"One Year Later: Disaster Relief in Pakistan," Glimpse Abroad
“What will you do if you see Osama bin Laden during your trip?” a coworker asked me before I left for Pakistan. Even though I laughed the question off, I later wondered if he was being serious. Did he really think Pakistan is such a terrorist haven that Osama freely walks the streets of the country? As an American of Pakistani origin, I often feel a tug of identities at moments like this: it is the American in me that my coworker was recognizing with his off-handed comment, but it is the Pakistani in me that was offended by its implications.
Such identity struggles are probably how I ended up on this trip: only two years ago I went to Pakistan for the first time as an adult to visit relatives. While there, I remember realizing that had my father not put me on a plane for the United States years ago, I would still be living in the bustling city of Lahore. And because I did leave, I now had an education that put me far ahead of my cousins in terms of privilege and power. In the fall of 2006, I returned to Pakistan as a journalist. I hoped to use my “Americanness” to draw Western attention to the plight of Pakistanis after the great disaster that hit them last year.
On Oct. 8, 2005, a 7.6 magnitude earthquake changed the lives of millions of people in an instant. Over the next months, over 75,000 bodies would be found, and at least three million people would become homeless. The earthquake, which hit regions of northern Pakistan and Pakistan-administered Kashmir, would rush in relief workers from all corners of the world. Thick, winterized tents would be flown in for the harsh winter ahead, which was sure to claim more lives. Billions of dollars would be pledged to help the Pakistani government administer relief. For a moment, the unity and dedication with which Pakistanis and international workers cooperated would bring a glimmer of hope for the future.
Ten months later, I was standing on the ground that shook the very lives of these people. Having recognized that Western media had moved on from this disaster to news about Lebanon, London terror attack plans and Britney Spears’ new son, I decided to cover the situation, far from over, by myself.
I realized that even after almost a year, many people were preparing for another winter in the tents that were intended for temporary relief. I found families living in these same winterized tents during hundred-degree weather. I watched children playing around garbage and sewage in the tent camps. I saw rain wash under tents and ruin the few blankets and clothes that people owned. But I did not see Osama bin Laden.
In the United States, I am often reminded that I am Muslim, and thus a minority; in Pakistan, being Muslim is the norm. Islam plays a large role in the lives of those who were affected by the earthquake. Each evening I would watch the sunset as the soothing call to prayer silenced the sounds of cars, traffic and business. On Fridays, I marveled at how quiet the city was while shops shut down for Friday prayer. Some women walked the streets with their heads covered in colorful shawls and scarves, others with daunting black burqas that masked all but their eyes. Islam is sewn into the fabric of this culture, and it is common to hear locals use religious greetings and prayers in conversation.
Jamat-e-Islami, a leading religious political party in Pakistan, has done extensive social work in the earthquake-affected regions. It was disturbing to see the signs for Jamat-ud-Dawa, operated by the founder of the Lashker-e-Taiba terrorist group, waving high and proud in front of tent camps. On newly erected walls of shops and on the sides of temporary shelters, graffiti declared the importance of a jihad against the West. I remember the shock of my Pakistani companion, who remarked sarcastically, “Yes, carry on your jihad, even if you have nothing to eat or no place to live.”
For extremist organizations, the earthquake relief efforts provide an opportunity to win the hearts of victims. Locals told me that even if they didn’t agree with the politics of organizations such as Jamat-ud-Dawa, the NGO headed by extremist organization Lashkar-e-Taiba's founder, Hafeez Sayeed, they could trust them to be honest, straightforward and free of corruption as compared to other relief organizations. Immediately after the earthquake, the United States sent aid and relief workers to the areas, and many speculated that a more positive impression of Americans would result. Following this logic, extremists are executing their own public relations campaigns in the region.
Interestingly, religion has also fed into a fatalistic attitude, particularly among those who after a year see no sign of permanent housing ahead. As nonprofits and government relief agencies work to rebuild the affected regions, they are battling a passive acceptance of future disasters. “If another earthquake comes, it is God’s will, and we can do nothing to stop it,” one earthquake survivor told me, as I explained to her the importance of building homes away from fault lines and with strong earthquake-resistant structures.
But despite such frustrations, it is this same religion that is helping these people move forward with their lives. Almost everyone knows someone who died in the tragedy; many lost parents, siblings and children. Islam teaches them the importance of moving forward: death is inevitable, and everyone has his or her time to go. Because they have survived, the victims have a responsibility to God to forge ahead and better their lives. It is also their responsibility to help each other, and in this tragedy, many victims have come together to build schools, provide vocational training and move together as a whole. Such hope and inspiration exemplify the peaceful and compassionate aspects of Islam.
Upon returning to the United States, I once again felt the tug at my identities. I pushed my way through the security line, nervously handing my Pakistan-stamped American passport to the customs officer, knowing that a string of questions would follow. He might pull me into another line, or walk me to the holding room in the back, which I have had the privilege of visiting before. Unlike my fellow white Americans, I walk into airports already expecting to be pulled aside and questioned. In Pakistan, where the culture may be less tolerant and where women are struggling for their rights, I still felt accepted.
There are many faces of Islam. Just because we have seen how some people have twisted the religion’s ideology to fit their selfish needs and purposes, it is absurd to dismiss the faith altogether. There are millions of Muslims living peacefully in the United States: they are doctors, engineers, teachers, politicians and journalists. They are mothers, fathers, neighbors, friends and coworkers. They practice a faith they believe advocates peace, love, and compassion for others. And there is so much more to them than their faith. When I was in Pakistan, I did not see Muslims. I saw people, hurting and damaged from the trials they had endured, looking for a way to survive and experience a better life. As fellow humans, it is our job to understand and help those in need; tolerance means withholding assumptions and stereotypes.
During my trip, I overheard an employee at John F. Kennedy International airport in New York say, “We don’t discriminate. We just hate everyone.” Instead of hatred, what about indiscriminate love and compassion?
Originally from Seattle, WA, Ambreen Ali is a student at Northwestern University. She has traveled throughout Pakistan and has written many freelance articles about South Asia.
Copyright 2006 The Glimpse Foundation
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