything slightly sweeter.
In this whole journey I have realised how much we have a rich cultural history and the importance of tea in the foundation of our lives. It is not just “oh I am going to make myself a cup of tea” but forms part of our society, it is integral to our culture.
In 2020 I started looking into how I was going to set up this cafe. Then COVID happened and I started online but it was never my dream to stay online so I started doing pop-ups around London. I realised people loved the drink from all backgrounds, all demographics.
My vision was not just about our products but to have a place for people to have tea over deep and meaningful conversations. We currently run monthly chai and poetry nights but soon I want to start Qawali nights and expand the community.’
Outside of chai, it is the creativity and artistry of Pakistani culture that Awan is most drawn to.
‘For me poetry and Qawwali are the most beautiful parts of Pakistani culture to me. They are very creative and spiritual and they touch your soul and connect you with other people. I write my own poetry in Urdu.
It is such an incredible language and so expressive and in translation loses its context and meaning. The essence of it can’t be translated. Urdu poetry really helps me contemplate where I come from.’
Zia Chaudhry
Growing up Zia Chaudhry’s relationship with Pakistan was shaped through the eyes of his father and decades later he reflects on how close he is with his motherland.
Author of Just Your Average Muslim, Chaudhry is a strong advocate for strong inter-faith relations and believes in dispelling myths around Islam.
‘I was born in Burnley, Lancashire, which was home to the traditional Windrush generation who came in the 60s and eventually called their families over. It was a very close-knit community, with the same villagers in Pakistan moving together over here.
My father came to England with an education and after becoming a teacher, got a job in Liverpool. It was such a different community to many of the Pakistani communities around the country. There we didn’t have Pakistani neighbours and you would ring before going round to someone’s house which was completely bizarre.
In my year at school there was one Pakistani, one Indian and one Bangladeshi and it meant you had to navigate through a school that was pretty much all white. In the ‘80s people’s sensibilities were very different and what today is abhorrent was seen as playground banter.’
Growing up in such a white environment Chaudhry’s main engagement with Pakistan came from his father’s regular cultural evenings.
‘My father was a very literary person and sought the poetry of Iqbal and the history of Quaid-i-Azam. He joined an organisation in Liverpool called “the circle of literary friends”.
The people who organised this believed in educating the youth about Pakistani culture and history to stop it from being lost. So my father would write me speeches to read out and looking back I am so grateful that he did. I had pride in the achievement of these Pakistani poets and thinkers which established a connection with Pakistan.
However, my father also took the view that England was now home and going back to Pakistan was never on the cards at all. For a long time I was convinced of that. I believed I was British with a Pakistani background and this would be home forever. Now I do see changes in this country and wonder if the people who stay linked with Pakistan got it right.’
Chaudhry visited Pakistan for the first time in his life in his early 40s, a decade after his father’s death. His family came from Jehlum, a place nestled in the middle of Islamabad and Lahore.
‘I didn’t go to Pakistan until I was around 40 years old and the first time I went was with my brother-in-law who is involved in politics. He showed me around Islamabad and Lahore and at one point we were in the Prime Minister’s helicopter flying over Swat valley. So I came back thinking Pakistan was amazing.’
With a life so disconnected from Pakistan, a country riddled with political upheaval and corruption, Chaudry reflected on how there is a fundamental disconnect between his values and what Pakistan stands for.
‘I’m at odds with members of my own family about how to preserve our heritage. On the one hand I have a real affinity with Pakistan, it is where my parents came from and there is a sense of pride when they play cricket. But when asked if I would go to Pakistan if I was thrown out of the UK I say no.
In that way I’m following the trajectory of my father but my 16-year-old son has got this complete fascination with Pakistan, with the culture, the music, and clothes. They are searching for belonging, maybe? Children now don’t feel particularly British, especially since Brexit and think “maybe there is another place we would be welcomed”.’
For Chaudhry his last thoughts remained bittersweet. ‘I think the theory of Pakistan as an inclusive and enlightened place for Muslims is worth preserving but that all dissolved on day one of its creation. If you could recapture that then the country could thrive and be somewhere really worth learning about.’
Shahida Parveen
As Shahida Parveen’s family enters its fifth generation of diaspora, the many decades that stretch between her and Pakistan have shaped what being British Pakistani means to her.
Now 54, Parveen and her extended family have lived between here and Pakistan over the years since coming in the 1960s but have always found themselves back in Bradford, England.
