Their eyes had a vast sadness yet their welcoming smiles were genuine to the core. They didn’t ask for anything, yet gave everything they had. They didn’t have houses, yet made us feel at home. Such were the people of Katkair, a high altitude and isolated village in the mountains of Azad Kashmir. And, so where is the Union Council Katkair? We learnt very fast that there is a God above and simply no one below for these people. I did not realize that this remote area, the last Union Council in district Muzaffarabad, with 52 kilometres of mountainous road separating it from Muzaffarabad, had for all intents and purposes fallen off their map. Whilst it is quicker to access it through the Rangla ridge in District Bagh, it is un-owned by them, because of the bureaucratic dividing lines of districts.
From the numerous areas affected by the devastating earthquake, we chose Katkair because it was inaccessible, travelling to it was dangerous and it was so far away that it had been neglected by most other relief teams. Not that we were a fully equipped relief team. Most of us were regular, average unskilled humans with a certain desire to spend our Eid holidays somewhere other than in front of our wide screen TV sets. Somewhere where we could be slightly more useful to humanity. So, we gathered a few youngsters, a medical team comprising a lady doctor and a health worker and one concerned widow who felt it was going to be an Eid well spent. For us the thought of rejoicing and celebrating after such a huge national tragedy was inconceivable — that is why there was not even a hint of doubt in our minds that this was the time to say goodbye to our family. And become someone else’s.
From Islamabad we had a long car ride up north. As the hours passed, our curiosity gave way to tiredness and then to a turbulent slumber. Only to be jolted out of our dream world upon arriving at our destination of devastation. Did we know that this was the only oblivious sleep that we would get in five days? Could we imagine that after seeing hundreds of homes reduced to rubble, after meeting six girls who had just lost their mothers, 11 mothers who had just lost their infants, two fathers who were still searching for their daughters under the rubble, we would not retain the ability to shut our eyes to our world and simply fall off to sleep? It was hard. And not just because it was cold.
We reached there with a sense of purpose. To help, to improve, to give, to aid. All they wanted was to sense our presence. It did not take the locals long to covey that it was not our truckloads of relief goods that they were awaiting, be it food items, new warm cloths, blankets and quilts, shawls or chadars, their body language soon told us that all they wanted was our presence. They wanted to hold our hands, hear our voices, tell their stories, listen to ours which they found more interesting than theirs, share their food, open their doors, give up their chairs and provide us with warmth through their kind acts. Thus they lit up our rusty, city hearts with the heat of their affection and the expertly constructed bonfire.
Unfortunately, Azad Kashmir does not have a functional local government system and the virtues of President Musharraf’s devolution were again reconfirmed. However, and indeed mercifully, for these people of Katkair a few public-spirited persons have formed a CBO under the name of the Khawra Development Organization (KDO). This registered NGO is truly a people participative group led by the committed Sajjad Latif, and a man of the people, Raja Latif, his father. And so, it is people like Sajjad who reach out to people like me and to the Asian Muslim Action Network (AMAN), Bangkok represented in the person of Husnain, a jewel of a development worker.
The Oct 8 earthquake has inundated our world with countless sad stories. But at the same time such stories carry with them the hope that one day the phoenix will rise from the ashes
Being at the snowline their preoccupation was with shelter. Our shared belief was that the solution flows from the grassroots by using local wisdom. With AMAN facilitation their solution to build a light wood frame and clad it with GI sheets, use stone exterior walls and wooden partitions. This two-room house of 40’X18’ with latrine and kitchen space would meet the immediate requirement of the average household of five to seven persons. AMAN had indicated they would provide shelter for the poorest of the poor in the Union Council Katkair. The approach was based on cost sharing, whereby the donor contribution is all of Rs45,000, it covers (i) cash for work of the mistri, mason, carpenter, (ii) materials: 45 tin sheets, 30 kilo nails, eight kilo iron strips, pipe for smoke outlet, Asian WC and cement. The community contribution is (i) palanth: levelling of the ground for construction, (ii) wood, (iii) stone ‘gara’ (mud plaster), (iv) sand, (v) labour for stone walling, (vi) ensuring the availability of the local mason, mistry and carpenter. Through a survey by the local community in the pilot stage 83 houses are under construction for the identified windows, orphans and destitutes. Recognizing the utility, validity and need for ownership of all rehabilitation and reconstruction work, during the few days spent in this Union Council through the participative process a 16-person committee was set up as the Earthquake Rehabilitation Committee of UC Katkair, all of whom were willing and available to coordinate with the army, the AJK government, civil society organizations and people of good will. In the mornings we would climb out of our sleeping bags, come out of our tents and be greeted with a heavy breakfast of bred, eggs and steaming hot tea. The medical team: Dr Naseema, incidentally the first gynaecologist to reach the area, and Sister Kishwer would set up a make-shift medical camp in a broken house by using the veranda which was all that was left of a house built with over three years of savings of a young expatriate, a blue-collar worker who put sweat, blood and toil into his place under the sun. There was no medical facility in the proximity of Katkair. Those injured during the earthquake had received immediate medical attention, but no follow up. The locals were desperate. Many fathers would bring children with wounds now infected, mothers carried their injured infants and husbands brought their suffering wives. If they were not injured, they were chronically ill. Some had respiratory problems, others had skin diseases, many suffered from allergies, the list was long and varied. Maria, a 12-year-old, used to play with one of the youth volunteers on our team had an infected wound on her forehead, which would get hidden by a colourful dupatta wrapped around her head. She had been at school when her earth shook and had suffered a large head injury. Although she had been stitched up in the days following the quake, the stitches needed to be removed and the wound treated. Maria’s injury was small in comparison. There were some who were transported to hospitals in Islamabad — a man with gangrene spreading in his hand and a woman who couldn’t breathe.
