Kensington & Midwood

Little did Baba know that his mother tongue was calling him to a new home, starting in whispers and erupting into shouts. "Aa jao, aa jao!" it says. Like a friend beckoning another to come along. He drives down Ocean Parkway one day, following the voice, only to find it erupting in Midwood.

It took 6 years since arriving from Karachi for Baba to set foot in Brooklyn. He arrived here in 1989, long before you were born, paying his fare with tokens that had been touched by over a 100 different colored palms before reaching his. Queens was a haven for a good while, where he lived between Jackson Heights, Woodside, and Flushing over the years. A place where he could take refuge in his mother tongue, nearly 7000 miles away from home, while also being challenged by the sounds of a world unknown. Little did Baba know that his mother tongue was calling him to a new home, starting in whispers and erupting into shouts. "Aa jao, aa jao!" it says. Like a friend beckoning another to come along. He drives down Ocean Parkway one day, following the voice, only to find it erupting in Midwood.

2001 was the year when pop culture, the internet, and global catastrophes erupted. Sometimes I can only best remember it as the year you were born. Baba had been in the deli business for over 12 years at the time, and finally settled at a store between Foster and Coney Island Avenue in 2007. Our first memory of the “dukaan” were our eyes darting across the array of candy in the store. Hands weaved your thick black hair into pigtails with rubber bands used to bundle cash. As the door swung open throughout the day, your ears perked to the sounds of  “Assalam-U-Alaikum,” the clinks of churiyan, or an uncle’s chappals smacking across the floor. The only other time we had seen this many Pakistanis at once was when we visited Karachi for the first time. Somehow, a piece of Pakistan drifted off to New York City, finally fitting into place in the south of Midwood. 

Leaving the store, Baba would treat you to a box of gulab jamun from Gourmet. With one bite, the sticky confection would transport you back to Karachi, closing the ocean between the two cities. Before your eyes, they blended over the years. With heavy traffic, sugar cane stalls, and yellow taxis continuing to sprawl in this small corner of Brooklyn, “Little Pakistan” was well and alive. In between the sounds of car honks, you feel a Pakistani heart beating to the rhythm of New York City. We found our home and motherland in one place, yet miles apart. 

You are 16 now, and losing breath as Mama tries to pull the tight kameez down, with the fabric getting stuck in between your shoulders. You see the aftermath left on your face in the mirror, with the glitter from the sparkly top brushing off on your cheek. The moon catches your eyes, reflecting that same glitter, and you realize why tonight is called “Chand Raat.”  Walking through the streets of this part of Midwood, your mind finds its way to Pakistan again. Aunties swipe through colorful dupattas, the children run with kulfi in their hands, and your fresh mehendi smudges because one of them bumped into you. The chaos emulates the energy of Times Square during tourist season, but brushed with the hues of a Pakistani paint board. Balance returns for a moment, with the Azhan touching the ears of the crowd. Suddenly, the swarm uniforms itself into a march, arriving at Makki Masjid. 

Some say the masjid was the seed that bloomed this part of the neighborhood. And over the years sprouted  a place for Pakistanis in the city to place their roots. After the evening prayer,  Baba drives us 10 minutes down Ocean Parkway, leaving Little Pakistan. Hebrew scripture, your favorite kosher bakery, and the local synagogue greet us as signals that we are home. You think that there’s truly no other place in the world where you can find a samosa and freshly baked rugelach just miles a part. Two communities in one neighborhood, sharing more than just the land that they are on. You notice that the butcher shops in Midwood will rarely have pork. And that the man putting in an order for kosher meat will have a yamaka, while the man asking for halal 3 doors down will have a topi instead. You think about how you couldn’t tell your neighbor’s hair was a wig for years, until you learned how Orthodox Jewish women cover their hair in class. Also thinking about how Mama covers her hair in almost the same way with a hijab. Walking through different parts of the neighborhood, your ears catch people mixing their English with either Urdu or Yiddish. You realize you are at the center where both Muslim and Jewish New Yorkers have found a home, living in a city where millions across the globe have done the same. With that center being Midwood, Brooklyn. 

We are 24 now and we are still at the core of where our life began. Baba sold the store in October, which is where I first felt your heart break. Somehow in between college and now, I stopped going to Little Pakistan as often as I would have liked. In my short trips, I watched as Baba’s block between Foster and Coney Island Ave changed, with stores slowly closing and newer ones coming in. It wasn’t until his store was the last one left that I noticed that it was too late. Living at a time where New York City rent is at an all time high, it’s betraying to feel as if your city is rejecting you. That I am not worthy enough to live in the only place I’ve called home. And then I realize how we’ve only really ever been surviving instead of living since the beginning. That was Baba’s story, our story, and a story shared in the millions across the city. I think about you often with the mind I have now. Sometimes I wish I could return to where you are in the past, staying a while longer before it became a memory. All I can do now is remember. 

Little Pakistan as I think of it now feels tarnished sometimes. I do remember the good when I think of you, but I feel as if our mind has been hiding the reality of the past. Sometimes the sorrow of the past awaits you in the present, where there is now space to think. It wasn’t until years later that I took note of what it was like growing up in a post 9/11 New York City. I think about how the word terrorist still makes our stomach drop. A word that was too big to know the meaning of at the time, but still carried weight on your tender ears. I recall times how it wouldn’t be said but felt. Walking into the grocery store where heads would turn at Mama’s hijab. Or wondering why our kindergarten teacher would give you a nasty stare at the sight of your raised hand. Where I now remember that we were the only brown Muslim in her classroom. We would blur police cars patrolling Little Pakistan almost every visit to the dukaan, but always wondered why. Why our aunts took off their hijabs? Why our classmate joked about putting ham in your lunchbox? The heaviness was not only within me but beyond my scope at the time. Yet, I remember you still carried it in your then tiny body. I think about how the damage of the past had gone far beyond the borders of New York City and my mind. With the Iraqi people still suffering from a genocide waged as a war to this day. To it even reaching our motherland, with Pakistanis being killed by drone strikes in the hundreds. As a New Yorker my heart hurts to think about the lives lost in the Towers. However, as a Pakistani Muslim my heart carries the pain of an unjustifiable price paid at the expense of American “democracy”. Nonetheless, Little Pakistan as I remember it was a place where you thrived in the colors and safety of our people. Protected away from the angry roars of the city you call home, an anger that you had no part in creating. 

It has been 18 years since 2001, and you were six when you first felt a gaze over you. I noticed the eyes that I feared once had softened in my fellow New Yorkers. I never imagined at 24 years old I would cast my first vote in a mayoral election for a position I wouldn’t have dared dreamed of for my younger self. Our first Indian Muslim mayor proved me wrong, and somewhat repaired my broken faith for my city. I think about how Little Pakistan may seem different now, but that it is still ours. Baba’s store may no longer be there, but the laughter and sounds of the neighborhood have remained throughout the years. It is where I find you, tucked in my soul but brought out again when walking through this part of Midwood. I think about how it will always be mine and yours to have, in Urdu, Mama would say “Hamara, Tumhara.” Midwood is my past and my present in one. A fraction of peace in the beautiful chaos that is New York City, I am home.