"One Year Later: Disaster Relief in Pakistan," Glimpse Abroad

Published today, along with a slideshow, on Glimpse Abroad (www.glimpseabroad.org).

“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

"Moving On," Newsline (Pakistan)

The full article is below or view the PDF of the layout with images.

Newsline October 2006
n e w s b e a t

Moving On
By Ambreen Ali

A moving story about a woman who picks herself up after the devastating October 8 earthquake, and helps others to follow suit.

“Bring me the quilt,” Safiya Tariq instructs her seven-year-old daughter, Mishal. Mishal runs out of the room, stepping over the large crack in the floor and through the broken doorway. She enters a tin shelter and reaches under her mother’s bed for the quilt. Usama, her eight-year-old brother, joins her as she returns to their mother. Safiya plants a quick kiss on both their cheeks. Usama gives her big hug, and Safiya whispers a prayer for her children’s education and future. She turns her attention to the women, who are watching her closely, eager to learn. Their worn eyes and tattered clothes are witness to the week of rain that has just passed.

It is September, and it has been almost a year since they moved into the tents near Safiya’s home in Muzaffarabad. Safiya uses her needle to demonstrate a new sewing technique to the women. She is less than 30 yeas old, but her tired expression makes her look much older. It’s been sixth months since she has been teaching and creating handicrafts; last month she met with a buyer in Islamabad, who has placed an order for some material. She is excited about the order, but nervous and unsure of herself. Until this year, Safiya had never worked. Nor had she ever felt the burden of providing for her children.

She glances over at a framed photo of her tall, handsome husband. She had her arm around him in their photo and they were both holding a flower. They were so innocent then, she reflects. The earthquake changed their lives forever. Her husband was buried under a landslide in a market in Muzaffarabad. She was in her in-laws’ village with her children, where she suffered a fractured pelvis and broken ribcage. She shudders as she thinks about how her brothers had carried her to the city on a charpai, stopping along the way to check if she was still alive.

Safiya spent two months in Abbottabad’s Ayub Medical Complex, where she met Dr. Nauman Akhtar. “If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be,” Safiya says. Dr. Nauman runs the Disaster Management Centre (DMC), operated by the Abbottonian Old Boys Association, and they are providing her transportation and a salary to teach local women handicrafts.

She had been at a complete loss about how she would raise her children without their father. Dr. Nauman encouraged her to use her sewing and stitching skills to make handicrafts. He made a personal promise to market her goods in Islamabad and the U.S., and followed it through.

Her in-laws have basically rejected her, and their eyes are on the money the government provided her for the loss of her husband. Her family has allowed her to stay in their home, but she feels the burden she has created for them. “The DMC cared for me more than my own family did,” she thinks, saddened by the thought. After she recovered last winter, Safiya began working with the Alfalah Welfare Society in Muzaffarabad.

Despite her troubles, she could not stand still while her city was suffering. She was amazed by the number of Pakistanis and international workers who had rushed to volunteer in the tent camps. She too wanted to do something to alleviate the suffering of her sisters in need. She visited other widows, and taught children in the tent camps. So many of them were kidnapped then, she remembers with sorrow. Men even approached Safiya with offers to “take care” of her. She is still disgusted by their boldness in pursuing a mother of two young children.

The women in her sewing class look to Safiya with both hope and admiration. They don’t know how much longer they will live in tents, or when the government will provide them land to build on. Some of them have lost their husbands and wonder how they will survive with no education or assets.

As they get up to return to their tents, Safiya realises how enviable her position must be to them. “At least I have a roof over my head,” she says to herself. She has experienced life in the tents. The worst part was uncertainty about tomorrow. When would she have a home? How would she provide for herself and her children? Usama and Mishal play in the corner of the room. Safiya reaches over to the framed photo and asks her children about their father. She will never let them forget him, she has promised herself.

As tears fill her eyes, she notices her children watching her. They were the reason Safiya was teaching the women. The skills she had acquired had given her security about her children’s future. Now she wanted to share that knowledge with other women, so that they could also alleviate their own suffering.

Safiya embraces Usama and Mishal, and more for herself than her children, says: “We can’t die along with those who have died. Why should we look at the darkness when we can look towards the light? Your father is a shaheed. Happiness is sure to come to us again.”

Copyright 2006 Newsline www.newsline.com.pk