From Sindh to Colorado

How Kashif Khalid Became Colorado's First Pakistani Deputy Sheriff

By: Noor M Abro

My father passed away when I was 18 years old. One sentence. Ten words. A life split into before and after. What follows is not just an immigration success story—it's a testament to what happens when a free soul refuses to be crushed, when integrity becomes more valuable than survival, and when dreams buried at 18 resurrect themselves 24 years later, 7,000 miles from home.

Kashif Khalid had just completed his intermediate. The whole family turned their eyes to him—not with questions, but with expectations that felt like stones being piled on his chest. He was devastated by the loss of his father, yes, but there was no time to be devastated. All of a sudden, the whole responsibility fell on his shoulders. His mother. Three younger brothers, all little ones. And him—the eldest son, barely a man himself.

Eighteen years old and already burying dreams.

The Dream That Died at a Grave

"I was not a very bonified student and I had no interest in studies. I was not a very bookish person," Kashif said. But he had a thing for law enforcement agencies. Always wanted to be part of it. The uniform. The authority. The sense of standing between chaos and order.

Just before his father passed away—just before, as if fate was mocking him—Kashif had attempted a test for the Pakistan Air Force. He qualified. Then he gave a physical test. Qualified that too. Then came the selection for training at Kakul Academy.

The dream was right there. He could almost touch it.

Before the training began, his father's heart stopped. And with it, everything else stopped too.

"Your father just died. Your brothers need you. Your mother needs you. And you want to leave?" The look in his family's eyes wasn't just refusal—it was betrayal. How could he even think of pursuing his dreams when they needed him most?

Kashif did not join the Kakul Academy for training.

He stood at his father's grave and buried two things that day: his father's body and his own dream. The uniform he would never wear. The academy he would never enter. The version of himself he would never become.

The Free Soul Learns Its Cage

"I was a free soul, freedom lover," he said, and you can hear the ache in those words even now, years later, thousands of miles away. "I never actually wanted to trap myself somewhere in jobs to just block my life and block my freedom."

But you plan for yourself and then life plans something for you. Kashif had to give up his freedom dream. There were responsibilities on his shoulders, and responsibilities don't care about your dreams. They just sit there, getting heavier, until you can't remember what it felt like to stand up straight.

After six months as a godown keeper, Kashif convinced himself of a hard truth: I have to study. If I don't, I will have no place in society. So the boy who hated books opened them. The free soul who despised studying forced himself to memorize, to write, to pass. He got admission in BA Private, then Law College Hyderabad for LLB.

The not-very-bookish person became bookish. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to.

When Merit Dies on a Sunday

After his bachelor's, Kashif attempted the PCS exam. He passed.

Let that sink in. He passed. This boy who never wanted to study, who taught himself to love what he hated, who carried his family's survival on his back—he passed the PCS exam.

Through his different sources, he found out that he had been selected. His name was on the list. The list that would be published on Monday.

Monday came. His name was not on the list.

The Truth Uglier Than Failure:

The lists had been changed on Sunday. Sunday. Not even a working day. The favorites were chosen. The deserving candidates were slaughtered overnight. Someone's uncle made a call. Someone's father knew someone. Someone paid the right amount to the right person.

And Kashif—who had sacrificed his Kakul Academy dream, who studied subjects he hated, who passed the exam on merit—was erased. Not because he failed. Because he didn't have connections.

In Pakistan, merit is a beautiful lie we tell ourselves before we go to sleep.

When Hope Dies Too

That didn't stop him. While doing his LLB, he was also preparing for the CSS exam. This one is clean, he told himself. Kashif couldn't pass the exam. But his friend Abdullah did.

Abdullah didn't just pass—he cleared the interview too. He was about to join. His future was secured. The system, for once, had worked.

And then Abdullah died.

"I lost my father. I lost my best friend. It seemed like the biggest roadblock in my life. Eighteen years old: father dies, dream dies. Twenty-something: best friend dies, hope dies."

How many deaths can one man carry before he stops believing in anything? But life doesn't stop for anyone. It goes on, indifferent and relentless, and you have to move along with it or get crushed under its wheels.

A Voice on the Radio, Eyes on the Rot

After completing his diploma in Australia (2004-05)—working petty jobs, sending money home to support his mother and brothers—Kashif returned to Pakistan. Let that sink in. He had escaped, and he came back. Because duty is a chain that crosses oceans.

A friend offered him work at FM 105 Radio Channel. "While you find work, just keep yourself busy." Kashif worked for a year without any salary. Read that again. A year. No salary. Just "keep yourself busy."

In 2008-09, he finally got a job as a journalist/reporter at United Press International. Salary: 35,000 rupees. He did reports on terrorism—badass, dangerous work.

But in those days, journalists were for sale. Not some journalists. Journalists were for sale.

The Price of a Soul:

Visit a government secretary once a month? You'd receive 50,000 rupees per month. Visit 10 secretaries? That's 500,000 rupees a month. Five hundred thousand. For doing nothing but selling your voice.

Many of his friends chose that path. He watched them buy new cars. New phones. Live comfortable lives. Kashif did not. "That was not me," he said, as if it was simple. As if integrity doesn't cost anything. But it does. It cost him everything.

"This society, the culture, forced me to think: is this how it is going to be for the rest of my life? But again, I had no power to change all that."

I had no power to change all that. That's not defeat. That's clarity. That's a man realizing that staying in Pakistan meant two choices: become corrupt or stay crushed. There was no third option.

Seventy Rupees and a One-Way Dream

In 2015, UPI offered a three-month Journalist Fly Scholarship in the USA. When Kashif left for America, he had 70 rupees in his pocket. Seventy. Less than a dollar.

