This is the second part of "Gori goes East", Lyndall Stein's observations about her trip to Pakistan, one year after the earthquake.
By Lyndall Stein
Samir, a widow, had been selected by the village to benefit from one of the goats we are distributing. She lost her husband under the huge landslide, still visible at the edge of the village, a gaping hole in the mountain. She had been pregnant at the time with her second child, a son, she proudly pointed him out, sitting contentedly by the side of a pile of corn husks. With the help of her community, she will have to be mother and breadwinner, tending her garden with tools and seeds we have supplied - the love and protection of her husband, buried forever, under the awesome and terrible movement of the mountain.Nasir had been severally injured, had lost her mother, father, brothers- yet still was smiling , thanking me for our help, the vegetable garden, that her sister and neighbors must work for her. Her temporary zinc sheet home, which she had prettily decorated with strips of red paper. She was still smiling when I asked her if she was in pain ‘yes, she said, but this village has no health center and we have no money for drugs, I had medical help after the earthquake but not now’ still, she smiled. Fortitude, resilience, courage and absence of self pity, her regime.We saw a field and houses still intact, but now 5ft lower, the very geography of the village changed, the water courses disturbed – new pipes and pumps now needed. I saw the shattered home of one of the villagers, huge gaping cracks in walls and floors, the house entirely unusable, but still you could see the cosy fireplace, the charming painted decorations, of what had been, a much loved home. In front of the house a huge walnut tree, the shopkeeper and community leader pressed a bag of walnuts into our hands. These walnuts, a small token of the grace and generosity of everyone I met, the villagers who insisted on carrying my rucksack worried at my unsurfootedness,as I scrambled on the mountain tracks. I was wondering why I felt the need to carry around not just sensible necessities, but all the detritus of my ‘Gori Girl’ life, spare water, food, chewing gum , sunscreen, lipsalve, lipstick, mobile phone, facial blotters, two different varieties of sweeties, box of biscuits, handwipes ect...We went back down the mountainside (even scarier than journey up) but I had faith in Golden Eyes by then. Into the fat Toyota, and up the tarmac mountain road, out of Balakot, back to the main road, and the terrors of the beautiful painted lorries , rushing, speeding, hurrying, hurtling recklessly by, in order to get home for Iftar- the breaking of the fast. Our charming driver prepared with a plastic bag of fruit on the dashboard, dates in the glovebox, and his prayers and Iftar, by the side of the road - so we could get back to Islamabad.The people of Pakistan gave so much in the Earthquake, in Pakistan and Internationally. Critically, it was the bravery, dignity and altruism of the local communities, those directly affected that counted most - but also our local staff and partners, who worked relentlessly, with no regard at all for official hours, for weekends or holidays. Remarkable networks, all over Pakistan and the world ignited to ensure skills, resources and expertise could be targeted to the disaster zone. The international community who gave money, the Pakistani Diaspora here, who supported us and our partners in Muzzafrabad - Islamic Relief.At the London launch of Shaidul Alam’s photographic exhibition on the Earthquake I met a tiny Singaporean orthopedic consultant, Ms Swee Ang - she took holiday from her job at the London Hospital, sleeping in a tent at night and operating on damaged limbs in the day. A network of common humanity, connecting - Islamabad, and Iowa, Isleworth, and Istambul - with those terrible moments when the mountains in Mansehra and Muzzafrabad moved.
Picture by Shaidul Alam/Concern worldwide.
