The decision to submit this photograph for the Global Encounters Photo Contest was an extremely difficult one for me. It was laced with a sense of guilt, mixed with a sense of patriotic responsibility and an unshakeable sense of imposter syndrome.

On the one hand I was excited to share this picture. At the time of its capture, I had only owned my new camera for two months. I would carry it with me absolutely everywhere, knowing that inspiration could strike in the most unlikely moments. It was 14th August, Pakistan’s Independence Day, notorious for lively, enthusiastic and sometimes dangerous celebration. I woke up early in the morning, determined to make it out of my house with my camera before my mom could catch sight of me. I knew what she’d say if I told her my plans, “It’s too dangerous”, “Don’t go alone”, “Is this really necessary”? But this particular morning I didn’t want to hear yet another limitation of being a woman in my country. I wanted to celebrate the day with my community, not as a Pakistani woman but just as a Pakistani.

And so, I got in the car and drove to Frere Hall, an ironically colonial landmark that happened to have one of the most beautiful parks in Karachi. I was adorned in local clothes, green and white, camera strap around my neck and picnic blanket in my backpack. When I got there, I realized that a majority of other people had the same idea as me. The park was packed. Huge families sprawled across the grass, policemen and park caretakers chatting in corners, old men smoking cigarettes and sipping hot chai. Everyone had a place but for some reason, I could still not find mine.

I felt stuck in between two worlds. On one side there was frere hall, a remanent of the British colonial era. This part of the park reminded me of my privilege, the abundance of opportunities that were available to me as a virtue of my birth. On the other side there was the garden, filled with people from all walks of life coming together as one. This part reminded me of my identity, my roots, my culture and my society. But I was somewhere in the middle. Neither here nor there, just floating between the two.

My camera became my bridge. It was a tool I could employ to integrate my two worlds. It gave me the confidence to reach out to people and tell them that I wanted to hear their story. That I wanted to be more than a passing stranger. I craved to be a part of my community, despite the vast differences and glaring inequalities.

This photograph was taken when I stopped to watch five siblings chasing each other around the park. Their energy was infectious, from belly laughs to yells and shouts, they could not go unnoticed. Minutes before, I had watched these children along with their 15 additional family members disembark from a congested and crowded minibus. When I asked if I could take a picture of them, adorned in their patriotic garb, they excitedly told me that just days before, their father had sold his mobile phone so that they could afford to buy these outfits and plan a trip into the city.

I immediately reconsidered my request to photograph them. Standing there with my professional camera around my neck, iPhone in my right hand, asking these kids to do something for me, I felt supercilious, condescending, even ignorant. But by the time I had thought it through, the five were already posed around an empty fountain, ready to be photographed. Their expressions said “This isn’t for you; this is for us.” And so, I clicked away.

There was a lot of learning and growth that came out of not only this experience, but also the experience of winning the contest. Initially, I almost felt as if I had used a story that wasn’t my own as currency in a competition. I didn’t allow myself to feel proud or even acknowledge that it was a good picture. But the more I thought about it the more I realized how little it was about me, and how much it was about them. While they may not have had financial independence, or a say in the quality of life they were given, they were still able to put aside their qualms for one day to come together as a family and celebrate the independence of their country. They didn’t look at me and feel resentment, so why did I look at them and feel pity?

It required a lot of self-reflection to realize that perceptions of feeling like an outsider in your own community are mostly self-imposed. Barriers and limits are something you put up yourself because you’re afraid of what’s on the other side. There is no “I” and “other”, there is just us.

Unable to take pictures on their own, they saw me and my camera as an opportunity to mark this momentous occasion. All my presence did was fuel their enthusiasm and excitement. They were confident in their identity, they embraced their circumstances and so I, attempting to follow in suit, am proud of myself for winning this contest and proud of who I am and where I come from.

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