Fahar, Our LAX Limo Driver

Fahar, Our LAX Limo Driver

“Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.”

—Maya Angelou

November 2018

Even if our Cathay Pacific flight to Bangkok had been canceled right at the check-in counter, the limo ride we took that day would have been memorable enough to be its own adventure. It wasn’t just the drive; it was Fahar, our limo driver, who made those sixty minutes en route to LAX feel like a window into a world I never expected to glimpse. By the time we reached the airport, I had learned more about life, resilience, and the immigrant experience than I had expected.

It all began innocently enough. About ten minutes into the drive, Fahar casually mentioned that he lived in Huntington Beach. As residents of a neighboring coastal city, I thought this was the perfect opportunity to make small talk. I assumed we’d chat about local places, maybe schools, or the ocean breeze. I did not know that this simple question would open the door to a deeply personal and moving story about his journey from Karachi, Pakistan, to America.

When I asked Fahar what he liked about Huntington Beach, he immediately mentioned the schools. That answer, I thought, was a clue that he had children. Wanting to keep the conversation flowing, I asked how old his kids were. Little did I know that this question would unleash an incredible life story—one of hardship, sacrifice, and perseverance that unfolded like the plot of an epic novel.

Over the course of the next hour, Fahar shared everything. He grew up in Karachi, the eldest of ten children, in a family that barely scraped by. Though they only spoke Urdu at home, Fahar had learned English at school, a skill that would later change the course of his life. Yet school didn’t last long for him. By the time he was twelve, he had dropped out to help support his family. He worked any job he could find, taking on the responsibilities of an adult long before his peers. “By the time I was sixteen,” Fahar told me with a sigh, “I felt more like twenty-four.”

The turning point in Fahar’s life came after he witnessed two suicide bombings near his neighborhood in Karachi. The violence and instability convinced him he needed to seek a future elsewhere, far from the chaos of his home city. At eighteen, he entered the U.S. immigration lottery—essentially a gamble, with millions applying each year for a few visas. Fahar could hardly believe his luck when, six years later, at twenty-four, his number was called.

But before leaving for America, Fahar was married to his cousin, Amal, in an arranged marriage. “It’s common in our culture,” he said. Their first daughter, Jamila, was born shortly after their marriage, but Fahar had to make the difficult decision to leave Pakistan without them, seeking a better future in the United States. For nearly two years, Fahar worked tirelessly to save enough money to bring Amal and Jamila to join him.

The first months in America were challenging. Fahar arrived with little more than hope, but his tenacity was extraordinary. He found work on his very first day—at a 7-11 convenience store. That job wasn’t glamorous, but to Fahar, it was a lifeline. He worked long hours, sending money back to Pakistan and trying to make a life for his family in their new home.

Despite his success, Fahar didn’t escape prejudice. He recalled one incident when a customer at the 7-11 told him to “go back to your own country.” Fahar, with characteristic humility and grace, responded with a quiet smile, “I’ll leave today, sir.” His calm, slightly sarcastic reply went right over the customer’s head, but Fahar wasn’t bitter. Instead, he seemed to brush it off as an unfortunate but small part of his journey in America.

Over the next twelve years, Fahar’s life was a testament to resilience and perseverance. He worked various jobs, each time moving up the ladder, and was proud that he had never relied on government help. He clarified that his dream wasn’t just for himself, but for his daughters. He told me that Kamila, his second daughter, was born in the U.S. and was automatically a citizen. He already imagined a future where Jamila and Kamila would succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

But Fahar’s story also had its heartbreaks. Amal, the woman he had married and brought to America, eventually left him. After completing nursing school, she pursued her own dreams, leaving Fahar to raise their two young daughters alone. This part of his life weighed heavily on him, though he didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he focused on how fortunate he was to have found a caring Vietnamese woman, in her sixties, who had become a surrogate grandmother to his daughters. She lived with them in exchange for room and board, taking care of the girls while Fahar worked to provide for his family. He proudly explained how his daughters shared one bedroom, the grandmother had another, and he slept on the couch. This was the life of a man who had sacrificed everything to ensure his daughters had a shot at a better future.

As the LAX terminals came into view, I couldn’t help but think Fahar had already achieved more than many who’ve been here their entire lives. He embodied the immigrant dream—not just for himself, but for the generations after him. His eyes sparkled with pride when he talked about his daughters’ future, and I could see how much he had endured for them. With his unwavering determination, I knew that one day his daughters would accomplish great things.

As we approached our destination, a thought crossed my mind: if, twenty years from now, I sit in a doctor’s office, being treated by a physician named Jamila or Kamila, I’ll smile and say, “I know your father. And, what a fine man he is.”