"I didn't even have money to buy cigarettes. Back then I used to smoke. Now I have quit."

He had no plans to stay. But something happened in those three months. Kashif was noticing things. People following the law. Law following the law—imagine that. There was no one above the law. People cared for people. The common man was respected. A system of ethics. Civic sense. Merit that actually meant something.

He applied for immigration. His visa got extended. He did not return.

When the Dream Dies, Again

Kashif started applying to international media houses and local channels. And guess what? They do not accept foreigners in their news channels. Only native people. Just like that. The door slammed shut. That was the end of his journalism career.

One of his Sindhi friends had a gas station in Houston. Kashif was hired for $7 per hour. Others were getting $12 to $13, but that's another cruel reality: your own people will not support you the way one should support.

The Machine Years:

12-hour shifts, 7 days a week. No Saturday. No Sunday. For a 12-hour shift, you can't sit down. At the end of your shift, you have no energy except to collapse into bed and do it again tomorrow. Sometimes bad guys would visit early morning, abuse him, say filthy words, and leave—making his whole day a living hell.

The Badge That Resurrected a Dream

Then there were police officers. They would come in their police cars. Kashif would watch them—the uniform, the badge, the way people looked at them with respect.

And something old stirred inside him. Something he thought he'd buried at his father's grave 17 years ago.

The desire to get into law enforcement—the dream that he had buried like a corpse—resurrected. He finally found a purpose in his life. He thought: It's time to do it.

For the next seven years, his life became a machine:

Work at the gas station: 12 hours.
Go to the gym: 1 hour.
Come home and study: however many hours before his body shut down.

He took admission in a Master's in Criminal Justice. There was no off day for seven years. Let me repeat that: no off day for seven years.

He did not go to Pakistan to meet his family. He would go to the job even if he was sick. He would study even when his eyes couldn't focus anymore. The American law system is different from the British—he had to study the whole law again. Everything. From scratch.

"When I look back at those seven years, it feels like they didn't exist in my life."

They didn't exist because he wasn't living. He was surviving. He was a machine with a singular purpose: become what they took from you at 18.

When Merit Finally Wins

Seven years of grinding, brutal, soul-crushing work finally—finally—paid off. He passed the exam. Passed the physical exam. And he was appointed as a police officer in Colorado.

The Merit That Actually Exists:

"In other states, there is a mixed population—like 60-70% natives and remaining expats—so they give full opportunities to expats. But in Colorado, there are 98% natives and 2% expats." And he still got the job.

"See how the merit system works in this country. I think the decision I made to leave the country was the right one."

Merit. Actual merit. Not whose uncle you know. Not how much you can pay. Just merit. Imagine that.

He finally wore the badge in 2022. He was 42 years old by then. Twenty-four years between the dream and its fulfillment.

"The system in the USA is so good. Justice system is best. Merit system. I wish it happens in Pakistan too." Not "Pakistan is terrible." Just a quiet, aching wish: I wish my country loved merit the way I do.

After one year of service, he was promoted to Deputy Sheriff in 2023 in Adams County. The news went viral in Pakistan. He was the first Pakistani Deputy Sheriff in Colorado state.

Helping Hands

When Kashif was struggling at the gas station, being abused by strangers at dawn, he made a WhatsApp group called "Helping Hands." Pakistanis coming to the US would join, and they do everything to get them on track.

"I saw a lot of hardships when I decided to stay, so I made this group so no one else has to suffer."

Now there are three Helping Hands WhatsApp groups. People helping others find housing, understand the law, get driving licenses, find jobs.

"I do not hesitate to help others. I do not want others to be misguided or not supported. I want people to come to the US and get a good life, and I do everything in my power to support the new entrants."

This is what merit does. When you achieve something through actual hard work, you don't hoard it. You extend your hand to the next person climbing. Because you remember what it felt like to climb alone.

24

Years Between Dream & Reality

7

Years Without A Day Off

70

Rupees in Pocket ($0.80)

1st

Pakistani Deputy Sheriff in Colorado

The Dreams We Bury Don't Die

From a grieving 18-year-old boy standing at his father's grave, forced to bury his Kakul Academy dream because his family needed him more than he needed himself.

To a young man watching merit die on a Sunday—not because he failed, but because someone's uncle made a phone call.

To a journalist watching his friends sell their souls for 500,000 rupees a month, refusing to join them, choosing dignity over comfort.

To an immigrant with 70 rupees in his pocket, working 12-hour shifts for $7 an hour, studying at night, no day off for seven years—because the dream doesn't care if you're tired.

To Colorado's first Pakistani Deputy Sheriff at 42, wearing the badge his 18-year-old self was never allowed to wear, building WhatsApp groups so others don't have to bleed the way he did.

Continue the Conversation

These stories connect to broader themes explored in my previous posts:

📖 Behind Closed Doors: Pakistani Corporate Culture - When systems fail individual talent

📖 The Story of Middle Class Pakistani - Real stories of professional struggle

📖 Silent Battles - Stories of quiet victories

Perhaps the real mission was never just the badge. Perhaps it was proving that a free soul can carry responsibility without losing itself. That a man can leave his country and still honor it—by refusing to become what it wanted him to become. That merit, when given a fair chance, will always rise.

And that sometimes, the dreams we bury at 18 don't die. They just wait for a system that deserves them.

Twenty-four years is a long time to wait. But when the badge finally sits on your chest—every single year of waiting makes sense.

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About the Author

Noor M Abro shares real stories of ordinary Pakistanis achieving extraordinary things, inspiring readers with every tale.

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