| |
Dispatch 2
Bringing Smiles to Children in Uri
December 23, 2005
Over the last few days,
Talal and I have been staying in Srinagar to trouble-shoot and receive
the delayed air cargo consignment of North Face Gear. It’s a tedious
process. The day would begin with phone calls - and each time we would
get through the jammed mobile network and reach the airline officials,
they would declare the shipment’s imminent arrival. And then we would
rush to Srinagar airport’s cargo section. For three days, we followed
the same ritual and each evening we would return empty handed. We didn’t
give up - perhaps patience was the only way. Finally the first batch of
boxes arrived, but it was just a portion of the total consignment.
I was getting a bit jittery
and decided to breakup from Talal for a day. He would stay in Srinagar
to follow the shipment and I decided to head off to Uri to participate
in a distribution program for children.
It is around 8 am and I am
waiting at Amira Kadal for the ride. Soon Shabina, Shabnum and Sheena -
three women activists from Srinagar who are going to help in the program
organized in Uri - arrive and we leave.
The journey is a riveting
experience: following a road through Baramulla which is lined on both
sides by towering poplar trees, endless paddy fields, and half-dormant
villages. One can almost imagine the scenes and sounds of the hurried
activities of the Autumn harvest that must have preceded just a few
weeks earlier. This stretch of land along the Srinagar-Muzafarabad road
is the apple-basket of Kashmir, apples being the main cash-crop. The
conversation with my fellow travelers meanders like the road. We discuss
our respective experiences of working with the various earthquake-hit
communities of Kashmir, each of us agreed that there is still much more
effort needed on all of our parts.
For some moments, the sights
of Baramulla take over. Full of nostalgia we share stories and accounts
of this area that we heard from our elders or read in dust-covered
books. Baramulla was the main gateway for the Valley to the outside
world. We imagine a time when the area was a bustling crossroads of
trade and ideas, with hundreds of tongas (horse-drawn carts) plying the
roads and doongas (long wooden boats) full of produce making their way
to Sopore on the calm waters of the Jhelum. But, today, ours is a lonely
journey. Only a few private vehicles like ours, some trucks, and a
single army convoy are moving through Baramulla in the direction of Uri.
The expansive geography only begins to change just as you leave
Baramulla. The Valley narrows into a gorge, which looks as if cut by a
giant adze. Indeed, ancient legend has it that the Valley was once a
giant lake called Satisar and it was at this very spot that a hero cut
the mountains and drained the dark waters giving birth to Kashmir.
The River Jhelum accompanies
us for a while alongside the road, before parting ways with us to begin
its steep white-water descent through the Uri Valley. Scenes of the
quake devastation are all around us: collapsed houses, visible
landslides, and make-shift tin shelters dot the hillsides. We have
entered Uri, where more than a hundred thousand people have been left
homeless by the October 8th Earthquake.
Our jeep stops at Julla. 12
kilometers before the LOC, where a small flat of land lies on the right
side of the road on the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the Jhelum.
More than a dozen villages surround Julla, some along the road but most
are only reachable by 6 to 10 kilometer treks up the hill from Julla.
Today, more than two hundred children from these villages have gathered
at Julla for a children’s program for the distribution of winter
jackets, school supplies, and school bags.
I step down from the vehicle
and begin off-loading boxes of the distribution supplies. I suddenly
notice that hundreds of little eyes are following me intently, full of
curiosity about what lies inside the boxes. Unable to resist the
temptation to evoke laughter amongst these kids, I pretend the boxes are
impossibly heavy with stumbling steps and exaggerated motions. In this
way, I manage to keep some of the kids entertained while they patiently
wait. Instead of being a mere distribution program, some of the elder
kids have organized a proper program for this gathering of their fellow
students. The program begins with an opening announcement by a very
confident little girl, who couldn’t be more than 12 years old. Instead
of sitting with the few twenty-something volunteers who have come from
Srinagar to help run today’s activity, I take a seat amongst the
children sitting on a blue tarp. The children become quiet and transform
into a captivated audience for the recitations of poetry, songs, and
speeches by their peers. One child gets up to sing a song: visibly
nervous, he freezes up and forgets his lyrics. Instead of being mocked,
a number of children in the audience encourage him and help him with a
cue or two. He finally ends, with resounding applause from his peers. I
melt at the kindness of these children towards one another.
