Last year, while home in Pakistan during winter break, I stopped by my high school to visit old teachers and friends. I talked with some of the seniors there, just as they were preparing to finish the semester, almost ready to start a break of their own. They were preoccupied with many of the same concerns I’d had the year before — examinations, college applications, how they were going to spend their winter vacations.

Seeing the familiar place, just as it had been while I was a student there, I couldn’t help but be overcome by a pang of nostalgia. I thought about the amazing moments I’d had, but, like any time I think back to high school, my thoughts drifted to the night of December 27, 2007, when Benazir Bhutto, the first female prime minister of Pakistan, was assassinated.

The walls of the gated community in Karachi, where I grew up, stand between the residents and the reality that lingers outside the constructed dividers. We desperately erect artificial barriers to give ourselves some sense of security, hoping that any mayhem will pass us by, leaving us unscathed as pandemonium rages outside. Having never really believed in the concept of gated communities, I’ve always frowned at the synthetic sense of security that comes with them. One may then excuse my slight amusement when this sham belief broke down the night Bhutto was allegedly assassinated by militants, and the city of Karachi witnessed a complete collapse of law and order despite its constructed borders meant to protect against just such an occurrence.

When the news of the assassination reached us, the community administration decided to turn off the streetlights, preferring to rely on darkness rather than the walls to stay safe, hoping against hope that the rioters creating havoc just outside the city borders wouldn’t notice that beyond the walls lay more fodder for their Honda and Toyota bonfires, more windows to smash and more property to loot.

Early the next morning, as I went outside with my grandfather to inspect the smoldering shell of the family car from the night before, the fumes still hung heavy in the air. Every electric pole was covered with banners of Bhutto’s political party — the Pakistan Peoples Party — and the road was scorched where rioters had burned cars and rubber tires.

The cool morning wind provided a feeling of serenity as if to heal the city from the horrors of the night before. And as I stood there, fearful of how the next few days would play out in the wake of the assassination, an odd thought crept into my head. I couldn’t help but worry about the fast-approaching deadlines for college applications.

The seemingly trivial concerns about finalizing my application essays made an awkward contrast with thoughts of what the following weeks would hold for my country.

But that is how I, and many others from my country, have had to function. We persevere in the face of adversity, refusing to let the situation we find ourselves in bog us down. We move ahead and tackle the trivial issues in a nontrivial environment. School would commence a few days later and I would soon be back to the usual business of homework and tests, college applications and essays.

While I was back home last year, I decided to meet with the school librarian, Mr. Azeem. After the initial pleasantries, our conversation quickly turned toward the political situation, as it so often does in Pakistan. When our bitter rants were finished, Mr. Azeem sighed and simply said, “Life goes on.”

This is not an attempt to put on a sheepish grin and downplay the troubles of Pakistan when the headlines sauntering across the news ticker mention a bomb that went off two miles from your house, or when you’ve had one of your cars stolen and burned during political violence.

This is simply an attempt to show that reality for most of us in Pakistan is not the chaos that surrounds brief moments of normalcy, but rather, the normalcy that encircles sporadic tumult. If violence has forced its way into our lives over the past few years at the behest of a tiny minority stubborn in its desire to make a statement of hate and bigotry, then the hundreds of millions who go about their daily lives are also making a statement — one of resilience and determination in the face of hardship.