It’s said that the world is what we make it. Before this
summer, my contained world of teaching and writing was a rather
small one. When I was asked to research material for the book,
‘Earthquake’ by Nadeem Shah, about the human story
of the October 2005 natural disaster in Kashmir Pakistan, life
suddenly loomed frighteningly large. Too many fragments from
explosive media stories about Northern Pakistan had lodged in
my consciousness - kidnappings, murder and terrorism. Here too
was the land of so many emigrants to the UK, apparently in search
of a far better life. A world too alien to my mundane, very
English existence. Many friends and family thought so too. The
collective media had worked their selective magic and Pakistan
had become for many of us an impossible world of menacing fundamentalism.
But
another part of me experienced the instinctive, thrilling pull
of the exotic. A whole new sub-continent had drifted into my
imagination and the dazzling lure had been cast. The book’s
publishing deadline was timed to coincide with the October 8
anniversary of the earthquake. It was already late June, and
I had to go immediately – straight into the mad season
of 40° + temperatures and who knew what else. With so little
time to prepare, I set off in mood of strange detachment - a
sudden lucidity of
breaking away from the known, which began opening up my senses
even before I landed in Islamabad.
And
I plunged into a world of hectic slowness, magnetic primary
colours, red dust, surprising greenery, faith, courtesy, unfailing
kindness and safety. Even as our groaning Landcruiser churned
around yet another vertiginous, blind bend on the wrong side,
I discovered a wonderfully reassuring trust that I hadn’t
been sure I possessed. These mountains that had crumbled and
cast off their man-made load now folded generations of natural
wisdom around me. Hurtling rivers, grey and foaming, sank away
into distant ribbons, as we continued upwards. A calm sense
of destiny blossomed inside me the further I travelled into
this lush paradise ripped open by the raw wounds of raging landslides.
Our journey through tragic time finally brought me to Noon Bagla,
a small, very remote village perched on a steep, verdant hillside
of the lesser Himalaya.
Among
scented pines, I stepped from the car into another world, a
brave old world, where I was welcomed as if a messenger from
the outer darkness. What it is to visit a place, not having
seen another white face for days, to be welcomed not just as
a brother, but as a revered guest. Ever since that moment, I
have wanted the world to know that feeling. A humility I believe
will never leave me because of the unfettered warmth I experienced
among those innocent people.
Thank
God they haven’t yet learned to discard their honest,
direct, heartfelt way of communicating that welcomes strangers
as honoured above all else. That night, I was ushered to a precious
one-room guest shelter. The perfect light breeze wafted a lilting
cadence of Urdu through ill-fitting shutters and bizarrely touching
Spiderman curtains. I stretched out to sleep but my mind was
sparkling with the treasure of feeling truly safe, in a way
I’ve rarely experienced in Britain. This was the sense
of safety that we all crave, the one that can’t be manufactured,
which allows an inner, involuntary softening because all really
is well. In impoverished earthquake-zone vulnerability I luxuriated
in the peace that has become so elusive in the comfortably unconscious
world of western ‘security’.
Throughout
that serenely unfolding day in the village of tents and ruins,
every conversation had been laden with God. I hesitate to even
write the word because of the off-putting connotations for so
many readers in the West. But the tangible manifestation of
Islam that I met in Pakistan, and in that village in particular,
was nothing to do with a God of wrath or fear. This was a day-to-day
omnipresence of kindness, respect, friendship, acceptance and
gratitude. Without exception, I’d met nothing but open-eyed
greetings of pure, unsullied affection. How many foreign visitors
will find that in every new UK acquaintance ?
In
Noon Bagla, I’d been led to a real community. A spiritual
collective whose priority is to support itself – and everyone
within it. Where village meetings are held outside the ruined
house of Syed Hussain, who can’t visit others because
his back was broken in the earthquake. This archetypal gentle
giant of a man, who typifies the resolute bond of community
spirit and individual faith, radiated bright-eyed optimism,
as he spoke of the ultimate wisdom of God, and his own determination
to recover.
“There
is nothing to be sad about. What has happened, has happened.
