It was ironic that I read the two readings from No One is Illegal (for my class on Cities in the 21st Century) on the plane back to New York last Monday morning.

Immediately upon landing I literally came across some of the challenges that Chacon and Davis talk about. Just like everyone else I got in line for visitors, and the immigration officer checked my passport, I-20, etc. But unlike most people, all my stuff was put into an orange folder and I was asked to go "register" myself in a small room at the end of the hallway.

I entered a small waiting room with broken desks, grumpy immigration officers, and a large group of hispanic and south asian people - men, women and children. It bothered me that I had been singled out based on either my nationality or my race. It seemed wrong but I understood why it had to be done: to catch potential terrorists and prevent another 9-11. I would almost have liked to see some arabs in the room, too (after all we had flown out from Dubai)!

What was not okay, however, was the inefficiency with which the officers dealt with each case. The various colored folders lay around for hours, and there was no real order in which people were interviewed. There was a hint of what Guantanamo must be like: we were not allowed to make phone calls and were asked to sit in the seats provided. The officers were suspicious and watchful. They even brought in a convict for whom there was a warrant and asked him to wait with us until they had time to process him.

In the end, after two hours of waiting, I asked to see a supervisor and quoted to him the "pledge" that was written in the main hall of the airport: a promise that the customs officers would respect visitors, smile, etc. He was actually very nice. It could have been that I told him I go to Princeton and had to get back in time for class, or the fact that I spoke any English at all, but immediately I was taken more seriously and helped out.

But the overall ambiguity of my status in that room still confuses me, and I wonder how effective this system is in protecting America from terrorists.

Photo from naamtobatao.wordpress.com.

As part of the larger project emPOWER, which is a student-led initiative to develop a sustainable power station for the landfill (and surrounding communities) in Karachi, I volunteered to organize an art project for the children in one of the schools there. The idea was to get a better picture of the people who would directly benefit from the project. Since I was in Karachi for the week, it seemed perfect.

On Friday Momin, Muneeb, Anum, Amna, Hiba, Urooj and I went to the north of Karachi to visit the landfill and the schools there that offer free education to the kids from the surrounding slums. We had organized a painting workshop for about 60 kids, an opportunity for them to express themselves through art and tell others their story and the story of their community.

What we saw shocked us, but equally amazing was the energy, joy and creativity that each kid had. Amidst the burning garbage there was hope.

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

Photo by Momin Zafar

I had told myself I would not notice the taking off and landing of the plane, nor the announcements and security checks at the airports. This wasn't a week-long trip across the planet but a continuous living of life in a global village, where no connections are severed by a mere geographical displacement. Dubia airport had been impressive but my progress on Giedion's Space, Time and Architecture had been more impressive. I had slept and eaten, and was fully awake as we approached Karachi. And then as the landing gear clicked and the plane dipped, my heart skipped. I could no longer resist the little blinking lights of what was once the city of lights. Now they seemed watchful and tired.

Was it strange that I felt love and yearning for a city? Perhaps the city symbolizes a memorable childhood, and encapsulates the spirit of all its inhabitants whom I love.

Karachi has no skyscrapers, no Times Square, no architectural monuments to put on postcards (not since 1947 anyway). It is a blank slate. It's burning history, traditions, and energy are waiting to be articulated in concrete. It's fledgling spirit needs architectural columns to rest on.

What kind of monument, I thought, would be impervious to terrorist bombing or graffiti? What kind of monument would counter the extremist brainwashing of people by providing an alternative avenue for religious discourse? Karachi needs a Hagia Sophia! Will I design it some day?

The plane touches down and I snap my book shut, waiting to get out. Very soon it would be dawn. That, at least, was inevitable.