Column: Behind the Veil

I’m used to weddings that are colorful, loud and absolutely crazy. Think “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” on steroids — that’s what a Pakistani wedding is like.

While I make my way to the Intercultural Center for class, it is hard for me to fathom that my friend is walking to her class back in Peshawar at great personal risk.

I remember being a freshman, staring with a mixture of awe and terror at the gray-clad, Star Trek-esque West Pointers. Back then, I automatically associated anything to do with the American military as bad.

The airport is a strange place; it both divests one of one’s identity and hyperbolizes it.

If I had a dollar for every awkward introduction, I could probably afford a nice big collection of headscarves.

The idea that someone would want — nay, die for — a darker hue to one’s skin went completely against the sensibilities I was raised on.