My Dearest Pakistan,
Today, the distance isn’t miles. It’s a chasm in my soul. In Lisbon, autumn’s crisp air whispers homesickness. Beautiful, yet sharp. It reminds me of you. My mind wanders 7,000 kilometers. To your northern mountains. A majestic theatre that makes one just stand there, awestruck.
I close my eyes. I’m there. Hunza’s Passu Cones drink light, turning gold in the final hours of the day. Rakaposhi at sunrise as if the sun is being born from the peak, cascading down, kissing the shoulders of every giant in some celestial ceremony. I stood there once, feeling so small yet eternally connected to your landscape.
Homesickness pulls me back. Velvet nights. Infinite black skies with a billion stars. The Milky Way over the Karakoram that remains my North Star, guiding me home.
But homesickness isn’t just landscapes. It’s your spirit. The fire. News of instability and sociopolitical unrest. My brave Imran Khan’s defiance, your people’s gritty fight. Chaos, yes. Heartbreaking but alive. A stubborn heartbeat absent in Lisbon’s calm streets. I miss that roar. I miss not being on your streets with my comrades, risking our safety and lives to raise our collective voice against the mighty dictator and his sellout pawns.
Lisbon is safe. Calm. What we wanted. But today, that calm amplifies your absence. Homesickness echoes. I’m building a life here. Planting seeds. Yet my roots stay forever tangltangled in your mountains. Nourished by your rivers. Weathered by your storms.You are my North Star. From Lisbon’s shores, I seek you in the sky. With homesickness that sharpens love.
Yours,
Saba
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