Islamabad: Learning to Live in the Quiet

Usually, I would take a walk in F-10 just before dusk. Not so much for exercise. More because the neighborhood seemed a little softer under the light. The temperature would slightly decrease. The vehicles would slow down. For a moment, everything felt forgiving as the sky turned dusty pink and orange.

Just before sunset, I would take a stroll in F-10. Not a lot of exercise, but the neighborhood feels a little softer because of the light. The sky would turn a dusky orange and pink, the cars would slow down, and the temperature would slightly drop. Everything seemed to be forgiving for a moment.

The F-10 is not as unique as most tourists believe. It lacks drama and monuments. It consists of homes, parks, peaceful streets, and the Markaz, which has a pronounced food and dust odor. But that's precisely why I found it important. It was typical, and ordinary times are when Islamabad shines the brightest.

Every day I passed the same houses on my walks. tall walls. gates made of iron. Overhanging the concrete is bougainvillea. A few of the houses had the feel of being inhabited. Even during the day, others felt as though they were closed. It was impossible to determine which streets were under constant surveillance and which weren't. You learn to notice things without staring in the city.

Somewhere behind me, the call to prayer would begin to play. As I continued walking, it would cross over into another mosque, and then another. Not one of them is making enough noise to draw notice. Simply be there. It mingled with the sounds of passing cars, children playing cricket, and stores closing. It seemed as though everything was in balance and that no single sound was permitted to dominate.

Even though I was raised in a city, it took me a while to realize how much the city influenced my way of seeing the world. I learned that I needed to use space carefully in Islamabad. With my time. You weren't supposed to stay in the city for very long.

The city seemed to be exhaling at sunset. Because of the traffic, you could see that the offices were empty. Individuals went out alone or in pairs. While some walked slowly, others hurried. Everyone appeared to have a place to go back to at the end of the day. The city permits people to wander, but only for a brief period of time.

Although power is not visible in the city, it is felt everywhere. where the roads go. where, despite their lack of openness, the spaces feel open. In this way, even though public areas are open to the public, an unidentified force still controls them. During my strolls, I came across parks that appeared friendly but had regulations written all over them.

There is an apparent calmness about Islamabad that is, in many respects, genuine. However, being silent does not equate to being at peace. Though it's hidden, there is tension here. You can spot it when someone turns down the volume to discuss anything important or how anger is channeled instead of let out. The city doesn't blow up. It simply swallows it.

Islamabad has an air of kindness. It provides structure. You get a sense of predictability from it. It creates room for introspection. However, it also teaches self-control so effectively that you occasionally forget how to make room elsewhere. I still have it with me. the natural tendency to wait. to speak more quietly. to act after giving it some thought.

These habits formed on walks. Not on big moments. They did not give any clear lessons. Just repetitions. Just evenings that turned into nights. Just a city that slowly taught you its rhythm.

When the sun set, the streets became quiet fast. Sometimes too fast. The shops closed. Lights came on behind gates. The walks ended. I went home.

Islamabad does not ask much of you. It does not demand change. But it shapes you anyway. Subtly. Patiently. And walking through F-10 at sunset is where I felt that most clearly. Even now, when I think of home. It is not a house I picture first. It's that light. That hour. That feeling of stillness. Just for a moment.