‘My grandad came here to work and called his sons over and after my father got married to my mum she also came over to England. I myself was born in Pakistan and came over when I was 10 months old. Originally, we came to London and then moved to Nottingham but after my parent’s divorce we moved to Bradford.
We are from Mirpur, Kashmir and in my adulthood have realised that if you do not go back regularly it is a culture shock at first. I was in my early 30s when I first visited Pakistan, and largely went to see family and sightsee.’
For Parveen the divide between British and Pakistani culture is huge, whether it is the traffic system, property or people. ‘I could never drive a car in Pakistan and here we have a small house and a small garden but there they have massive houses, freedom and space.’
Parveen has worked as a professional interpreter speaking multiple South Asian languages for many years but acknowledges how difficult it is to embrace this part of British Pakistani identity.
‘We know our languages less and less as the generations have gone on. Growing up you would feel embarrassed to speak it because people would look at you funny so you would just stick to English. If your parents spoke it, you would feel embarrassed.
I always felt a bit apprehensive when I tried to speak my language or wear Asian clothes, I just felt like I didn’t fit in.’
As a working South Asian mum, Parveen has had her life shaped by responsibility to her family and building a home for her children.
‘I’ve worked since before I got married and I used to go to work, come home, cook and get the children ready for the next day. I have done interpreting, working with children with disabilities. I did a part-time cleaning job, and worked at reception. In the last ten years I have volunteered for local community projects and events just to keep the children occupied.’
As the years passed Parveen has noticed how the Pakistani community in Bradford has expanded. “Growing up there were not a lot of local Asian shops but now there are whole streets and areas that are home to Pakistani populations. When I first moved to the street I am on, there were about five Asian households and now there is only one white household left.”
Reflecting on how we can move forward as a British Asian community, Parveen believes there are key problems the community needs to face up to.
‘As the community expands people are marrying into families from different parts of Pakistan, who have been in the UK for a different amount of time or who might not be Pakistani at all which all makes it harder for the next generations to stay connected with the motherland.’
Tawseef Khan
Over the past 35 years Tawseef Khan has built a complex relationship with Pakistan, through the lens of his mother’s East African roots, his father’s childhood, and his own experiences visiting the country throughout his life.
‘My idea of identity as a Pakistani person is already quite broad because my mum is brown, speaks Urdu and Punjabi but was born in Nairobi and has a completely different upbringing whereas my dad’s side are mostly in Pakistan.
I have been travelling to Pakistan since I was a baby. The first time I went I was a week old and my dad was very keen for us to go a lot so we went every year all the way up to my GCSEs.
I have a really special fondness because I have had a lot of opportunities to see this place evolve over the 35 years I have been alive.
My relationship with Pakistan has always been slightly complicated because when you are young you feel a split within yourself in terms of where you belong.
People on the streets could always tell I was not born or raised in Pakistan because of the way you dress or handle yourself. You’re constantly reminded that you don’t belong fully anywhere.
You live on the margins of society in Britain because you are not white and are constantly reminded that you are not really from here even if you speak the language or do well in school.
In Pakistan you are reminded this is not completely your place either because maybe your language skills are not great, you hold your body differently, you dress differently. Even to this day my uncles insist on holding my hand when we cross a street.’
Khan’s father was born in Faisalabad but when Khan was two his entire extended family moved to Lahore, which he considers his city.
‘Eventually you grow a relationship with the streets and the buildings and the businesses and the shopping malls etc, that feels really amazing.
You begin to understand that actually this is a place where I might stick out because I am dressed differently but physically I look the same as everyone else and there is something quite beautiful about that.
For me, being connected with Pakistan enables me to come here and say I know who I am, who my family is, who my ancestors were and their story.’
Khan uses his South Asian roots and the traditions of respect and welcoming to inform his work as a solicitor working with immigrants and these values have shaped how he interacts with the world.
He believes diaspora communities need to understand Pakistan and its values better if we hope to keep a hold of our culture through the generations.
‘There is always going to be a complexity within the diaspora community because we are all different generations, have different language levels, and go to Pakistan more or less often.
But Pakistan is much more complicated and expensive than we as diaspora give it credit for. It is really important for us to have a bigger understanding of our history, for example, Lahore used to be the cultural capital of the Mughal Empire.
Historically we come from one of the most advanced civilisations and I would love for young people to connect with our great heritage.’