“Pop open your hood and trunk!” the guard barked at my family in Urdu, stopping our car at a security point as we pulled up to the gate of the five-star Pearl Continental Hotel in Lahore, Pakistan. After a thorough search, we were directed to the side doors of the hotel, where our purses passed through an airport-style X-ray machine; we ourselves were ushered through full-body scanners. Finally clearing all these checks, we at last reached the posh hotel lobby. The layers of security had done the trick—with its designer boutiques and exquisite restaurants, not a hint remained of the dangerous Pakistan that reserves a spot in the daily headlines.

With enough cash to spend on such safety measures, wealthy Pakistanis can still easily escape the fear—and reality—of what Pakistan has become. The year-old democratic government is in shambles, suicide attacks are more frequent than ever, a nationwide energy crisis and a monetary crisis make international headlines, and both the encroaching Taliban and overbearing U.S. threaten to undermine Pakistan’s sovereignty—in short, the country is a mess. But at the Pearl Continental and other Western havens across the ailing state, it seems as if nothing is wrong.

During my weeklong stay in Lahore, I was repeatedly alarmed by upper-class Pakistanis’ nonchalance and misplacement of priorities. Throughout my stay, I attended one opulent wedding (but heard about many more), replete with lavish decorations and a bejeweled bride. Such grandeur has increasingly become the norm; anything less is looked down upon. People seem to be spending millions on weddings—not out of joy, but out of a desire to one-up the last celebration they have attended.

Indeed, Pakistan’s society is a living paradox, more so now than ever. On the one hand, there is the upper class. There is no comfort that money cannot buy, including security. Chauffeured cars and security guards keep these select few at ease in all situations. At the other end of the social spectrum are those who live on the increasingly perilous streets. Approximately 24 percent of Pakistan’s population lives under the poverty line, scrounging for basic necessities in the shadow of the elite.

The country’s energy crisis is a prime example of this societal contrast. Because of poor infrastructural planning, the government has been caught off-guard by the spike in demand for energy accompanying increased population growth. To conserve energy in the summer months, when temperatures regularly exceed 100 degrees Fahrenheit, it has instituted load-shedding, or nationwide rolling blackouts. I was told to prepare for the worst load-shedding to date, with blackouts nearly every other hour. I heard about struggling families relying solely on candlelight to run their households. This is no way to live, but in theory, every Pakistani would bear the brunt of the government’s lack of foresight.

But that’s theory, and little goes according to plan in Pakistan. Like always, there are work-arounds—the upper class, unlike the majority of people, can afford diesel-powered personal generators. Their most pressing concern is flickering lights when the generator is activated.

Most of these modern aristocrats are not bad people, but they live in a different Pakistan, completely removed from the lifestyle of the typical citizen. Immunity to the repercussions of government decisions has bred a seeming indifference among this class. The wealthy simply go about their lives as if nothing has changed, ignoring that it is precisely their leadership that Pakistan needs now more than ever. They should be the ones mobilizing the people and pressuring the government to take action against injustice. But they are the ones content with the status quo.

My last day in Lahore was Aug. 14, Pakistan’s Independence Day. As midnight approached, Pakistanis, primarily of the lower and middle classes, flooded the city’s streets, jamming them with bumper-to-bumper traffic. People sat atop motorbikes and stuck their heads out of soapbox car windows, dancing and singing, drunk on patriotism. As I stared out the car window, I wondered what these people had to celebrate. Sixty-two years after Pakistan was founded, its future remains uncertain, and frankly, it is completely out of the hands of these average people.

But such small opportunities for celebration are all that most Pakistanis have. The wealthy can avoid reality by dousing it with money and praying that the tide will turn on its own. As for the rest, all they can do, from time to time, is block reality with a little hope.


Shereen P. Asmat ’12, a Crimson magazine writer, is an applied math and economics concentrator in Winthrop House.