5 Hearing From Lois

Buses were usually full, so people hung on wherever they could.

5 We Hear From Lois

Rich and I were excited to be going to Pakistan for two years. I loved that Rich shared my sense of adventure, and together we would have the opportunity to live and travel in the subcontinent. We expected new experiences, and we were not disappointed.

Pakistan was mind expanding, colorful, fascinating, and exotic.

It was also overwhelming.

We saw and experienced many things that were entirely new to us. At first, the constant novelty was exciting. But the longer we stayed, the more difficult it became to relax. Little by little, stress accumulated.

One of the hardest things for me was living in the midst of so much visible suffering. Suffering is part of life, but most of the time our lives are carefully constructed so that we are not aware of it. We choose comfort, beauty, familiarity, and people who make us feel safe. In Pakistan, suffering was not hidden away. It was everywhere.

In the late 1970s, Pakistan was an underdeveloped country. There was little government support for the sick, the poor, or the disabled. People who were suffering had no choice but to place themselves directly in front of others and hope for mercy.

Beggars lined the streets, the sidewalks, the markets. They approached cars at intersections. They reached out as you walked. Some were visibly ill, some deformed, some unable to move well — all of them desperate.

If you gave money to one, many more would appear.

We had no way to fix the problem. We could not rescue everyone in need, and over time, the constant exposure to misery became emotionally exhausting for me.

There is something about being repeatedly drawn toward suffering and being powerless to relieve it that slowly wears at one’s well-being.

So we did what most people do when faced with what they cannot solve: we sought out islands of warmth.

We ignored what we could not change and filled our lives with the love and kindness of the people around us — especially the warm, friendly people at PAFCAE and our American friends.

Our friendships were one of the most nourishing parts of our stay. Friendliness, hospitality, and genuine interest in who we were were constant gifts.

I especially enjoyed the PAFCAE gatherings. When we arrived at an event, the men and women would separate socially — the ladies on one side of the room, the men on the other. When we arrived, I joined the women and Rich joined the men, and only when it was time to leave would we come back together.

During the day, the Pakistani women usually wore a shalwar kameez —a long tunic with loose trousers and a flowing scarve. For evenings and special occasions, they wore saris.

One night, the ladies decided they wanted to see me dressed in a sari. When I arrived, they had one waiting. They wrapped me in it, admired the result, and told me how pretty I looked. They were delighted, and I was too. It was one of those small moments of connection that made me feel included and loved.

Over time, physically, my health began to suffer.

After about nine months, I had a tubal pregnancy. Our American doctor was out of the country on leave. I was seen by the Pakistani doctor taking his place and misdiagnosed. 

Our Parsi friends suggested I undergo diathermy treatments. I did. It helped with the pain and may have saved my life, allowing my fallopian tube to rupture slowly. Our American doctor returned two weeks later. By then I was no longer acute, but weak. He had me medically evacuated to a military hospital in Germany. Rich joined me and the damage from the tubal pregnancy was cleaned up.

I returned two weeks later and Rich had moved us to Korangi Creek on base. It was quieter than Karachi, but I had trouble regaining my energy. I was homesick, worn down, and emotionally depleted.

I left in June 1978, a month early, to return to the United States.

Pakistan gave me much — adventure, cultural richness, treasured friendships, and a wider view of the world.

But it also taught me something difficult:

that wonder and hardship can live side by side,

that human beings can only absorb so much suffering before something in them grows tired.

And I learned:

The world is larger than comfort.

Larger than the life we build around ourselves.

Beautiful,

brilliant,

aching.

And sometimes the soul returns home

not because the adventure failed,

but because it has seen

more than it knows how to carry.