Seeing these little boys and
girls laughing and applauding at the skits being performed, for a moment
one forgets that you are in a disaster zone. However, at our backs a
collapsed two-story house - that looks like a bomb was dropped on it -
remains a nagging reminder. At times, the children’s performances too
are not without reminders of the disaster that befell this community. A
somber quiet encompasses the gathering as three children performing a
skit describe the fateful day of the earthquake in their conversation.
Then the collective mood cheers up, as one of the performers, a little
girl, comforts the other two performers who are younger than her,
saying: “Fiqr mat karo. Hum Akele naheen hain. Bhot se log humari madaat
karne ayee hain. Hum Apne makan or school banalayenge! Insha Allah.”
(“Don’t worry. We are not alone. Many people have come to help us.
God-willing, we will rebuild our homes and schools”) The audience bursts
into applause, as the three young performers take a bow. I melt at the
resilience of these children.
Sitting in the audience, I
strike up a conversation in broken Urdu with three little girls who I
assume are sisters. It turns out that these three are sisters. The
middle one proves to be the most talkative, introducing herself as
Asiyya, her elder sister Shazia, and her younger sister Salma. I try to
shake hands with the youngest, and she takes cover behind her elder
sister as she giggles. These three sisters walked some 5 kilometers by
foot from their village to attend today’s gathering. Assiya explains
that their elder cousin told them about the program and that they came
in a group with some of their friends. Though I am curious about the
condition of their home and village and how the quake has affected them,
I don’t ask so as not to impact their cheerful mood. Like almost all of
the children here, Assiya and her sisters’ faces are clearly wind-burned
from exposure to the harsh climate. I guess these children are calling
make-shift tin shelters as their homes this winter. Assiya asks me where
I came from, and I tell her that I have come from the USA where many
people want to help the people in Uri. She smiles, revealing a gap where
her two front teeth are missing. I start snapping shots of the trio on
my digital camera and then show them their pictures on the LCD screen.
The kids laugh each time without failure. Even the little one has become
more daring: Salma, peers over her sisters shoulder curious to see her
picture too. She goes back into hiding with a giggle, when she catches
me smiling at her. I melt when the three sisters start addressing me as
“Usmaan Uncle! Usmaan Uncle!”, now requesting their photos to be taken
with some of their friends.
The program ends with the
distribution of brand-new winter jackets, school supplies, and school
bags. The children line up and one by one they receive their gifts with
smiles. There is a flurry of activity as the children show each other
their new backpacks, as they write their names on the inside cover of
their new notebooks, or as they stuff their packs with their old
jackets. Soon after the kids begin to disburse, each proudly sporting a
new bag on their backs. It’s getting late and most of these children
must travel many kilometers by foot back to their homes. Before leaving,
Asiyya requests a ride for her and her sisters in our jeep. I open the
door and motion with my hands offering them the back seat - how could I
refuse? After a 15 minute drive, we drop Aasiyya, Shazia and Salma by
the side of the road. They ask me when we will come visit their village
and I promise them we will soon. The three start walking up a steep hill
and disappear around a bend in the trail.
As we make the night journey
back to Srinagar, all of us are quiet. The image of Asiyya and her three
sisters walking up a lonely path remains with me. I peer outside at the
moving panorama dimly lit by starlight. Uri is enveloped by silence. I
count the endless silhouettes of collapsed houses. I can see dozens of
tin shelters along the road side each with a warm glow of light
escaping. I wonder how entire extended families will live in these 10
foot long shacks through the cold winter. I wonder whether these
shelters will withstand the heavy snowfall expected any time. I reflect
on how much we take for granted back home and how the smallest of things
- a backpack, a notebook, etc. - can make a child’s day over here. -
Usmaan Ahmad
|
|
