Barriers to Entry

I’d heard of the upscale Karachi neighborhood where I would be staying. So, I was a bit surprised when my host pulled up at the airport in a small red Daihatsu. Next morning, one of my host’s relatives took me to a tailor shop. She lived only a few blocks away. Like my host family, she had a private driver. I found it incongruous to see her seated in the back of a Toyota Corolla as if chauffeured around in a limousine.

But in Karachi her car is a limo. Cars that American high school students commonly drive are often high end in Pakistan. Luxury models are few and far between.

I heard two explanations for this. Both involve a 200% tax on automobiles. Some told me the proceeds go to corrupt politicians. My host took a different view of the tax. It’s not just unwise to flaunt your wealth in Pakistan. In Islamic culture it can also be considered gauche. Conspicuous consumption can be a sign that a person is exploiting others instead of observing pious charity. The tax serves to reinforce charitable behavior in his opinion. Still, I wonder what brand of car Zardari chooses for transportation.

Whatever its end purpose, the tax reveals the prevailing force that barriers to entry play in Pakistani society. Buildings and opportunities lay behind walls of concrete and trust. Passage never comes easily. Entrance rarely proceeds without effort.

 Perhaps this aspect of Pakistan is best symbolized by its doors. Americans scarcely notice when transparent door panels slide open, automatically allowing them into a local supermarket. In Pakistan, the difficulty in crossing any threshold is normal, but significant to all involved.

 At every installation, from Sindh Police headquarters to my host’s home, we’d stop at the front gate. A bolt would be pulled back; the doors opened to us. We’d seamlessly enter as those doors again shut to the outside.

The servants who perform the labor remain on the threshold, able to peer through the doorway. They know they will never be insiders.

I’ll never forget the Desi (local Pakitstani) proud reaction to automated sliding doors. When a journalist took me to see her husband’s IT company she highly praised the lobby doors. Her husband opened a steel grate, allowing us into the building. We climbed a flight of stairs and arrived at the company’s entrance hall. A pair of glass panels parted. We crossed the final few feet into the office. My host’s children pointed out similar doors when we went to Dalman Mall, Karachi’s most upscale shopping center. The doors opened as I effortlessly walked into the mall.  On the other side of the threshold a security checkpoint awaited.

I didn’t understand this pride in automated doors at the time.  I saw only the barriers to entry which surrounded them. My hosts’ viewed it differently. The doors created a path forward where previously only an obstacle existed.

 In the western world, we cross between buildings, cities and even countries without even realizing it. Pakistan’s inhabitants must struggle to break past the barriers which surround them in daily life. Maybe the presence of sliding doors in Karachi is the first step toward their future.  A sign that obstacles can be broken down with time. I hope that Pakistanis continue to take pride the advances they have made.  And in the progress that is yet to come.

A Case of Two Schools

Oars sliced through the water near Karachi’s main port.  The rowers worked in unison, pushing their shells toward construction cranes that towered over the mangroves. I sat on the Karachi Boat Club’s pier watching my host’s children and their friends practice competitive rowing. Most of them attend the same private school.  I stared towards the Arabian Sea, reminded of a different group of high school students. They’re also located near the sea. But, their school places them at a disadvantage.

This summer, I interned with the Population and Community Development Association.  I visited their 10^th grade Mechai Bamboo School (MBS) for disadvantaged children. It was part of an idyllic resort in Pattaya.

My responsibilities also took me to the school’s main campus in Buriram. While there, I learned how the organization promotes the school. They claim it is a great improvement from similar government institutions.  It's described as a center of "lifelong learning" that imparts English ability and micro-business skills.  The Bamboo School boosts of its well rounded curriculum, developed by teachers and students.

I didn’t have much opportunity to talk with the students in Buriram. That was not the case in Karachi. My host’s daughter was class president at Karachi’s private Center for Advanced Studies. The school exhibits a marked improvement over government educational centers. Students are schooled in English and Urdu. The curriculum prepares students for acceptance to international universities while teaching them respect for local culture and religion. Students, with faculty oversight, manage discipline among themselves.  

At first glance, the schools’ methods seem similar. Except for one major thing.  The Thai school provides meaningful education to the needy. The Pakistani school reserves it for those who can pay.

Teaching students to not rely on hand-outs? 

But MBS does require a form of pay. It’s just not the kind that can fund its operating costs. Students’ families must plant trees in order to pay the school’s “tuition.”  The organization promotes that children perform one hour of community service in the School Lunch Garden to receive a meal. This is ostensibly so students will learn to value work instead of relying on hand-outs.  After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch at the bamboo school, right?