It was the Will of Almighty God. I am now back in the village
where I belong, among my family and friends who are so supportive
to me. The doctors have disappointed me in one way because they
warn me that the spinal cord may be damaged but I refuse to
believe this – I am
hopeful. I feel confident that I will regain the strength and
movement in my legs and one day, God willing, be able to walk
again on my own, even without these crutches.”
They
know the value of life in Noon Bagla – precisely because
so many have been lost with such callous indiscrimination. On
October 8 the earthquake snatched 39 villagers’ lives,
mainly women and children, but helpless young lives are still
regularly being taken by such modern banalities as diarrhoea
and dehydration. You have to live consciously in this primitive
world. Moments matter, and a smile is always around the corner
of raw, shared grief. My face ached from smiling so often while
I was there. But how my heart ached too. During every minute
of my stay, I knew a fathomless sea of emotion swelling massive
in my chest. I was engulfed by their tragedy. Yet I was also
held by their amazing faith. That enabled me to really hear
their stories. Here are some of them:
“The
baby, Ahsan, (name meaning ‘Good deeds’) had been
sleeping inside along with his three sisters, Naila, 12, Benish,
8 and Samman, 5. When the earthquake struck, the house was demolished
instantly, crushing them. I had to bring out the bodies of the
daughters, one-by-one and lay them on the ground before their
mother, Shabnum.
Altogether,
from these houses we’d brought out seven bodies, including
that of my father. It’s difficult to conceive now, but
in all this anguish it’s possible that everyone, including
the mother, forgot about the little baby boy. In, I don’t
know, but maybe we didn’t remember the little boy.
Six hours after the earthquake had hit, lying exhausted, I heard
some crying. I felt a current of strength rush through me. Scrabbling
desperately at the debris, I peered into a gap and saw Ahsan
for the first time, still lying on his rope bed. I was able
to reach through and touch him but immediately felt a beam of
wood lying across the baby’s chest and throat, trapping
him. With my small knife, I slowly cut through the ropes so
that Ahsan rolled down and into my outstretched arms. I inched
backwards, dragging the cradled baby until we re-emerged into
the sunlight.
That was maybe the first really good deed I’ve done in
my life.” Safeer Gilani.
“We
married less than a year before the earthquake - a short relationship,
but it seems I shall never be able to forget her. She left me
so soon. Perhaps I did not deserve her. She was so kind and
loving. I miss her very much and I feel that the gap caused
by her departure could never be filled. May Allah bless her
soul.” Qadeem ul Hassan
“He disappeared so suddenly that I do not want to believe
him dead. He is not dead, he is hiding. I feel him in the garden
… in deserted vegetable beds … in these gloomy roses
he used to prune and water. I see him here in that dirt where
he was hiding and was pulled out, sleeping. I smell him and
his scent is here in these horse-chestnut trees. I see him in
the shade of these trees, removing dead leaves from lilies.”
Surayya Gilani
“Our
lives are always in the hand of God Almighty. We do not control
that. However, I have seen how we all have the choice to help
each other in our times of need. So if, God Forbid, this were
to happen again here I can see that the whole world will experience
this with us and will once again turn to help us.” Syed
Hussain
When
I visited Pakistan this summer I didn’t meet the threatening
face of modern terrorism so often portrayed in the West, instead
I found a timeless innocence. What a personal, life-changing
gift I have received from the unfathomable complexity of the
tragic earthquake in Kashmir. And what an opportunity this presents
us all with to extend the hand of true friendship across the
divides of culture, religion and geography.
Many more stories from Noon Bagla are shared in the book, ‘Earthquake’,
by Nadeem Shah, published this week by The AHS Foundation to
commemorate the first anniversary of the disaster on 8 October
2005. The Kashmir earthquake at 8.52 am killed over 100,000,
including 17,000 school children who’d just started morning
classes. It has left 4 million people homeless, many of whom
are facing their second sub-zero winter without permanent shelter.
The
AHS Foundation, Registered Charity No.1113908, are building
a cottage hospital in Noon Bagla. Copies of Nadeem’s book
can be ordered from the website www.ahsfoundation.com. All proceeds
go directly to fund the hospital project.
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