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Dispatch 6
Nard: A Village in the Foothills
December 26, 2005 -
Village of Nard, Kashmir, India
Awaking to the giggling sounds of children, I open my eyes to see Faika and Dr. Zameer’s nephews attempting to turn on my digital camera. They absolutely love to have their picture taken and see the immediate photograph. Pointing and laughing at each others pose. The previous day I took a few pictures of Faikas’ relatives in Dringla, knowing it would bring a reminiscent smile on her angelic face. It was the least I could do for her as she recovered from her foot and head injury away from her family. The days plan was set, to start off distributing school supplies to the four schools in the ascending village of Nard.
Driving in the early morning towards Nard I watched daily live unfold in Tangdar. Everywhere people were hauling tin sheets and insulation to their respective villages to salvage fallen homes and construct temporary living before the snowfall cripples any sort of hope to secure a “home”. Our vehicle started to climb up a windy path not even meant to be a road through the sleepy village of Nard. Nestled in the foothills of the same towering mountains that crumbled and spewed dust into the air, turning the early morning of Dec. 8th into the late afternoon. The car had stopped and a quick 20 minute hike to the upper regions of Nard where the last of four schools lay. A quick decision was made to combine a gathering of two schools at a time to optimize and allow proper time for assessment of the greater needs of the village. We set up in the open field of the school yard for children to amass. Gearing up my cameras and notepad I looked around at the raw beauty of the Karnah Valley. Atop the viallge I gazed down toward the steep slopes on each side, creating a V-shaped backdrop with the mountain tops clad with snow and birds gliding aimlessly. Truly beautiful. The ever-pleasant sound of children’s laughter broke my attention as I looked over at breathless kids who ran down from higher parts of Nard to receive supplies.
The curious eyes of kids peered at their new visitor, who now stands at a place where no outsider had been since 1947 or possibly even earlier. I flash a smile while snapping pictures of their delicate wind burned faces who suddenly turned shy and reserved at the sight of me kneeling and pointing a peculiar device that beeps at their face. Using the recently learned trick of showing the children their own photos, the atmosphere is once again full of joy. The usual ritual of handing out chocolate first, followed by, a pencil, sharpner, eraser and notebook was completed as soon as it began. After the program, Dr. Zameer and I use the help a well to do and well-off villager to help us with the token (sheet of paper allowing victims to receive relief material) distribution to the villagers left in the worst conditions. A young boy named Saleem hangs around to observe us some more as out of breath late comers arrive to have their share of school supplies. Saleem, who has the demeanor of an old soul, talks to us about his home and family as he eyes the bag of candy. I hand him some more candy as I don’t want his precious words of all that he loves and cherishes in his life to be undermined by something as petty as a sweet tooth. Saleem’s hands are as weathered and rough as a laborer far beyond his age. His maturity and intellect amaze me as he speaks of his fathers stories of kings and days of trade, most likely passed on from older generations. Our time is up and another group of children has gathered at the lower school. Before leaving I tell Saleem that he should and will achieve any of his goals in life and to set them higher than the Sadhana Pass that is visible from our standpoint. He smiles with wide eyes and nods while concentrating on my words with a glare of determination. It is these moments that fill my mind with plans for phase II and beyond for K.E.R’s educational goals.
A perfect semi-circle of little bodies dot a ledge overlooking the valley waiting for our team at the second distribution spot. The kids are in a frenzy as they have become restless after waiting for some time. I walk along the circle shaking every little hand. The general curiosity of the children to my camera equip. and clothes associate me with an outer world appeal which is something I desperately try to get rid of so I can interact properly. Otherwise, I am just stared at and no interpersonal relationship can occur. The kids laugh, talk, point and chew on their gum as I take their pictures, when I notice a devistated house that is unusual in the fact that all that is left is 1 ˝ walls. In an earthquake zone it might seem normal for a house to be destroyed; but the manner it is left in is a key indication to how it has been obliterated. A house destroyed by the movement of the ground has fallen walls or a toppled story on top of another. Not much rubble was around this house, and there was no upper story on top of the first. This house has been bombarded from above by boulders the size of a mid-size car. I can only imagine the sound and scene of gigantic rocks tumbling down at high speed. After the distribution was over I went to the house and found a few small children and an elderly woman. Further inquiry revealed that two children had perished in the “bombardment”. It was a sorrowful scene as the grandmother cried and wiped away her tears with her shawl. We all stood in silence in what once used to be a living room; now only indicated by half a wall and a fireplace. Dr. Zameer asked me if I wanted to take pictures but I could not bring myself to document the moment; as conflicting feelings of doing my job and respecting the “moment” fought a battle in my mind. The “moment” won. Few more minutes were spent and while leaving, I knew that I had to take a picture for people to see and understand the pain that people live with and will continue to live with. So I took one and only one. (See photos below)
Going back down the jerky road I watched women pumping water from a well, men cutting lumber and the youth playing cricket; yet my mind was still in that living room but in a different time where the family sat around the fireplace while their grandmother told stories to her grandchildren. A time lost; that now solely exists in memory.
The evening was spent giving out clothes to the token holders which is now our nightly ritual before dinner. Tomorrow’s journey to Jabri will be physically challenging and quite an experience as I have heard from the previous visit of the KER/TNF team. Till then...
-Talal Ansari
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