Wrong.

Anyone who visits the school for more than a short time notices the deficit between promotional literature and reality. A donation box for the students’ lunch sits at the entrance where parents pick up their students. The students receive some level of “free” lunch through donations. The Bamboo School advertises that it closes during “rice planting season.” In fact, the school only closes for two days with little rice planting involved.

The landscaped entrance to MBS

 I saw students in class exactly once during my entire two-month internship. Assemblies in honor of visiting sponsors seemed much more common. When I inquired as to the students’ course load, PDA employees discreetly told me that donor visits necessitate a sparse class schedule.  According to an English Teacher, the pupils’ English levels are actually no higher than in average government schools. Contrary to what is claimed in the brochures, student participation in curriculum development is non-existent.

Back in Karachi, the Center for Advanced Studies seemed to deliver on its promises. It’s easy to see why:  CAS requires monetary tuition. This frees it from the need to put sponsors first. Most Pakistani families cannot afford the price of attendance. However, the value of granting some few a quality education benefits a country far more than professing to provide it to many.

Still, those who cannot pay have few options. Government schools are often sub-standard, especially in the developing world. Pakistanis, who place a high value on community service, have started NGOs of their own to provide alternative schools for the poor. But, they also require donations from sponsors.

 Organized religion sometimes offers a solution. My Pakistani host is a successful businessman. He was educated in a Catholic school.  In Lahore I met some students from a local mosque. They were quite friendly and seemed knowledgeable about local history.  The students’ English was far better than any I’d encountered from their older MBS counterparts in Thailand.

Radical mosque near Jinnah's Tomb

Yet, such religious education also carries risk, especially in Pakistan. On a visit to Jinnah’s tomb, my host pointed to a minaret about one block from the Quaid-e-Azam’s resting place. “This is a very controversial mosque,” he told me. He went on to explain that most of its students go on to join the Taliban.

Rowing at the boat club was over. Our driver navigated Karachi’s gridlock; we arrived safely home. It occurred to me that the value of any service is equal to its outcome. A high quality education affords its recipient an opportunity. But, it is up to that person to take advantage. It makes no economic sense to expect something from nothing. Charity isn’t always the answer.  

Karachi Unfolds

Two weeks ago, I returned from Pakistan. It was the most enthralling locale I visited this summer.   Yet,  I have delayed  putting my experiences into words . So much went on during those ten days.
The last time I wrote about Pakistan I wondered which aspect of Karachi  I would see.  I guess that is the best place to start.
I stayed with a family in the city's Defense Housing Authority.   Upon arriving at their home I felt as if I could be a version Los Angeles with more servants.   Then I took first trip from my hosts' walled compound.  We went to the tomb of the country's founder, Jinnah. As we drove through  Ramazan traffic I redefined my idea of bad congestion. Cars stopped as peddlers allowed their monkeys  to entertain  grid locked commuters.  Karachi became a completely new world as we headed back to Defense.
Later, I experienced other elements of my hosts' Karachi: rowing at the exclusive Karachi Boat Club; organic and Mediterranean  restaurants.  From the  journalist who explained some Pakistani cultural mindsets , to the student who provided insight into Karachi'ite university life, to my host famly's children who highlighted practical details of life in the city.  I gradually came to get my bearings in this immense metropolis.   
 Defense is clearly influenced by the west. But, I also got a feeling for the neighborhood's more traditional side.  It pays to stay inconspicuous in Pakistan. One night I stayed up through the morning at a local tea house. Members of Pakistani political families lamented the situation of their country. But, I also could hear their pride at being Desi. It was encouraging to be surrounded by such awareness of the present and  hope for the future at the same time.  
 During some trips through the city my hosts strongly suggested  I sit in the back of the car.  These parts were not safe for foreigners.  I took lunch with a family in one of these  neighborhoods  as an honored guest.  I didn't feel  unsafe.  A bomb recently went off in the vicinity.
It would not have been prudent  for me to see some of Karachi's lower strata. But, the same is true in my home city of LA.  I am taken by how similar the two cities turned out to be in some ways .
Maybe  the Karachi I experienced was already pre-determined.  The world you are born into determines the world you  come to know. If this is true, then the city I saw  is  indeed 'my' Karachi.
 Still, I still feel as if I've only scratched the surface.  I look  forward to expanding my perception of Karachi and Pakistan in the future. As I continue my travels, I will not forget  the nation I've experienced. The faces and reality of a people.