The impoverished veranda medical camp overflowed with women and of course there were some men but they had to wait their turn. In three days of work, 300 patients, many accompanied by their children, so multiplied by two were attended to. It was not unexpected that many, far too many pregnant mothers, all the way from early pregnancy to full-term, complained of discomfort which was relating to the trauma of the earthquake, again not unexpected and though their homes were nothing but modest, living cramped in partial rubble or some form of tent, scabies was widespread and common.
Yes, there were many, many positive outcomes. The youth on our team were taken over by the youth of the area. Eid was dedicated to the children and youth of the Union Council Katkair, they were there in hundreds, the girls a little shy and withdrawn, the boys, some inquisitive, others doubtful and yet others, upfront. In the morning as we got chatting and before we left to engage with the women, on being asked by me, not one child said they were ready to go back to school. Yes, it was fear, it was trauma, in short it was the smell of death. And yet by the evening when I joined them again to give them well deserved prizes and goody bags, every single child, boy and girl, raised their hands with joy and said they wanted to go back to school. Allah be praised! And on another mountain terrace had gathered women, young and old, married and unmarried. There was much tittering when we said no men or boys were allowed and so we began talking woman to woman, girl to girl, we talked about reproductive health, of how natural it was for woman to procreate and what an honour it was that God had given this task to womankind, His last creation. We talked to each other about motherhood, puberty and thereby created such a demand for what we though we had in abundance, hygiene towels. Suckling mothers were offered diapers to help them through some of the winter months and we could not meet the demand.
On one particularly sad evening, while offering ‘fateha’ and condolences to families that had lost near and dear ones, we landed up at a home that had buried 15 family members on October 8. At that moment in time, a lifetime of training could not have prepared us for the situation we had to face. The harsh reality of the earthquake set in. We met Shazia. At 28, she had lost her husband, her three-year-old son and her two month-old baby. While patting her post-pregnancy belly, Shazia told us that the entire family had gathered together to see off her husband — a police officer heading back to Islamabad from his quarterly trip. In those few seconds, her entire world was snatched away from her. Till this day, she had not been a able to accept the reality of the situation — in her mind her husband is away at work. Her son is at school. And her baby is sleeping. On Shazia’s childless lap sat a motherless little girl who looked out into the distance. If you tied to follow her gaze, you wouldn’t reach very far. Because this eight-year-old was looking back into her past — reliving that fateless day when she lost he mother and brother.
Sitting by the bonfire one night, we heard another story that was so horrid that I write it with great hesitation. For fear that writing about it will make it more real. And for all of us sitting around the bonfire that night, we hoped that we could eventually wipe out the mental image. But it seems it will haunt us forever. A man was recounting the horror that his niece went through that dreadful Saturday morning. She was at home, cradling he newborn baby, when the walls started to shake. So intense was the shaking that she didn’t have time to run. In an attempt to save her baby, she protected him with one arm, while using the other to cast away the stones coming their way. So tense was the shaking that the stones rendered her arm dysfunctional. Still adamant to save her baby, she began to protect him using her other arm. So intense was the shaking that the stones rendered her other arm dysfunctional as well. And then, it took away something far more precious than her arms: it took away her baby. Today, this woman is in hospital, severely injured and emotionally unstable.
And what about the children who were surrounded by such trauma that they had forgotten to be kids? One nine-year-old boy, Irfan, told us that he watches his mother and sister cry all day long. They discovered their youngest son’s lifeless body under the building of his school and have ever since been inconsolable. Searching for some healthy distraction, Irfan used to come to our camp everyday where hundreds of kids gathered for some fun and frolic. Between colouring contests, racing committees, kabadi and cricket matches, he found himself so immersed in laughter that for those moments he forgot the sadness in his home. And began to conceive of a life that could eventually become normal again. We hope that he took that healing energy and spread it in his family.
