I’M from England. My husband is from Pakistan. We met 23 years ago in the UAE and now live in the United Kingdom with our three children. Over the last 21 years we’ve enjoyed wonderful family holidays visiting our extended family in Pakistan. It wasn’t that long ago that applying for a visa was uncomplicated, efficient. Visas were issued the same day.

In 2008, from the comfort of my home, I applied for a Pakistan Origin Card (POC) through the National Database and Registration Authority (Nadra) website. Two months later, a shiny POC card was delivered to my door. It was a well-organised process. I could enjoy visa-free visits to Pakistan whenever I liked, for as long as I liked.

Fast-forward to February 2015. My much-used POC expired. The online application process doesn’t exist. It’s back to a pen and paper application form. In this digital age, it felt like a retrograde step. Question 31 and 32 require “applicant’s present address” and “applicant’s permanent address”. My “present” and “permanent” address is one and the same. It’s my red-brick house in the UK, where I live, permanently. I filled it in.

The pains of applying for a visit to Pakistan outweigh the gains.

On a grey February morning I took my application to the consulate of Pakistan in Bradford. It was rejected. What was acceptable in 2008 no longer is so. I couldn’t have a UK address for “present” and “permanent” address; one must be in Pakistan, I was told. It doesn’t state that on the form. No-one was bothered. I headed home.

A week later on a snowy morning I returned to Bradford with another form. It was rejected, this time because one of the photographs had been “fixed on the form signed across by applicant and attester”. Just as ‘Note F’ on the application form states. Not so, the official told me. We can’t accept that. No apology. Another wasted journey.

A week later I returned with another form and new photo. My third visit. The rather run-down consulate building was now very familiar. It could definitely do with a new coat of paint. The official checked the form and documentation. It was accepted. I paid the £107 (Rs 16,940) fee and left. Alhamdullilah. That was February 17. I could expect to wait 2-3 months for my new card from Islamabad.

Fast forward four-and-a-half months. No card. Nadra tells me it’s “processing”. It can take “some time”. A month? Six months? A year? In the vast organisation that Nadra is, boasting over 11,000 personnel, I haven’t found a soul who can tell me what “some time” means. I don’t think anyone at Nadra knows.

Our family holiday to Pakistan was planned for the summer. I decided to apply for a visa, just in case the POC didn’t materialise. Visa applications from the UK are now handled by a middleman, a courier service with a dimly-lit office in a disused textile mill in Bradford. Using this service has added £30 (Rs 4,800) to the cost. I went to the courier company with a bag of documents — utility bill, bank statements, employer’s letter, marriage certificate — everything on their list.

How times had changed since I last applied for a visa. It was simple then. Not any longer. The long list of required documents given by the courier company did not include a birth certificate or a deed poll name change certificate. These are also required, so the lady at the office told me. Even though they’re not on the list. I don’t have a deed poll certificate. I haven’t changed my name by deed poll. I returned home. It was farcical.

So, here we are today, five months on. No POC card. No visa. No holiday. The expe­rience has left me wondering: whatever happened to the sys­tems that worked, allowing me to visit Pakistan over the last 21 years. Why is the application process now a flawed, ineffi­cient, arbitrary sham­bles? There isn’t a ‘system’ it seems. Who is it the authorities are trying to keep out?

If my own hopeless experiences with Nadra and the middleman courier are anything to go by, visitors like me aren’t welcome. It definitely feels that way. I conveyed my unfortunate experiences to friends. They found it impossible to believe. They commended me on my patience and commiserated with me on the unapologetic ineptitude I’d encountered. All agreed they would’ve given up long ago. No-one needs the hassle and stress. Someone asked if it was a Pakistani visa I wanted or entry to a top-secret government service!

All were unanimous this was no way to treat potential visitors. It puts Pakistan in a dim, inhospitable light. It’s enough to deter the most seasoned travellers. Potential visitors will choose (and wisely so) to spend well-earned time and cash in other countries. It’s been a demoralising, stressful process for me with nothing to show for my effort, time and money. Now I definitely need a holiday — just not to Pakistan.

The writer is a freelance contributor.

Published in Dawn, July 26th, 2015

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