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.