I come from Kashmir, a place renowned for its breathtaking landscapes and complex history. Growing up beneath chinar trees, I learned to see them as symbols of endurance, each branch a witness to centuries of conflict, suffering, and resilience.
In Kashmir, carrying identification is as routine as carrying one's keys — a daily ritual that acknowledges the underlying tension woven into our lives.
When I moved to Shanghai for my PhD at Tongji University in 2022, I anticipated that this same instinct for caution would linger — a reflex that had long become second nature. But Shanghai offered something unexpected: a life shaped not by caution but by trust — a trust so seamlessly woven into daily life that it flows through the city like an invisible current.
Here in Shanghai, people leave bicycles unlocked, bags unattended, and walk freely without a second thought about their safety. You pick up deliveries without flashing receipts, and people treat you not as an outsider but as someone who belongs. The first time I left my laptop unattended in a university cafe, it felt almost rebellious. I hesitated, but returning to find my belongings untouched was not just a relief — it was humbling.
It revealed a truth about human nature I had not fully understood: that trust could be a foundation, a quiet norm rather than something rare. For the first time, I felt what it was like to trust a city itself, letting it cradle me without the reflexive caution I'd long carried.
In Kashmir, safety is something we manage cautiously. We carry identification not as an option but as an unspoken rule, and we navigate life with an awareness sharpened by necessity. But in Shanghai, safety is an unspoken promise rather than a guarded privilege. I can walk alone at night without looking over my shoulder or even thinking to bring my ID — a freedom that felt almost surreal at first.
On my first day on campus, I noticed chinar trees lining the walkways. While these trees symbolize resilience in Kashmir, bearing the weight of history and memory, they seemed lighter here in Shanghai, adapted to a calmer and more peaceful environment.
These chinar trees became a metaphor for my transformation — a reminder of where I come from, but also a symbol of the freedom I was discovering.
Living in Shanghai has reshaped not only my understanding of trust and safety but also my understanding of home. For so long, home was bound to Kashmir, to its chinar trees and its vigilant routines. But Shanghai has shown me that home can be found in a sense of peace and freedom, in the ability to walk through life unburdened by caution.
Under the chinar trees of this distant city, I've found echoes of my origins, as well as a sense of belonging that invites me to be part of something larger.
In the end, home is not merely a place; it's a feeling rooted in safety, comfort, and the freedom to be oneself without restraint. Sometimes, to truly understand what home means, we must journey far from it and experience what it's like to feel completely and quietly safe. Shanghai, with its calm reassurances and familiar chinar trees, has given me that understanding.
Written by Anayat Ali, 30, from India-controlled Kashmir, currently a PhD student at Tongji University in Shanghai. Last year, he served as the president of the International Students Association at Tongji, promoting cross-cultural understanding. Through his experiences, he reflects on finding a sense of home and safety in Shanghai, bridging his roots in Kashmir with his life in China.