Eleven-year-old Salma lost her mother during the quake. She cannot get the picture of her mother’s mutilated body out of her head. It doesn’t help her that at home she hears her aunts and grandmother talking and weeping about it. She now has the only lap left that her one-year-old brother doesn’t cry in. Overnight she adapted to the role of mother. And remarkably so, does it with a smile. This 11-year-old young girl, a mother figure of her infant brother, used to live near our makeshift play area and would come regularly and give us the opportunity to pamper her young soul. Often she could be caught looking with a smile at the other children being allowed to be children.
Apart from distracting their sore hearts with games and stories, we tried to teach the children of the area a few rules of personal hygiene. They were attentive, intelligent and eager to learn. Our youth volunteers would create a sort of outdoor classroom and pass on basic instructions amid bright and cheerful participation from the ‘students’. It was just a way to make ourselves feel useful. But the very next morning all the kids brought out their toothbrushes, proud that they had remembered our lessons.
To our great relief the army had reached this remote Union Council a few days earlier. One afternoon we visited the army camp in Rahimkot and with the large number of those gathered we talked about the priority need of the area, with one voice from every ward of the Union Council, we heard the words ‘shelter’ — not tents. In response, we pointed out that all that was heard about in Pakistan was tents, double flap tents, high altitude tents and so it went on. The response was: what will we do with the tent in an area where we get five feet of snow? Where will we cook? And where will we have the friendly fire burn each evening? The young lieutenant chirped in: “Why did you then ask for tents when the colonel visited Rahimkot yesterday?” The answer was something is better than nothing. Today we have learnt that it is possible with a little external help to recycle our own rubble and do a quick job of putting together shelters that are winterable as the snow will soon close down on the Katkair Union Council. The army team was engrossed in undertaking the survey of damage to both humans and property, the integrity of the survey was verified by the people.
One can salute the army a hundred times over for the magnificence with which, despite their own grieving, they moved in to deal with a really impossible task. Here, it is not the generals or brigadiers I wish to salute, it is a young lieutenant named Deram Baig. He is my hero and indeed will Inshallah one day be a rising star of the Pakistan Army. Whilst he was humanism personified, he was smart, forthright and had his head in the right place — to his bosses he said he pleaded for early and repeated relief flights to the area and whilst saying this he looked with longing eyes to the nearby helipad and to the locals whom we had gathered from all wards of the Union Council, he said in plain language: law and order is not the job of the army and nor was it becoming, he said to demand blankets made in Germany or Korea and reject other, because he said he was not giving the recipients any bill for the goods. Living like most others in a tent with a kitchen and other utilities open to the sky, this little group of 10 jawans with one officer did us proud.
Upon returning to our rushed city lives, we have been hearing an abundance of the words ‘tents’ and ‘adoption’. Although tents could be suitable for those living in flatter areas struck by the quake, they won’t suffice for those living in higher, colder regions. Alternative means need to be implemented. And fast. As for the countless Pakistanis waiting to adopt some Kashmiri orphans, its probably not too wise to raise your hopes too high. We didn’t come across a single child who was unwanted. Every child had a guardian.
As our visit came to an end, we walked away with not just a feeling of satisfaction. But a family. Women who were grateful that we heard their stories, children who wanted us to remember them and post them letters, men who silently watched as their women and children got a few cherished moments of forgetfulness. What we brought with us was a taste of the adversity afflicted by a natural disaster. The fact of their deprivation, isolation and exclusion was real. But they were more optimistic than us. We landed there and met with doom. We left and witnessed a subtle transformation. Most of them had greeted us with a stark, vacant stare. They now looked on with a hopeful, optimistic glimmer. I realized that it takes very little to bring a smile to their faces and give them hope for the future. It was music to the ears to hear the spontaneity with which the men, and the message was repeated amongst the women too, of how graceful the Kashmiris were for the generous assistance given by Pakistanis from all walks of life. We as a nation have rallied as never before. We are one with the Kashmiris in their suffering.
Their eyes had a vast sadness yet their welcoming smiles were genuine to the core. They didn’t ask for anything, yet gave everything they had. They didn’t have houses, yet made us feel at home. Such were the people of Katkair, a high altitude and isolated village in the mountains of Azad Kashmir. And, so where is the Union Council Katkair? We learnt very fast that there is a God above and simply no one below for these people. I did not realize that this remote area, the last Union Council in district Muzaffarabad, with 52 kilometres of mountainous road separating it from Muzaffarabad, had for all intents and purposes fallen off their map. Whilst it is quicker to access it through the Rangla ridge in District Bagh, it is un-owned by them, because of the bureaucratic dividing lines of districts.
Eleven-year-old Salma lost her mother during the quake. She cannot get the picture of her mother’s mutilated body out of her head. It doesn’t help her that at home she hears her aunts and grandmother talking and weeping about it. She now has the only lap left that her one-year-old brother doesn’t cry in. Overnight she adapted to the role of mother. And remarkably so, does it with a smile. This 11-year-old young girl, a mother figure of her infant brother, used to live near our makeshift play area and would come regularly and give us the opportunity to pamper her young soul. Often she could be caught looking with a smile at the other children being allowed to be children.
