What I miss the most about Pakistan? The smell after the rain. Being asked this a lot, I am often greeted with laughter, and “Why do you miss the rain? You have enough of it in England!”?But the difference is palpable. In England, the rain is chronic, and a two-hour inconvenient drizzle at most. The rain in Pakistan mostly greets us during the monsoon period. Notwithstanding that it is merciless, raindrops are heavier then lead, it forces you to stay indoors, and it floods the streets, when it rain you have never wanted anything more than to go out and let it soak you on the inside out. ? Having grown up both in Pakistan and England, I don’t see my childhood and adolescence as a contrasting compilation of countries, experiences and cultures. It is rather a continuous journey, one that has formed my identity, and my aspirations. Being able to live in both countries has taught me so much more than just how to wash my clothes without a maid or how to dress when I go to Cosa [Nostra]. I’ve learned to not be ashamed when people ask me where I’m from, or cover it up by lowering my gaze and saying “Middle-East” and quickly changing the topic. I’ve learned that modesty that shuns short skirts and low-cut tops is not regressive, but a sign of respect to a particular culture. I’ve learned that it is possible to be a feminist and an activist while wholeheartedly loving the country I am originally from. Most of all, I have learned that my identity is not defined by the colour of my skin or my accent; rather, it is a compilation of the experiences and adventures I have experienced in my almost 18 years of life. Growing up with this dual identity made me feel like an outsider. Going to Pakistan, I was often mocked for my accent, my dyed hair, short shirts and skinny jeans, and my incessant use of the words “sorry” and “pardon?” I couldn’t relate to the customary Pakistani girl my age — a life dictated by exams, hidden boyfriends, studying for SATs like their life depended on it, to move onto to “prosperous” and “free” countries like England and America. It all baffled me endlessly. At the same time, I was in awe of the people I lived with in Cambridge. They seemed to have unlimited freedom: parents who allowed their children to stay out all night from the age of 14, which would be greeted with nothing but shock and scandal in Lahore. I didn’t grow up with a sense of belonging; I felt an unspoken hostility from each place I considered home. I was too “westernised” for my Lahori peers, too “Asian” to completely relate to my English friends.?However, I never tried and I don’t plan to romanticise my country for the sake of portraying it through rose-coloured glasses for those whose views are tainted by scapegoating stories. If I am to embrace my home, I need to do it completely, unadulterated, and not selectively. There are a number of fundamental flaws in the Lahori society that cannot be ignored; I mean taupe cannot cover the holes when they run so deep. Lahori or rather Pakistani society is narrow-minded; there are iron gates around the circle of people who are considered “acceptable,” while it is said to be responsive to the middle class Pakistani. There are certain norms concerning religion, physical appearance, education and portrayalof stereotypes on media — one wrong move, and you’re stamped with misconduct for as long as people know your name. The aspect of England I favour the most over Pakistan is the liberal society, and that what family you come from does not define you. You are judged on the merit of your achievements. There,it is not the dominance of the elite, but the dominance of the able. There are so many ways to be there — a sunglasses and harem pants wearing bohemian; a girl who is friends with boys; a boy who enjoys “non-masculine” things; gay, lesbian, transgender; a single mother with a deep love of red wine; a single father who remarries a woman with a child; a gypsy; a punk-rocker; a party-animal. The options end at the limit of your creativity. No one is susceptible to prejudice or ostracism in the way you are in Pakistan. You’re never too old to start again, and there is no point of no return. Having said that, nevertheless, I have, I do, and I always will consider Lahore, Pakistan, my home. My childhood echoes with the scent of sliced mangos on my balcony; the sound of clinking bangles at vibrant weddings; soft-serve ice-cream at the Liberty Market; midnight drives with my mother to have anaarka juice, and samosas bought at the Main Market. It saddens me to see people of my generation running away from a culture I have tried so hard to grasp as my own. The sound of the Azaan is drowned out by Nickelodeon and Disney Channel;hand-stitched shalwarkameez is replaced by Hollister and GAP; and traditional Pakistani foods fall secondary to pizza or burgers. Of course, what would I know, I am an outsider; I haven’t been through the same struggles of an everyday Pakistani; and the”luxury” of my life overwhelms my voice,dipped in privilege, talking about “real” life, life as it is. Nevertheless, I can see the young generation yearning to be disassociated with the culture they have been brought up in, craving the assumed “coolness” of being westernised, while being blind to the richness of the historical culture that stares them right in the eye. Growing up abroad is considered a dream for many Pakistani children and teenagers. But for me growing up in Pakistan, a country rich in culture, tradition and beauty is the real dream. The writer is a student living in Cambridge, UK. She can be reached at annushehrhmqureshi@gmail.com, and on Twitter at AnnushehQureshi