Looking out from my window, I watch the show fall gently, wrapping the world outside in a white and quiet stillness. There is something about snowfall that evokes longing—a pull towards the places we have left behind. In this moment, my mind drifts thousands of miles away to my hometown –Gwadar, where the air is warm, the sea hums in the background, and the annual book festival is about to begin.
Since 2014, the Rural Community Development Council (RCDC) has hosted the Gwadar Book Festival. When it first started, it was the first of its kind in a place like Balochistan. Today, it continues to be an intellectual haven where book lovers can gather, explore ideas, and meet thinkers and writers from all over Pakistan.
Over the years, it has become more than just a book fair; it is a space where ideas are exchanged, pressing issues are discussed, literature is celebrated, and an entire community comes together in its shared love for knowledge. This year, the theme in focus is Climate Change –its Challenges and How it can be tackled.
For those of us who cherish reading, care about local issues, and are drawn to literature, this festival is something to look forward to. It is a space where women and young girls of Gwadar, for the first time, could engage in deep intellectual discussions, and purchase books of their choice. Although education, especially girls' education, has gained more focus in Gwadar than ever before, there is still a gap and this festival provides a much-needed opportunity for women to step into a world beyond textbooks and the confines of their homes.
Yet, in the midst of all the (almost never ending) political chaos in Balochistan, where book stalls are raided and book sellers are thrown behind bars, festivals like these serve as both a hope and a reminder of the fragility of intellectual spaces. Sadly, the very act of gathering around books, and discussing ideas carries both promise and risk. It is heartening to see such a space thrive, but one cannot ignore the undercurrents of concern that also accompany. But despite these challenges, as the festival returns, we are reminded of our community’s resilience.
Every year, as the festival approaches, I find myself living through the experiences of my friends and family back home—through their excitement, their shared pictures, videos and their conversations about the books they bought. It is another year that I will miss this beautiful gathering, another year that I will not walk through the stalls, flipping through pages, and running into all my old school friends and teachers.
And, it is in moments like these that I am reminded of a quote by Elif Shafaq that has haunted me ever since I first read it: “Motherlands are castles made of glass. In order to leave them, you have to
break something—a wall, a social convention, a cultural norm, a psychological barrier, a heart.
What you have broken will haunt you. To be an emigré, therefore means to forever bear shards of glass
in your pockets. It is easy to forget they are there, light and minuscule as they are, and go on with your life, your little ambitions and important plans, but at the slightest contact the shards will remind you of their presence. They will cut you deep.”
Every year, as the book fair approaches, those shards of glass cut a little deeper. I am reminded of what I’ve left behind. Although, love for books is something one carries across borders, but longing for home remains intact. Even as I watch the snow settle here in a place far from Gwadar, I know that a part of me will always belong to the sunlit Padi Zir, Batil and Meedi, because distance does not mean detachment.
“We do not give up on the places we love just because we are physically detached from them,”
As Elif Shafaq reminds us. And perhaps next year, when the festival returns, so will I…
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