This is a very personal piece. I have decided to get it out of my system because I need to speak. I need to speak for the community that I belong to - and I am not talking about my community as an Ismaili, a woman or even a Karachiite. I am talking about those of us who chose to stay back and refused to succumb to the pressures of the aspirations of upward mobility.

We, who shared a sense of fidelity to our physical origins and accepted all the joys and miseries that accompanied them, are now confronted with a new challenge; and it is not as simple as the wishful question of “What if I had moved out?” Our real challenge is navigating the ugly change being imposed on us. The sort of change that we did not even ask for.

I have spent most of my life in Garden East, once a secure and pleasant neighbourhoodwhere ambassadors, professionals and artists like Noor Jehanused to live. My parents and family members have lived in the same house for close to 80 years.

My mother’s parents had a chai cafe next to our current house and our address is still remembered as ‘Ali kehotel kesaathwalaghar’ by our senior relatives, most of who have moved abroad. The bungalow on the left, which stood out because of its lush gardens and open spaces, was built by the Lakhani Family.

The three adjacent houses, with near-colonial architecture, face the Ismaili JammatKhana, the landmark building that now describes our address.

I grew up in the ’80s - an era dominated by the fear-riddled security infrastructure that sprung up at the behest of the dictator and his acolytes. As our elders tried to make sense of the rapid political and demographic changes around them, their parental instinct of protecting us from the growing loci of violence and lawlessness in the metropolitan shaped our formative years.

But despite a long list of “No, you can’t-s” for us, our parents and relatives always felt safe enough to allow their daughters to play unsupervised on Garden East’s streets, visit friends in the neighbourhoods and walkto tuition teacher’s house everyday. Somewhere deep down, our parents’ sense of security came from community bonding, a mainstay of their childhoods; they trusted the community to watch over us in their absence - and the community never failed them.

The equation changed rapidly in the ’90s. Zia era’s rot gave way to political uncertainty and market liberalization, compelling members of the community to shift abroad. This shift came with a cost. The new generation of aspiring middle class needed liquidity to find a life of upward mobility. The solid colonial-era houses where joint families lived had to be sold to raise money.

While most of the senior members of the family would typically resist such pressures, there would always be that one younger, newly married or new parent who would force the family to consider the lucrative demands of the builders to sell their property. The developers would find a partner in such a person, offering them easy money to build a life of their dreams in the West. While they made dollars, those of us left behind were boxed in shapeless, cramped concrete structures, violating every building code.

We now had neighbours but not a community. To build and sustain a community space, you need space; public places that neither cost time nor effort but instead serve as silent, comfortable and natural meeting places that foster trust and allow interactions to thrive. A place to chat, have tea together and enjoy the fresh air and each other’s company without being yelled at to move and make way for the vehicles or worry about street crimes.

My neighbourhood is changing and I am not liking it. Up until now, the old houses being demolished were blocks away from me. Eventually, they got to my old friends’, my tuition teachers’and my cousins’ houses, all of whom have moved abroad like the rest of the Ismaili community.

Last year, the house next door was sold off. These are the neighbors I was not too friendly with but we never had a chance to get to know each other. A lone woman was living there with an army of house help and dogs. Her parents had passed away and it made no sense to her and her Australia-settled brother to keep such a big house because of economic and security reasons.

We now had neighbours but not a community. To build and sustain a community space, you need space; public places that neither cost time nor effort but instead serve as silent, comfortable and natural meeting places that foster trust and allow interactions to thrive. A place to chat, have tea together and enjoy the fresh air and each other’s company without being yelled at to move and make way for the vehicles or worry about street crimes.

The last few months have been driven by a sense of anxiety that has been peaking since the changes began unfolding. First, the AC units were removed from the premise, then the lights began going out one by one and finally, the doorbells were taped to convey to any future visitor that nobody is living on the property.

Last month, I heard some activity in the house. Something was being hammered, I could hear the drill machines buzzing. This was followed by the sound of something (installations most likely) crashing to the floor and shattering. Worriedly, I asked our domestic help if he knew what was going on. “Issgharko tors rahehain,” he responded and my heart hasn’t stopped sinking since.

Back in 2005, I got an email from a stranger. He introduced himself as our old neighbour who grew up in one of the units of our house, called the Chagani Building before I was born. He moved to the US and never returned to Pakistan.

He somehow found me on an email trail and, after confirming that I was living at his old house, requested me to send him photographs of the place. After ice-breaking, I nudged him to visit Karachi and stay with us. He said he has decided that he will never.

“The place has changed so much, it gives me anxiety. I cannot deal with it.” It has been almost twenty years. I am still in touch with him and send him photos that show the better side of our area rather than the worse with the hope that it would make him happy.

Earlier, I found it strange that he felt anxious that Karachi and Garden East are changing but now I understand. A change has been imposed on us and not for the better.

The apartments cropping up in Garden East violate all building codes with building regulators providing complete impunity to the developers. They encroach on pavements and the Compulsory Open Spaces, drawing in a fleet of honking cars that reduce the walkability of the area.

Garden East is one of the few areas of the city in need of dedicated walkable spaces as it houses the Ismaili community that goes to the JammatKhana every day. The JammatKhana has been designed in a way that discourages vehicular traffic. Hence, people of all ages prefer walking to the JammatKhana every evening and they cannot walk without the fear of being hit by speedy motorcycles, or harassed by honking cars.

Distressed stray dogs are seen running for their lives at any hour of the day. Every three months, the Karachi Metropolitan Corporation (KMC) poisons them on the complaint of people who value their aural comfort (the excuse being that dogs bark too much) over animal sentience.

The sewerage is overflowing, its stench overwhelming. The roads are broken, pockmarked with potholes and we have long stopped raising our eyebrows at anecdotes about street crime because that is how common it has become. Walking or even standing on the streets is a nightmare, no matter what time of the day.

All of this does not make sense to me. We have been told that progress needs to change. Those of us who question it are called emotional and outdated but as I struggle to understand the good that this concrete development and breakdown of communal values has brought to our lives, I see the “change friendly” members of our family and friends having an equally hard time dealing with it.

I now understand why they are so obsessed with their gadgets, flat screens and appliances. They offer them some respite from the ugliness that is creeping up outside. We have become inward looking because we have no capacity and agency to control the outside environment. Organising for change is no option because engaging the administration is not only exhausting, it is demoralizing and, sometimes, downright unsafe.

As the house next door is torn down, I catch myself looking for legal grounds to find my right to question the demolition and halt it. Do Karachi Master Plan and building regulations have any provisions for addressing neighbourhood congestion? Can climate change be used as an argument to arrest further concretization of our cities? Turns out these are mostly slogans that have yet to translate into tangible solutions.

A house lovingly made by the older generation for a family of four, adhering to all ethical architectural principles will now be replaced by a structure accommodating 50 households. These people will invest and live in architecturally compromised, heat-generating spaces till they find better options for upward mobility.

I wonder if my static status means life will be worse for me. How can it be any better off for those whose lives are devoid of the pleasures of communal bonding and respect for each other?

The fresh air is not being sucked out of the city for me alone. They will not have any access to it either.

-The author is an independent researcher based in Karachi